Daddy's Choice. Doreen Malek Owens

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      Before she knew what she was doing, Carol had leaned forward and placed her hand on his wrist. He froze and looked down at her inquiringly.

      “Please stay,” she said, then regretted her impulse when his eyes locked with hers, searching and very blue. His candid examination made her feel coltish, uncertain, and she was relieved when he pulled out a chair for himself at her table.

      “Okay to sit?” he asked.

      She nodded.

      He settled in across from her and folded his arms in front of him. With his height and broad shoulders he dominated the small round table as if he were sitting in a child’s playhouse.

      “I wanted to explain to you why I took such a hard line with your contract,” he said.

      “I think you already did that.”

      “Not completely. When I first started this business ten years ago, I got burned by quite a few people who backed out of their deals after I had ordered all the materials and hired the men for the jobs.”

      “So you’ve said,” Carol observed impatiently. Why was he cornering her like this just to repeat himself?

      He shook his head, holding up his hand. “Let me finish, there’s more. I have to think about my future business. In my industry, if you get a reputation for caving in when the client changes his mind, you’re in trouble. You have all sorts of people ordering up work and then backing out when they decide to pay for their daughter’s shotgun wedding or Junior’s braces or a trip to the Bahamas instead.”

      “I didn’t order the work. My father did.”

      “I understand that, but from my perspective it’s the same thing. I have to enforce my contracts or the accumulated costs, over time, will drive me out of business. I’m growing, but I’m not that big a company yet and I can’t afford to absorb the losses the way a national outfit could. It’s simple economics.”

      Carol said nothing.

      “Do you see my point at all?” he asked wearily, a slight note of pleading in his voice making her look at him more closely.

      “Do business with a national outfit?” she suggested, and he grinned, breaking the tension.

      “They like to enforce their contracts, too, and they can afford to hire people like you to make sure they do.”

      “Nobody’s going to be hiring me unless I pass the bar,” Carol muttered.

      “You will.”

      She glanced at him, one eyebrow arched. “You’re a soothsayer?”

      “I recognize determination when I see it,” he replied. “I’d hate to be one of the bar examiners if they turn you down.”

      Carol smiled.

      “So are we okay? No snits, no pouts, no grudges?”

      “I never pout,” she said.

      “I don’t imagine you do. An Uzi would be more your style.”

      “You make me sound quite formidable, Mr. Kirkland.”

      “I asked you to call me Tay.”

      “All right, Tay. No snits and no pouts, I promise.”

      He nodded. “Good.”

      Carol studied him as he sat across from her. Was it possible he was really concerned that she would be angry with him? Or was he merely worried that she might interfere further with his renovations if he didn’t placate her now?

      “I’ll do a great job and your place will be worth a fortune when I’m finished,” he added, and Carol had to smile again.

      Kirkland might be quiet, as John had said, but she had to be careful of the man facing her across the snowy restaurant tablecloth.

      He was just too attractive to have on the premises every day.

      As if reading her thoughts, Kirkland pushed back his chair and stood.

      “I guess I’ll be going,” he said.

      “Would you like to stay and join me?” Carol asked, and she felt him measuring her expression, as if deciding whether her invitation was motivated by mere politeness.

      “I hate to eat alone,” she added, and that seemed to make the decision for him.

      “All right,” he said, and sat again, dropping his jacket on the chair next to him.

      “Have you been here before?” Carol asked.

      He nodded.

      “What’s good?”

      “The clam chowder is excellent, seafood’s the specialty. The swordfish and the trout almondine are usually top-notch.”

      He sounded like a man who spent a lot of time in restaurants.

      The waiter, who had been watching them during their earlier conversation, seemed relieved that Carol’s companion had decided to stay and materialized at Tay’s side.

      “Are you ready to order?” he asked.

      Tay looked at Carol. “I haven’t given you much of a chance to look at the menu,” he said.

      “That’s all right, I’ll take your suggestion,” Carol replied. She turned to the waiter and said, “A bowl of the clam chowder and the grilled swordfish, please.”

      He nodded, scribbling. “White or red chowder?” he said.

      Carol looked at Tay.

      “Red,” he advised. “And I’ll have the same. With the baby vegetables and a bottle of the house chablis.”

      The waiter disappeared and Tay selected a breadstick from the basket on the table.

      “Do you often forget to eat all day?” he asked Carol, biting into the stick, which snapped under the assault of his teeth.

      “Not often. It’s a bad idea when you have low blood sugar. Everything tends to get a little hazy around the edges.”

      “I could never forget to eat,” he said, smiling. “My stomach always reminds me.”

      “It happens only when I get really preoccupied. I passed out during exams once, right after civil procedure. The instructor was mortified, he thought I had fainted because I was afraid I’d failed the test. I had to tell him that I’d been studying so hard I’d skipped breakfast and lunch.”

      “I guess I should be flattered that I’m as much of a distraction as a civil procedure exam,” Tay said lazily.

      Carol met his eyes, then looked away.

      “What is civil procedure, anyway?”

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