The Reluctant Bachelor. Syndi Powell

do you know what I want?”

      “Because it’s my job to figure it out. With your help, of course.”

      He gazed into her eyes until she supposed he could see her soul. If they were any two other people, this would be the perfect moment to kiss. Her lips tingled at the thought.

      Rick leaned forward. She closed her eyes. “I think you’ve got a bite.”

      Her eyes flew open, and she tugged on the line. Sure enough, something was resisting at the other end. She squealed and stood up. Rick reached out and put a hand on her calf. “Careful. You’re going to capsize the boat.”

      She wound the reel and shouted as a long silvery-green fish appeared at the end of her line. “I caught a fish!”

      Rick reached up to steady her, and she threw herself into his arms.

      Later, as they sat dripping wet at the campfire, she could point out where she went wrong before the boat capsized. Thankfully, Rick never raised his voice. Unfortunately, he didn’t say a word, either.

      Elizabeth held out her hands toward the fire to absorb the heat. She looked over at Rick, who pulled his hooded jacket closer around him. “I’m sorry. Again.”

      Nothing.

      She looked into the fire, hoping to find the right words. “I know you warned me, but I was so excited. I’ve never caught a fish.”

      Still nothing.

      She sighed. “I’m sorry it got away.”

      He cleared his throat.

      She settled farther into the Adirondack chair. “And that we lost your fishing pole.”

      His eyes flickered to hers briefly, then concentrated on the campfire again. Elizabeth closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the chair. Silence was good. They were both tired. And wet.

      Her stomach growling broke the silence. Rick’s answered in turn.

      And they were both hungry.

      “I want to make this up to you.” She leaned forward. “I’ll treat you to the best dinner. Anywhere you want.”

      “Lizzie...”

      She sighed. “He speaks.”

      “Don’t worry about it.” He stood and smothered the fire, then walked toward the house.

      Elizabeth watched him leave, then rose and ran after him. “We still need to eat dinner.”

      Rick stopped and looked at his wet clothes, then hers. “No one would serve us like this. And I’m too hungry to change.” He turned back and continued walking.

      “Where are you going?”

      “Mom probably has enough food in her cupboards to feed your entire crew for three months.” He grinned at her. “First one there gets dibs.”

      And with that, he sprinted toward the house. Elizabeth laughed and ran after him.

      * * *

      GREENOLIVES. Sweet pickles. Crackers and cheese. Leftover pasta salad. It was a feast, and Rick enjoyed every bite.

      They sat on stools at the kitchen island while they ate with their fingers. He stopped eating momentarily to find napkins. He handed one to Lizzie, who grinned around a mouthful of salad. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out two cans of soda and placed one at each plate. “You must be thirsty.”

      Lizzie nodded her thanks and opened her drink. She looked around the kitchen. “Where’s your mom?”

      Rick popped the top of his drink and took several long pulls. It burned going down, but it was that good kind of burn. “It’s the first night of the Pickle Festival, which means she’s probably manning the fried-pickle tent.” At Lizzie’s frown, he continued, “You haven’t tasted heaven until you’ve had a fried pickle. Trust me.”

      “I heard you mention it before, but what exactly is a pickle festival?”

      “Last night’s championship game was the kickoff to a weekend full of pickles here. Courtesy of Allyn Pickles, of course.” He fished out a sweet gherkin from the jar and handed it to her. “It’s a huge deal for the town every year. Financially speaking. Lots of tourists. Family reunions. Homecomings. Everyone looks forward to it.”

      Lizzie looked down at her clothes. “Speaking of a huge deal, we didn’t get any clothes for me. I can’t work in your diner dressed in my regular clothes.”

      “Next town over also has a Meijer, which is open twenty-four hours.” Lizzie’s mouth gaped, and Rick laughed. “We may be backwater, but we do have some conveniences.” He nodded at her empty plate. “So eat some more and then we’ll shop.”

      She stifled a yawn. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be functioning. What time are you planning on torturing me tomorrow?”

      She did look exhausted. He’d put her through the wringer and had plans for more. “You did such a great job today, I’ll let you sleep in. We can meet at seven.”

      “That’s sleeping in?” she moaned.

      He shook his head. “You’ve had early calls for the show. How is this different?”

      “For all you know I complained then, too.” She tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound right.

      Rick frowned. Something didn’t add up. “I thought you were a producer. Shouldn’t all this be part of your job?” Lizzie stuffed the pickle into her mouth, making talking impossible. His frown deepened. “What aren’t you telling me?”

      She chewed, then swallowed. “It’s complicated.”

      “You are still on the show, right?”

      She nodded. “I’m executive producer. For now.”

      “For now?” She was about to fill her mouth with crackers, but he stayed her arm. “Tell me.”

      She sighed. “It’s no big deal.”

      “If you can’t tell me, then yes, it is.”

      She looked down at the plate. Finally, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “If you don’t do the show, we’re canceled.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      ELIZABETHPOUREDthe eightieth cup of coffee that morning before returning to the kitchen. Rick turned to beam at her from the dish sink, and her breath caught in her throat. Remind her why this man wasn’t taken. She shook her head at the stupidity of the women in this town out in the sticks. Being small-town didn’t mean being foolish, but these women needed to get a clue and snap Rick up before two dozen gorgeous contestants descended here.

      She paused. Was she really considering moving the show? She shook her head. This place was getting to her.

      A bell over the door signaled a new customer. Elizabeth took a deep breath and walked into the dining room, almost mowing down an older version of Rick. He glanced at her outfit. “You’re the producer?”

      Elizabeth held out her hand. “Dan, right? I’m Elizabeth.” She marveled at the strength of his handshake. “And yes, I’m the producer. But at the moment, I’m a waitress. Can I get you some coffee?”

      “He likes it black and strong.” Rick joined them and leaned on the counter. “Shouldn’t you be checking the floats or bands or something?”

      Dan accepted the cup she offered him and took a sip. “It’s been done.”

      Elizabeth frowned. “Floats?”

      Rick nodded toward the windows, where people had started gathering on the sides of Main Street. “The Pickle Parade starts at noon. And Dan the man is the grand marshal again.”

      “That’s