The Fifty-Cent Groom

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “What I’ve done? It’s your dog.”

  “Only in the most technical sense.”

  “Just tell her to drop the keys.”

  “You saw what happened when I told her to stay.”

  “Yes, she stayed.”

  He shook his head. “Only because she knew I really wanted her to move.”

  With short, angry motions, the redhead lifted her skirt and headed toward the dog. It was exactly the wrong thing to do, but she obviously had a mind of her own. She might even prove a match for Cleo. Ben crossed his arms and settled back to watch.

  OF ALL TIMES for the world to go berserk, Sara thought as she approached the big black dog. Her hopes for the evening were fading fast. “Give me those keys,” she demanded.

  The dog took off like a rocket, circling the yard—and Sara—half a dozen times before crouching in the grass to wait for the next overture.

  “Stay.” She issued the command with authority and held her hand out like a policeman halting traffic. “Stay,” she said again and took a cautious step toward the dog…who lay motionless. Another step and Cleo wagged her tail. Another and she was off like a shot, racing around the yard again, keys dangling from her mouth, a picture of canine delight.

  Sara frowned at the man on her porch. “Don’t you have any control over her?”

  “None,” he admitted with irritating good nature. “But you’re not doing so badly. At least she’s staying in the yard.”

  “She isn’t going to disappear with my keys, is she?”

  “I doubt it. She likes to keep an eye on me.”

  Despite her current state of agitation, Sara could understand that, at least. He had a roguish look about him, and the loose-fitting clothes he wore did little to disguise the muscular body he seemed so comfortable in. As if she had time to notice such trivia. “Are you just going to stand there and do nothing about your dog?”

  He had a scoundrel’s smile. “Having both of us chase her around the yard will only make matters worse. I’ve played this game before, and the best thing you can do is to ignore her.”

  Sara closed her eyes tight and wished to start the day all over. And this time, she wouldn’t touch the wedding dress. And she’d leave early for the reception and avoid this man and his dog from the outset. “This could ruin my life,” she said, thinking aloud. “Is she susceptible to bribes?”

  He shrugged. “She’ll do almost anything for a Fig Newton.”

  “What about a Popsicle? Would she go for that?”

  “Probably.”

  Her spirits lifted with the possibility that maybe the evening wasn’t ruined, maybe there was still a chance to get the keys and…“I shut the door,” she said with a heavy sigh. “It locks automatically and the—”

  “Key is on the keychain.” He finished the sentence for her and trotted down the steps to stand beside her. “Is that your van parked across the street? The one with A Vice painted on the side panel?”

  “That’s it,” she said, feeling worse by the minute. “Those flowery letters cost a fortune, and two weeks ago, they spelled At Your Service. Of course, that was before my brother came to work for me.”

  “Look on the bright side. It isn’t everyone who can advertise their business as A Vice, and you can’t tell me that isn’t an attention-getter. Is it locked?”

  “I doubt it. Why? Can you hot-wire it?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of coaxing Cleo inside. She likes to travel, and even if she doesn’t drop the keys, it shouldn’t be hard to get them away from her once she’s in.”

  “It’s worth a try, I guess.” Sara set off across the street, grumbling silently about people who treated their animals like humans and didn’t teach them the first thing about obedience. She opened the back doors of the van, set her briefcase inside and draped the black dress across it. Turning, she clapped her hands. “Come on, Cleo. Come on, girl. Want to go for a ride? Let’s go. Come on.”

  The keys jangled as the Lab loped across the street and jumped into the van. Sara slammed the doors, not sure exactly what she had just accomplished.

  “The keys are in the van,” she said. “Now what?”

  He crossed the street to join her. “You’re set. She’s ready to go.”

  Sara moved around the van until she could see Cleo sitting in the passenger seat, ready to ride. “I guess this means she’s going with me.”

  “Unless you’d rather leave her here and take my Harley.”

  The dismal appearance of the motorcycle parked in front of her house didn’t inspire confidence, and she shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ll take my chances with Cleo.” Sara started around the front of the van, then paused. “She’s not going to expect to drive, is she?”

  “No, but she will want to attend the reception. She’s very sociable.”

  “I don’t suppose she can mix drinks.”

  “Not unless you count Gravy Train.” He paused. “You know, of the two of us, I’d be more help to you than Cleo will. She’s not going to be of much assistance in getting you out of that dress.”

  True statement. And Sara did not want West to catch even a glimpse of her looking like the queen of hearts. “Have you ever done any bartending?”

  “You’re looking at the unofficial champion of the 1983 Daytona Beach Beer Before Liquor contest,” he said modestly.

  “I hope that means you know the difference between a beer and a bourbon.”

  “I can also distinguish between a domestic and an imported beer.”

  “So can I…as long as no one takes off the labels.” She weighed her level of desperation against his rough-and-tumble appearance. “Do you have anything else to wear? A tuxedo, maybe?”

  He snapped his fingers. “I knew I shouldn’t have left my tux in the other knapsack.”

  “Sorry. Just thinking aloud.” She assessed him for another couple of seconds, then came to a decision and thrust out her hand. “I’m Sara Gunnerson, the owner of At Your Service.”

  “Ben Northcross.” He engulfed her hand in a forceful clasp that lingered a heartbeat too long.

  She resisted the impulse to curl her fingers over the warmth in her palm. “Do you have to take the dress back to the laundry tonight? Is someone waiting for you to deliver it somewhere else?”

  “No and no.”

  “Good.” She breathed a tiny sigh of relief. “Here’s the deal. Whatever you’re getting paid to pick up and deliver this dress for the dry cleaners, I’ll double it. Hourly rate or flat fee. Maximum of a hundred dollars for the night. The contract ends at midnight, and you pocket any tips. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Great. Let’s go.” Moving briskly, she walked around the van to the driver’s side. “You’ll have to get in on this side. That door won’t open.”

  He approached her as she stood in the angle of the open door. “What happened?”

  “My brother, Jason, was on his way to deliver pizzas to a Little League picnic and he pulled out in front of a truck with tires big enough to crush a small town. Fortunately, no one was injured, we only lost two of twelve pizzas, and the van still runs. Unfortunately, I can only afford liability insurance, so the side panel won’t be undergoing cosmetic surgery for at least a few more months.”

  “Why was he delivering pizzas in your van?”

  “That’s what I pay him to do.”

  “Just cxactly what is your business, Sara?”

  For some reason, his use of her name unsettled her, but it was a little late to insist on formality. “At Your Service provides a potpourri of services. Whatever the job, I find someone to do it.”

  “Like hiring me to get you out of your dress?”

  With a slight arch of her brows, she wondered if she’d made a mistake in hiring him on the spot as she had. His image, certainly, wasn’t up to her standards. Although, when he smiled, his scruffy appearance took on a certain rough appeal. He was articulate and intelligent, both strong points in his favor.
And she was desperate…which was the deciding factor. “More like hiring you to tend bar at a private party.”

  “Damn.” His smile was sexy and slow. “I was hoping you had taken one look at me and fallen into instant lust.”

  She noted his seductive, green-eyed amusement and answered it with her own amiable, I’m-the-boss stare. “Sorry, Ben, but lust—instant or otherwise—is one thing I steer clear of, especially with employees.”

  His eyebrows lifted, as did the corners of his mouth. “No fringe benefits with this job, I take it.”

  “You catch on quick. I like that in a man. Get in the van and see if you can persuade your dog to move to the back and let you ride shotgun.” She gave him extra room to move past her…and he still managed to brush against her, his arm stroking along her shoulder in a casually accidental touch, a touch calculated to warn her that he was temptation and she could be tempted. Which was good to know right from the start.

  “The bartender I’d hired for tonight stood me up,” she explained as Ben showed her a camouflaged but muscular backside before he slid behind the steering wheel. His biceps knotted beneath the sleeves of his faded black T-shirt as he grabbed Cleo’s collar and urged her to hop in back. The struggle for a first-class seat was brief and decisive, leaving Cleo out of luck and looking offended in the back of the van while Ben levered across the console and settled into the passenger’s seat. Sara noted the ease of his movements, along with his physique and probable strength, rating her response as merely an intriguing curiosity. “That’s the worse part of this business,” she continued as if her thoughts hadn’t been on his impressive body, “having to depend on undependable people.”

  “So I look dependable to you?”

  “You look available, and right now, that’s more important to me.” She grabbed the steering wheel in one hand, scooped up the satin skirt in the other and swung into the driver’s seat. It took a moment to gather the skirt inside and another to tuck the ivory folds around her before she could shut the car door. Once settled, she reached for the ignition, then turned to Ben. “Your dog still has my car keys.”

  He turned in the seat and frowned at the Labrador. “Keys, Cleo,” he said sternly. “We’re not leaving until you hand them over.”

  The dog panted in reply, the keys nowhere in sight.

  “I’ll climb back there and look around. They must be here somewhere.” Rising in the seat, Ben put one leg over the console and looked at Sara. “And I know what you’re thinking.”

  “That obedience training should be mandatory for dogs and their owners?”

  “No. You’re thinking, I’d better get my butt in gear because we’re really late.” He squeezed between the seat belts. “I probably should have told you I also have an amazing ability to read minds.”

  He was right about one thing, she had been thinking about his butt. “Too bad you can’t read Cleo’s. Her thoughts would be far more instructive than mine.”

  “Nah, she’d lead us on a wild-goose chase—make that wild-key chase—at the first opportunity. No sign of your key ring back here.” He moved aside a cardboard box. “Just a box marked Randolph Reception.”

  “Perfect,” Sara said glumly. “We have everything we need to coordinate tomorrow’s wedding, and not one single thing for tonight’s party.”

  “You have a bartender,” Ben pointed out.

  “Who has no clothes.”

  “I beg your pardon. I’m fully dressed.”

  “You can’t tend bar looking like that.”

  He stepped around Cleo and moved to the front of the van. “What’s wrong with the way I look? My mother always told me I was handsome.”

  “Well, my father told me that clothes make the man. As soon as we get there, I’m going to find something else for you to wear.”

  “That should be interesting. I can see you now. Measuring guests as they enter, asking them if they’d mind terribly changing clothes with me.”

  She sighed, frustrated by the delay. “Do you see the keys anywhere?” Her gaze fell on the passenger seat. “Oh, wait. You were sitting on them. Cleo must have dropped the ring in your seat before you got in.”

  “Always thinking of me, aren’t you, Cleo?”

  The dog thumped her tail once, then began sniffing her way around the van, exploring her new surroundings. Sara inserted the key into the ignition and started the motor. “I cannot believe I’m going to be late. I’m never late. Not even for dental appointments. What time is it? No, don’t tell me. I’d rather not know.” She gunned the engine, checked the side mirror, then pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires.

  Ben dropped into his seat and buckled his seat belt with a decisive snap. “Where are we going?”

  Just being on the move made Sara feel more encouraged. “The West Ridgeman house.”

  “What is that? A nursing home?”

  “It’s a private residence owned by West Ridgeman.”

  “And he is?”

  “The man I’m going to marry.”

  The quick turn of his head toward her marked his surprise. “Is that why you’re wearing the wedding dress?”

  Her rising spirits took a nosedive. “No. The last thing I want is for West to see me in this.”

  “Oh, right. It’s supposed to be bad luck or something.”

  Sara took her eyes off the road long enough to frown at him. “I would never wear anything this old-fashioned or this traditional when I get married. West would hate it. Besides, he doesn’t know he’s going to marry me.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When are you planning to tell him?”

  “I’m not. He’ll come up with the idea all on his own, and I’ll be overcome with blushing surprise.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t know it worked that way. Of course, I’ve never been married, but I always assumed it would be something of a mutual decision.”

  “Someone has to plan these things,” she said. “West is perfect for me. I knew it the first moment I set eyes on him. I’ve just had to nudge him around to my way of thinking.”

  “So he’s about to be blindsided by love at first sight.” Ben rubbed his chin. “What a concept.”

  “It isn’t new. It isn’t even original. Men and women have been doing it for centuries.”

  “Really? Does Mother Nature know about this?”

  Sara turned her head to look at him, noting the threadbare sheen of his camouflage pants, liking the wise-guy glint in his eyes despite her better judgment. “Who do you think invented it in the first place? But there are always people like you who think there’s something fundamentally wrong with giving a prospective relationship a push in the right direction.”

  “What if it turns out to be the wrong direction?”

  “Check for traffic on your side. The side mirror was knocked out of whack in the accident.”

  Ben looked over his shoulder at the lane of highway on the right. “You’re clear after the red car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. It’s the least I can do in exchange for this fascinating lesson on male-female bonding.”

  “Make fun of the idea if you want, but it happens all the time.”

  “I believe you. I just prefer to stick with the idea that falling in love is something that can’t be planned. It just happens.”

  “Right. And somewhere out there in your future is a woman who will plot every step of your walk down the aisle to happily ever after. All the experts agree that good marriages require work, but no one talks about working at the relationship before marriage.”

  “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought, but I’ll stick to my theory of the lightning bolt. Your way sounds too labor intensive.”

  “I waited a long time to meet the right man and he’s worth the effort.”

  “So how did you find this paragon?”

  “Through my business. At Your Service provides services for events like West’s party tonight. I’m supplying
a bartender and two servers, a husband-and-wife team, who I hope are already there and ready to go. West contracted for my services, just as I contracted for yours. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.”

  “So after you’re married, who’s going to wash the dishes?”

  She looked at him, then honked the horn as the van came up behind a slow-moving station wagon in the left, keep-it-moving, lane of traffic. “We’ll hire someone.”

  “I see.” Ben tightened his seat belt. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re wearing the wedding dress.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “That you got in it? Or that you couldn’t get out of it?”

  The station wagon changed lanes, and Sara floored the accelerator. “I’m going to plead the Fifth.”

  “You’re going to be pleading in traffic court, if you don’t slow down.”

  “I’m not going that fast.”

  “The defense will have to call me as a hostile witness, then.”

  “Relax.” She leaned close to him, trying to check traffic in the crooked right-hand mirror. “Am I clear?” At his nod, she changed lanes. “Think of all the money you’ll make tonight. More than you’ve seen in quite a while.”

  “What makes you think that?” His voice was resonant with offended dignity, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned his circumstances. Men were always so touchy about money…or rather about a woman knowing they didn’t have any.

  “I’ve done my share of delivery work. I know what a pittance it pays.”

  “Maybe this is a special delivery.”

  She gave him a conciliatory smile. “Look, Ben, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re a little down on your luck. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know. I’ve been there myself. To be honest, I’ve been there so many times it feels like home. But tonight is going to be a turning point for me. I’m moving up in the world. Maybe some doors will open up for you, too.” She glanced at him. “Providing we can get you out of those clothes.”

  “I thought I was supposed to get you out of your clothes.”

  “Dress,” she corrected quickly. “Dress only.”

  “Hope springs eternal.”