Rescued by Mr Right. Shirley Jump

lifted his nose in the air and jaunted forward, as if he’d never consider such a thing and as if he hadn’t just done all three things to Noah’s apartment last night.

      “The phone’s over there,” she said, pointing at a white wall phone in the kitchen.

      “Thanks.” He entered the room, noting the checkerboard pattern on the linoleum and the porcelain sink that was nearly as big as a bathtub. Something simmered in a Crock-Pot on the counter, filling the room with the scent of beef. He picked up the receiver, turned it to use the underside, then paused, noticing the coiled cord and ring of numbers. “Is this an antique?”

      “Antique?” She glanced at the phone, laughed, then turned back to the avocado-colored refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of lemonade. Slices of lemon danced in the pale liquid. No doubt fresh squeezed. “Probably. We’ve had it in the house forever. My parents were a little wary of the whole touch-tone revolution.”

      Wary of touch-tone phones? What century was this house living in? For a minute, Noah felt as if he’d stepped back in time, transported to the world he’d inhabited when he was a little boy. When his father had been around and dinners had been on the table every night, waiting for them to create a family at the circular table. The phone would ring, and his mother would let it go, because dinner was a sacred time. Anyone who dared interrupt it better have a damned good excuse.

      When he’d been thirteen and waiting to hear from Stevie Klein if Margaret O’Neil really did like him, the whole phone thing had been an annoyance. But now, in the shadows of history, he saw it as his mother trying to preserve family togetherness.

      In the end, she hadn’t been able to preserve a damned thing.

      Once again, Noah shook off the memories. He needed a mechanic, not a stroll down Reminiscence Lane. “Do you have a phone book? I need to call a tow truck and find a motel nearby. I’ll probably need a place to stay until my truck is ready.”

      “Sure. Give me a second.” Victoria handed him a glass of lemonade then returned to the sink to fill a plastic bowl with water for Charlie. After she turned it off, the faucet continued to drip, slow and steady. Plop. Plop. Plop.

      She gave the water to Charlie, who exuded gratitude with a yip and a frantic wag of his tail. Clearly the dog preferred female caretakers.

      Hell, looking at Victoria, Noah couldn’t say he blamed Charlie. She leaned comfortably against the counter, her delicate features and bemused smile an odd juxtaposition to the linoleum flooring and avocado green appliances, and watched the dog take delicate, single laps from the bowl. If there was one thing Charlie despised, it was getting wet.

      Behind her, he could still hear the sink drip. “You know, I can fix that for you.” He gestured toward the sink, wondering what on earth had possessed him to make that offer. His plan was to tow and run, not pause for a rerun of This Old House. “Probably needs a new washer.”

      “It does. I just haven’t had a chance to pick one up at the store.”

      He arched a brow, impressed. “A woman who knows some plumbing?”

      She laughed. “I’ve been taking care of things around here for years. Even have my own set of tools.”

      “With pink handles?” He remembered seeing a set like that once in a hardware store.

      “Of course.” A grin spread across her face. “Wouldn’t want some man coming along and thinking that hammer was his.”

      “You get many of them? Men trying to take your hammer?” The question, and the hint of innuendo, tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Clearly he’d been working in an all-male office too long.

      “Not many.” She wagged a finger at him. “So don’t get any ideas about my tools.”

      There was another innuendo in those words, something that Noah chose to ignore. He was here to use the phone, get his truck fixed…

      And nothing more.

      Nevertheless, “ideas” flowed through his brain without an invitation. He was, after all, a man with a pulse. Just add water and a gorgeous woman and watch those ideas grow.

      “Your, ah, tool kit is safe from me,” he said. “The only thing I need is my radiator fixed. Any chance your talents extend to that?”

      She threw up her hands in surrender. “Nope. But I sure can call triple-A Larry.”

      He laughed, the sound bursting from his throat such a surprise he almost choked it back. How long had it been since he’d laughed like that? The fact that he couldn’t remember told him it had been too damned long. “Well, you’re in good company. I can fix a leaky faucet, even hang some Sheetrock, but I’m engine illiterate.”

      For a long second, she didn’t say anything, her blue eyes sweeping over him, studying him as intently as a prosecutor. “So, Noah McCarty, what are you running away from?”

      Bam. Just like that, she’d nailed him. He let out a startled chuckle. “Am I that transparent?”

      She smiled, this time a softer, shyer version. “Not really. I just put a few pieces together. The truck. The filled duffel bag in the back. The Rhode Island plates and you mentioning Maine. And…”

      “And?”

      “Well…you seem like a guy who’s trying to get away from something.” Her cheeks filled with crimson. “I could be totally wrong, too. I’m not exactly a social butterfly, so my person-to-person skills are a bit rusty.”

      “You’re fine.” Then he scowled, mad at himself for admitting that. He’d been drawn in, even taken a half-step closer to her, to try to discover what it was about this stranger that had his heart beating faster and his brain forgetting the plan.

      “I’m sorry. I tend to be blunt.”

      “That’s okay. Really.” He clutched the phone tighter, the hard plastic a stab of reality. Get back to the point, McCarty. No lingering. No wondering who this woman is and why she’s living in a time warp. “Phone book? Or should I call information? Or…” He paused. He shouldn’t say it. Should simply get on his way again as fast as possible.

      “What?”

      He had never seen eyes quite that color before. Big and rich, filled with a hue of blue that varied as much as an ocean wave. He stopped himself, though, just before he ended his “or” with the words “room for rent.” “Uh…nothing. Just thinking about what to do with the truck.”

      She pushed off from the counter and moved to straighten one of the chrome chairs, putting it back into perfect alignment with the silvery table legs. “There are plenty of auto repair shops around here, but if you want a recommendation, I’d say Larry. I’ve dealt with the same mechanic for years and I trust him. He’ll come and get your truck, fix it for a reasonable price and not put in parts you don’t need. It’s the end of the day, though, so I bet he can’t get to it until tomorrow. As for a motel—” she paused for a fraction of time “—if you want to stay here, I have that empty room.”

      Room for Rent.

      How easy it would be to take Victoria up on her offer. To stay here, to let the beckoning ocean outside her window wash through his exhausted muscles. But staying here meant staying with someone. Noah’s entire reason for going to Maine was to eliminate all human contact from his life.

      “Thanks, but I really can’t stay.” He cocked a hip against the wall, the phone still in his hand. “I need to get up to—”

      “I understand,” she cut in suddenly. “Let me get you that phone book so you can call a motel.” She headed quickly out of the room.

      Charlie strolled over, plopped down beside Noah’s feet and let out a sharp bark. “I take it you like her?” he asked.

      The dog only looked up at him in response, his ears perking like two equilateral triangles.