Hitched For The Holidays: Hitched For The Holidays / A Groom In Her Stocking. Barbara Dunlop

Чтение книги онлайн.

      2

      “DON’T LOOK AT ME THAT way! I know it’s a lousy idea, but it’s too late to call it off.”

      Mindy finished changing earrings for the third time and stared at the little silver-and-turquoise donkeys dangling from her lobes.

      “See, told you these are better. It’s not easy dressing for a date who’s only doing me a favor.”

      Peaches responded with a big doggie yawn and stretched her short white legs as far as she could on her special end-of-the-bed quilt made from salvaged remnants of blue jeans, a gift from Mindy’s sister-in-law, Carly.

      Her father had opted for a nap in the spare bedroom she’d hastily cleared for his use. Now all the paraphernalia of her business was stacked in her own bedroom. To get to the closet she had to maneuver an obstacle course between catalogs, models of storage units and piles of magazines and books. Thank heavens her clients couldn’t see this mess. Her personal space looked like a recycling center.

      She picked her way around boxes of junk sure to come in handy someday to the full-length mirror on her bathroom door. Dad would expect her to look spectacular for the doctor-boyfriend, but what kind of signal would that send to the shanghaied vet? She didn’t want him to think this mock date was a ploy to attract his attention.

      Hopefully, she’d hit a happy medium. Her silky scooped-necked turquoise dress flared at midcalf and had tiny cap sleeves. She’d added a delicate silver belt and silvery-gray spike heels. Maybe she was overdressed for a casual evening out, but the donkey earrings said she was only kidding.

      “Darn, I need a haircut,” she complained to Peaches, who was trying to nap through the ritual of dressing. “Yeah, pretend to sleep, you lazy hairball. I know those big ears of yours are picking up every word I say. You’re sulking because you don’t have a date with Dr. Eric.”

      At least Mindy liked the color of her hair—dark sable, cropped short, but the fashionable spikes seemed limp in spite of the salon special wax.

      Did the turquoise enhance or clash with the green glints in her eyes? Was she out of her mind fussing over what she wore on a pretend date orchestrated to keep her father from meddling in her love life or lack thereof?

      The door chimes startled her, which was ludicrous since she’d spent the past hour anticipating Eric’s arrival. Peaches bounded off the bed with more agility than her short legs suggested and stood impatiently, nose to the door, waiting for Mindy to open it.

      “Now don’t slobber, shed or jump on Dr. Eric,” she warned sternly. “I don’t want to look for a new vet because you can’t behave.”

      She hadn’t exactly looked for the one she had. When Peaches was a pup, she’d taken her to a busy clinic where the wait was always considerably longer than the appointment. A client had raved about a new vet in Chandler, which wasn’t unreasonably far from Tempe, where Mindy lived. The rest was history. Peaches loved her new doctor and stopped trying to amputate a finger or two during exams.

      As soon as the bedroom door opened, Peaches was a streak of brindled tan and white racing to the front door, nails clicking on the red-tiled hallway.

      “Now behave!” Mindy whispered sternly before she opened the front door. She might as well tell a dust storm to settle down.

      Where was Dad? If he’d overslept, she’d have to make small talk. Wouldn’t that be awkward! What could she say to a man she’d coerced into pretending to be the love of her life?

      She grabbed Peaches’s collar with one hand and opened the door with the other.

      “Hi. I knew this was the right place when I heard Peaches,” her date for the evening said.

      “Dr. Kincaid, I’m glad you found it okay.”

      It was a wonder anyone ever found her little patio house in the huge development of similar white-stuccoed bungalows. The streets curved and meandered with a total absence of memorable landmarks. If it weren’t for the black wrought-iron street numbers on the ruddy-orange front doors, she might get confused herself.

      “No problem.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shouldn’t you call me Eric?”

      “Oh, right, thanks.” She spoke softly and looked over her shoulder. No sign of her dad. “Please, come in.”

      “Nice plants.” He gestured at the big earthenware pots flanking her flagstone walk. “I like natural desert, sand and cacti. Why come to the Southwest and try to grow a lawn?”

      He stepped inside and casually walked into her living room on the north side of the house. The big picture window faced west and gave her a great view of sunsets, but it meant the bedrooms at the rear caught the early-morning sun and woke her up before any sane, civilized person should stir.

      She’d opted for a simple decor, as much from poverty as design. The windows had pale green slat blinds, but no curtains. The red-tiled floor was bare throughout the front of the house, except for a round braided rug in the living room, one of her few new purchases after buying the house a couple of years ago. The bright greens and yellows made her gray pseudo-suede couch and recliner seem less drab in their new setting. The thrift-shop tables she’d re-painted mustard yellow and emerald green were kitschy but cheerful. She was still in the process of finding art for the walls, a search stymied by lack of time and money. For now, a few castoff flower prints a friend had given her hung over the couch, leaving the rest of the rough-plastered white walls unadorned.

      “Nice place,” he said, standing beside the couch which she’d forgotten to vacuum free of doggie hair. Fortunately it wouldn’t show much on his pale СКАЧАТЬ