Happily Ever After? Read Free Page B

to say that I could probably get a job on the
     Weather Channel. Who needs Doppler radar? I’d just point to my frizz and say, “Eighty-five percent chance of rain.” If I couldn’t
     look good, I might as well smell good. I spritzed myself with perfume and inhaled deeply. It’s yellow jacket season. It has
     been weeks since I last wore any fragrance.
    When I brought Pete next door, Lynette whistled through her teeth. “Wow, Val, you look gorgeous.” Lynette’s house looked as
     if it sprang from the pages of
Country Living
magazine. I could smell something cinnamony and homemade baking in the oven, and I could hear Lynette’s husband greet my
     son heartily as he ran into the family room. I wanted to live in that house. Maybe they could adopt me.
    By 7:15 I was pulling up into the Bellamy’s lot. I took one last look in the mirror and decided Lynette was right. I looked
     good. I wended my way through the people waiting to be seated and scanned the restaurant for my mother. She was at a table
     in the back, waving happily, but the fronds of a showy palm obscured her companion. I said a quick prayer (God, don’t let
     him have genital herpes) and moved toward the table aiming for a sleek stride. I was afraid to look.
    “I’d make introductions,” my mother said, “but I believe you two already know each other.”
    The man stood and extended a warm, freckled hand. It was Detective Avila!
    I was stunned. “Yes, of course.” I reached for his hand and he pulled me in for a completely unexpected hug. He smelled delicious.
     He was taller and broader than I remembered him.
    “How are you, Detective?”
    “I’m better now that you’re here. And please, it’s Michael.”
    My mother was beaming like a flashlight. It was surreal,sitting there with the two of them. “How do you two know each other?”
    “Through hospice,” Michael answered, filling my mother’s water glass. “My mom has non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I went to an open
     house for caregivers. That’s where I met your lovely mother. We started talking and discovered we had something in common.”
    “You mean, hospice?”
    “No.” His eyes twinkled. “You.”
    I stole a sidelong glance at Michael and wondered what I had done to deserve this magnificent man as a dinner companion tonight.
     He was the kind of guy who looked more confined than comfortable in suits; I enjoyed seeing his big arms strain against the
     sleeves of his blue jacket. He wore a cream-colored shirt and silk maroon tie, and there were a couple of shaving nicks on
     his Adam’s apple. I felt a pang of tenderness imagining him preparing nervously for his big date.
    The rest of the evening was, in a word,
perfect.
Michael was by turns funny and shy, and seemed to get better looking as the night wore on (I wasn’t drinking, by the way).
     One problem: The handsome detective has never been married. And while I don’t disagree in principle to the idea of bachelorhood,
     I also can’t understand how a man this lovely can make it to his thirty-eighth year without getting hitched at least once.
     But the truth is, I’m not ready for a relationship. Seriously. No, really. I’m not. I mean it.
    Michael insisted on walking me to my Jeep. After Isat down behind the wheel, he reached in and his hands seemed to move toward my breasts. I stopped breathing. God, what was
     he doing? Then I realized he was reaching for my seat belt. I felt the heat radiating off his hands as he slowly drew the
     belt across my body and clicked the buckle into place. “It’s the law, you know,” he said, staring at me.
    “Thank you, Officer.” My lips tingled under his gaze.
    “So.” He was still staring at my mouth. “Any predictions about the future?”
    It took me a moment to realize he was referring to my supposed psychic abilities. “Too soon to tell.”
    He made a little pouty face. “Fair enough. Can I call you?”
    When I got home I found a new message on my machine and assumed it was