Three Little Words. Susan Mallery

TURNED HER CART down an aisle and knew a lack of inspiration would be a problem later. If she didn’t figure out what she wanted for dinner, she would be starving in a couple of hours. Ordering a pizza at eight-thirty, then eating the whole thing was very bad for her hips and thighs. Remembering that the women in her family eased toward pear-shaped as they aged, she headed for the produce section and virtuously chose a bag of salad. Great. She had salad and red wine and a very small container of ice cream. Disparate elements that did not a dinner make.

      She started purposefully toward the meat section, not sure what she would do when she got there. As she turned the corner, she nearly ran into another shopper.

      “Sorry,” she said automatically, only to find herself staring into a pair of dark eyes. “Ford.”

      He smiled. It was the same slow, sexy smile he’d used before. The one that made it hard for her to catch her breath. Telling herself that he tossed that smile around like empty peanut shells at a ball game didn’t make her chest any less tight. Which was so very strange. She’d never been one to quiver in the presence of a man.

      “Hey,” he said. He raised his basket. “Food shopping.”

      “Me, too.” She glanced at the package of steaks and the six-pack of beer. “That’s your idea of dinner?”

      “You have ice cream and red wine.”

      “I have salad,” she said with a sniff. “That makes me virtuous.”

      “It makes you a rabbit. And hungry.” The smile turned to a grin. “I saw a grill on your patio the other day. Why don’t we pool our resources?”

      A tempting offer. “You want the wine and the ice cream.”

      “True, but I’ll eat the salad, just to be polite.”

      “Such a guy. Do you know how to use the grill? It’s big and seems complicated.”

      One eyebrow rose. “I was born knowing how. It’s in my DNA.”

      “Which seems like a waste of genetic material.”

      Somehow they were walking. She didn’t remember making a decision about accepting his offer, but there they were, in line to pay. Five minutes later they were in the parking lot and heading to their cars.

      They got to his first.

      “Seriously?” she asked, staring at the black Jeep.

      “It’s a classic.”

      She pointed to the gold paint on the side. “It has flames. Jeeps have a long history of faithful service. Why would you torture yours like that?”

      “You don’t like it? Why not? The flames are cool.”

      “No. Consuelo’s car is cool. Yours is kind of embarrassing.”

      “I bought it right after your sister dumped me for my best friend. I wasn’t myself.”

      “That was fourteen years ago. Why haven’t you sold it?”

      “I never drive it and it’s in great condition. When I decided to move back, Ethan got it ready for me.”

      “Being seen near it must have humiliated him,” she teased, knowing Ford’s brother would have been happy to help. “Doesn’t Angel drive a Harley?”

      Ford frowned at the mention of his business partner. “How do you know that?”

      “It’s hard to miss a guy like him in black leather and driving a motorcycle in Fool’s Gold.”

      “You drive a Prius,” he said. “You don’t get to make judgments.”

      “You mean because I drive a safe, sensible, environmentally friendly car?”

      “Logic,” he muttered. “Just like a woman.”

      He helped her load her groceries, which consisted of a single bag. Something she could have handled herself. Still, it was kind of nice to have a man do that for her. Eric had supported her desire for equality, letting her lug her half of the groceries when they went shopping. Which was perfectly fair, she reminded herself. If not especially romantic.

      Ford followed her home. She couldn’t escape his hideously painted Jeep in her rearview mirror. Even a broken heart was no excuse to mutilate such a hardworking vehicle.

      She pulled into the driveway. He parked next to her and climbed out. “I’ll go put the beer in my refrigerator,” he said. “Then be down to start the steaks.”

      “Works for me.”

      She went into her house and set everything on the counter in the kitchen. The sun had dipped to the other side of the house, leaving this part mostly in shadow. She flipped on overhead lights. The oak cabinets were only a few years old and the yellow tile she remembered from her childhood had been replaced with granite.

      She thought briefly about dashing into her bathroom and fluffing her appearance. After a long day at the store, she was sure she had mascara under her eyes and very flat hair. Plus, her dress was plain. Not only had she worked in New York, where wearing black was practically the law, she now had a job in a bridal gown store. It was important to look professional while never, ever outshining the bride. She had a wardrobe of simple, stylish black dresses—the “office appropriate” kind, not the LBD kind.

      Not that she was looking to slip into an evening gown or anything, but still. She settled on kicking off her heels and rolling up the long sleeves of her dress. That was plenty. She was only having dinner with her neighbor. There was no reason to spruce. Besides, until a couple of days ago, his last memory of her was of a fourteen-year-old girl, chasing him down the street while sobbing and begging him not to go. After that, nearly anything would be an improvement.

      She unpacked her bag and slipped the ice cream into the freezer. Setting the outdoor table took all of three minutes. She was about to tackle the salad when he returned.

      “I have three messages from my mother,” he grumbled as he walked to the counter and pulled open a drawer. He dug through an assortment of can openers, measuring spoons and spatulas until he found the wine opener. Next he pulled two wineglasses from an upper cupboard shelf. “She wants to talk about the applicants.”

      Isabel was more interested in how he knew his way around her kitchen. Did the man case the place while she was gone? Was he—

      Maeve, she thought. He’d dated her sister for three years and had spent hours here every week. He’d often stayed for dinner and helped her sister set the table. While the kitchen had been updated, the layout was the same. Flatware was still in the top drawer by the sink, and glasses were above the dishwasher.

      “Future-wife applicants?” she asked.

      “That would be them.”

      “Have you bothered to meet any of the women? They might be lovely.”

      He gave her a look that implied the corkscrew had more intelligence than her.

      “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not interested in anyone who would fill out an application.”

      “You’re very critical and your mother is just trying to help.”

      “Are you in on this?” he demanded. “Is there a plan to torture me?”

      “No. Any torture is just a happy by-product.”

      “Funny. Very funny. I don’t remember you having this much attitude fourteen years ago. I liked you better then.” He poured the red wine she’d bought and passed her a glass.

      “You didn’t know me then,” she reminded him. “I was your girlfriend’s little sister. You barely spoke to me.”

      “We had a special relationship that didn’t require conventional communication.”

      She laughed. “You’re so full of crap.”

      His