Taming A Fortune. Nancy Robards Thompson

      She tossed him a carefree smile. “You should probably shop at one of those warehouse stores where you can buy in bulk and use a flatbed cart to haul your purchases to the checkout line.”

      “If I didn’t have to drive clear to Lubbock to find one, I would. But then again, the kids wouldn’t get to come into the Superette all the time and see you.”

      Toby chanced a glance at the woman walking next to him, wondering if she knew the kids weren’t the only ones who’d miss seeing her.

      “The kids are fun,” she said. “I like it when they come in.”

      What if he didn’t have children? Would she like it when he came in?

      “Nice house,” she said, as they entered the living room, which always managed to stay tidy because there wasn’t a television set or a video game in sight. “I’ve always liked the ranch style.”

      Toby slowed his steps long enough to scan the white walls, the open-beamed ceilings, the distressed hardwood floors, the stone fireplace, as well as the leather furniture. “Thanks. I’ve been meaning to add a little color, maybe some Southwestern-style pictures on the wall, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

      “I’m sure the kids take up most of your free time.”

      “You got that right.” He carried her purchases into the kitchen and placed the bags on the white tile countertop.

      “What are we having?” he asked.

      “Pizza. And just the way everyone likes it.”

      “Great idea. But I’ve never told you my pizza preference.” There had to be some things even Ms. Google didn’t know, unless she was psychic.

      She tossed him a breezy smile. “I’ll bet I even have your specific preference covered.”

      Something told him not to take her up on any wagers or else he’d end up in some wacky competition with her, just like Mr. Murdock.

      But then again, Toby had always liked a good challenge. And Angie Edwards would prove to be one heck of one—if he were to pursue her.

      “Hmm,” she said, as she studied the directions on the box of instant bread-dough mix. “This might not be enough. Do you have any flour?”

      “It’s in the pantry. I’ll get it. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

      “You can wash the veggies, chop them up and put them in separate containers. Do you have a cutting board and knife?”

      “Sure do.”

      While Toby got busy on his assignments, Angie began kneading the dough. Next they sliced the pepperoni and grated the cheese. Before long, they were moving around the kitchen seamlessly, almost as if they’d worked together a hundred times.

      “So let me ask you something,” Angie said.

      Oh, no, here it comes, he thought. She wants to know why I keep showing up at her workplaces and inviting her to hang out with me and the kids.

      “How do you do it?” she asked.

      “Excuse me?”

      “I couldn’t help noticing your refrigerator door. It’s plastered with papers—Kylie’s artwork, Justin’s B+ in spelling, the graph Brian created in math, not to mention that bulletin board with the YMCA flyers posted all over it. Then there’s a list of dance classes and the schedule for swim lessons. I’m amazed that a single dad is so supportive of his kids. But what really blows me away is that LEGO-themed calendar you have on the wall.”

      “When I was a kid, our fridge was always covered in stuff like that. And my mom used to display all our awards and trophies throughout the house. She kept a bulletin board in the kitchen, too. Right next to the telephone. But why does the calendar surprise you?”

      “Because almost every square this month is full. And just look at this list of YMCA classes. Nearly all of them are circled.”

      “You think that’s too many?”

      “Not for the kids. It’s great for them. But the YMCA is in Vicker’s Corners, which is a bit of a drive from the ranch. And I’m worried about you. I was an only child, with two parents. And it was all they could do to get me to school, the sitter and to any medical appointments.”

      “I have to admit, it’s tough sometimes.”

      She crossed her arms, as if she was going to scold him, but she smiled and her eyes sparkled in mirth. “Toby, you’re doing it to yourself. It’s only April, and you have them in swim lessons? It’s not even summer vacation yet.”

      “I know, but Justin can’t swim. And he wants to go to camp in June. So I figured we’d better get started on those lessons so I won’t have to worry about him.” Toby shrugged and added, “Besides, I don’t mind running them around. They’ve had it rough ever since their mom died. And they’ve missed out on a lot of things—like parents and a happy home. I just want them to see what it’s like to have a normal family life.”

      “I think that’s wonderful. So don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for them. And I think it’s awesome that you’re providing them with so many opportunities, especially when you’re the only one available to drive them back and forth. It’s just that I know how much you must be sacrificing, and I’m not even talking about the cost of those activities.”

      Toby thought about the old beat-up car sitting in his driveway and the fixer-upper granny flat in which she lived. Apparently money was an issue for her.

      He was pretty sure that Angie couldn’t care less about his family’s financial situation—or rather, the wealth most folks seemed to think they had by way of their rich relations. But he had reason to believe her mother didn’t feel the same way.

      So just in case he’d misread Angie, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to let it be known that if a woman was looking for a wealthy “catch,” she wouldn’t find him living on the Double H Ranch.

      “I want the kids to stay busy, even if that keeps me hopping. I hired a foreman early on to take on a lot of my work and responsibilities, which put another strain on the finances, especially since the Double H doesn’t bring in that kind of money yet. So I’ve had to scrimp in other ways.”

      “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

      He cocked his head slightly. So he’d been right? She was not only smart, but a psychic, too? No, that couldn’t be right.

      “What do you mean?” he asked.

      She pointed to the bag of flour on the counter, which he’d picked up at the Superette because it was half the price of the name brand.

      “Oh. You mean because I bargain-shop.”

      She laughed. “You didn’t get a deal. That flour is too inferior for any proper baking, and it was aging on the shelf. So the price was discounted, but it still isn’t selling—except to people who don’t know anything about cooking.”

      “Oh, yeah? It seems to work well enough.” Toby reached into the bag, grabbed a handful of flour and blew the mound directly into her pretty little upturned face. “See? It’s light and airy.”

      “Oh, you...” Angie sputtered through the white dust covering her lower face, then quickly picked up a mushroom she’d been chopping and threw it directly between his eyes.

      The vegetable struck him dead center. He laughed, and she reached into the bag of flour—no doubt wanting to dust his face a ghostly white, just as hers was.

      He grabbed her wrist to stop her, and she twisted, trying to pull free. Then, as their eyes met, she stopped. He stopped. For a moment, everything stopped—time, breathing, heartbeats....

      No, not heartbeats. He could feel her pulse pounding in her wrist, under his fingertips.

      Their gazes