Once Upon a Valentine

by Stephanie Bond

  Andrew glanced inside to find the refrigerator packed with labeled food containers.

  Red rearranged a couple of items and added his wife’s casserole. “If you want my opinion, I’d skip Tessa Hadley’s Mexican dip and Anna Kelly’s potato salad. But Roberta Bride’s apple pie is a keeper.”

  Andrew smiled. “Thanks for the tip.”

  The man closed the refrigerator door, then sobered. “Your father was a good man. He’ll be missed.”

  Andrew nodded at the man’s heartfelt words. “Thank you. You were a good friend to him, Red.”

  Red looked around the cluttered country kitchen. “Do you know what you’re going to do with the place?”

  In light of his recent conversation with Summer, he hesitated. “I suppose I’ll sell it.”

  Red nodded. “Figured as much.”

  “I have to say, I’m a little surprised how rundown Dad let things get around here.”

  The man’s expression turned pensive. “The last few months, your dad lost interest in everything but the stables.”

  “Listen, Red, did Dad talk to you about a grooming product for horses he was planning to market and sell?”

  “No.” Then Red pulled on his chin. “But that makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “Odd business expenses I called him on that he was vague about—lab expenses and chemicals and such.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Andrew asked, suddenly concerned.

  “Several thousand dollars. Money he couldn’t afford to spend, between you and me. Did you know he was behind on property taxes?”

  Andrew straightened. “No.”

  “And that he’d taken out a mortgage?”

  Alarm bolted through his chest. “But my parents paid off the property when I was young.”

  Red grunted. “You should be able to get more for the property than your father owed, but with the way real estate has dropped around here, it’ll be close. And those taxes will need to be paid sooner rather than later.”

  Andrew nodded, shot through with frustration that his father hadn’t let him know he needed money. Had he gone without things he needed to take care of those broken-down horses? Had Summer Tomlinson influenced him to spend money on the crazy hair conditioner?

  When he went to see the distracting woman tonight, he intended to find out.

  4

  SUMMER WAS A NERVOUS wreck, second-guessing what to serve for dinner, what to wear, what to say to Andrew when he arrived. Gabby wasn’t helping with her running critical commentary from her perch on the windowsill where she supervised and apparently found everything from the rosemary pot roast to the green wrap dress wanting.

  “Shh!” Summer said to her vocal cat.

  Gabby blinked, then lifted her chin as if to say it was a lucky coincidence she’d just decided she wanted to be quiet.

  Summer glanced around the room to check last-minute details—the pot roast was sliced and sitting on the sideboard, along with mashed potatoes and gravy. The simple dinner wouldn’t measure up the elegant meals Andrew was no doubt accustomed to, but it was the nicest cut of meat she’d had in the freezer and, she hoped, would remind him of the virtues of good home-cooking.

  The women in New York had their tools of seduction, and the women in Tiny had theirs.

  Next to the food she’d placed the binder containing the notes on the project she and Barber had worked on, and a container of the pinkish conditioner she and Barber had dubbed Mane Squeeze. Hopefully, she could convince Andrew their formula could compete in the marketplace.

  The doorbell rang, and Gabby yowled in notification.

  “Yes, I heard it, too,” Summer said. On the way to the front door, she slipped off the scarf she’d worn over her hair while cooking. Her heart thudded against her breastbone. Tonight was supposed to be about business, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t hoping it would lead to something else.

  She opened the door and Truman rushed inside, licking her knees and her hands.

  “Truman,” Andrew chided, “we haven’t been invited in.”

  Summer laughed to cover her nervousness. Andrew was so handsome in brown slacks and a cream-colored long-sleeved dress shirt that highlighted his dark coloring. Now that the sun had set, the early-evening air gusting around him was tinged with the bite of the waning winter. Goosebumps raised on her arms. “Please, come in.”

  He smiled, revealing white teeth. “I promise not to lick you.”

  Her cheeks warmed as illicit images leaped to her mind. She stepped aside and tried to tamp down her pulse as he crossed the threshold.

  He extended a covered pie plate. “I brought dessert.”

  “How thoughtful,” she murmured.

  “I can’t take credit…Miss Bride made it.”

  Summer smiled, but before she could take the pie, the sound of barking and hissing followed by a horrific crashing noise from the kitchen ended the moment. She rushed in to find the meal, the notebook and the container of conditioner spilled all over the floor. The edge of the runner had been pulled down, Truman was barking furiously and Gabby was sitting on the sideboard, her teeth bared and her ears laid back.

  “Oh, no!” Summer cried.

  “Truman, be quiet!” Andrew commanded.

  The dog stopped and whined, then retreated to stand next to Andrew. Gabby, however, refused to retreat. She continued to hiss in the dog’s direction, leaning so far forward over the edge of the sideboard that it looked as if she might leap across the room onto him.

  “Gabby!” Summer scolded. From a narrow closet, she pulled a broom and a few menacing motions sent Gabby bounding up the stairs. The Persian stopped at the landing to give everyone a piece of her feline mind, then lifted her tail in the air and walked away.

  “I’m so sorry,” Andrew said, gesturing to the mess. He glared at Truman who hid his head.

  “I’m sure he was provoked,” Summer said, frowning after her cat. Then she sighed and lifted her hands. “I don’t have a plan B for dinner.”

  Andrew smiled and lifted his offering. “We have pie.”

  Summer laughed, relaxing a bit. “That does sound good. I’ll put on some coffee.”

  “And I’ll start cleaning up,” Andrew offered, reaching for paper towels.

  The ruined dinner actually helped to break the ice, although Summer was upset to find her notes soaked with gravy and the spilled conditioner. So much for a classy presentation. They moved to the living-room couch and coffee table, and over thick wedges of pie and creamy coffee, she reviewed sticky pages and described how she and Barber had refined the recipe for the formula.

  “Your father told me the secret is how the aloe-vera gel reacts with the evening-primrose oil.” She extended a rescued spoonful of the blush-colored lotion. “Barber made a new batch last week. He kept the inventory in the kitchen pantry, by the way.”

  Andrew sniffed the conditioner. “It has a pleasant scent,” he admitted.

  “We added rosemary oil for fragrance, and pomegranate for natural color. We found a cosmetology lab in Knoxville that doesn’t test on animals and our formula qualifies to be marketed as organic.”

  He glanced over the reports that included a budget, his mouth pursed in thought. The pink-and-black lettering of the Mane Squeeze label and logo design she’d labored over now seemed painfully amateurish. She could tell he wasn’t bowled over when he returned to eating his pie. Finally, he swallowed.

  “What about tests to prove it actually makes hair grow longer? That’s a big claim to back up.”

  “The lab has been conducting tests for three months,” she said. “I regularly submit a few strands for analysis. The latest results are promising.”

  He set aside the reports and gestured to her hair. “And how long have you been using it?”

  She offered up a lock of her loose hair for his inspection. “Over seven years. Hair typically grows about six inches a year, and my hair is about forty-five inches long. So the
entire length is the result of Mane Squeeze.”

  He reluctantly took the proffered strand, then awkwardly rubbed it between his fingers. “It…has a nice texture,” he said, then cleared his throat. “And I noticed earlier that your hair is, um, strong, but maybe that’s your natural makeup.”

  She shook her head. “Before I started using Barber’s conditioner, my hair would barely grow past my shoulders.”

  He was still holding the hank of blond hair, and the sight of it entwined in his large fingers sent a quickening to her breasts. Erotic visions flashed in her head of his hands pushing into her hair and tousling it during carnal activity.

  “So what do you think?” she asked. The words came out sounding more husky than she’d planned.

  His dark eyes bore into hers. “I think you have beautiful hair.” His husky tone matched hers.

  She wet her lips. “Does that mean you’ll try to market your father’s formula? That you’ll fulfill his dream to turn the Mane Squeeze into a horse-rescue center?”

  His mouth opened. “I’ve decided to, um…do my best.”

  Excitement and happiness bubbled up in her chest. “Thank you!” Impulsively, she threw her arms around Andrew and kissed him on the mouth.

  What started out as a sweet thank-you kiss quickly morphed into a deeper, harder exchange. Summer opened her mouth and welcomed him inside. His tongue delivered arrows of desire to awaken dormant erogenous zones. He wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck and slanted his mouth against hers. She moaned as her body came alive, shifting to loop her arms around his neck. He eased her back on the couch and moved his kisses to her neck. She sighed in his ear, relishing the warmth of his body pressed against hers.

  This was unlike her, she thought distantly. She’d had her share of suitors, but no one had ever made her feel so wanton with a simple kiss, had made her feel as if she wanted to roll around on the couch like a teenager.

  He kissed lower, nuzzling her cleavage, and she arched into him, urging him on. Her nipples budded in anticipation of his tongue’s attention. He slid his hand down her back…and she inhaled sharply as her head went back in pain.

  “Ow!”

  He stilled his hand. “Sorry…I think your hair is caught again.”

  “Your watch?”

  “No…my cuff link.”

  After some awkward levering, she sat up and he turned her around to try to loosen the wayward hair.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” she moaned.

  “I’m sorry.” After several long minutes, he grunted. “Almost…there.” At last he lifted his freed hand, then he laughed. “I keep getting tangled up with you.”

  Summer smiled, then, feeling bold, she tossed her hair in what she hoped was a coy gesture. “Maybe you should take off your shirt.”

  She saw desire in his whiskey-colored eyes, but then he glanced at his watch and pushed to his feet. “Actually, I should be going. It’s been a long day.”

  Summer stood hurriedly and adjusted her clothing. “Of course. You must be tired. Thanks for listening…and for bringing the pie.”

  “No problem.” He whistled for Truman, who came loping in from another room. He picked up the lab reports and headed toward the door. Summer walked with him, tingling with embarrassment. The man probably had a girlfriend—or many—back in New York.

  “Let me know if you have any questions about the conditioner,” she said brightly. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and played with it self-consciously. “I’ll be over tomorrow after work to feed the horses.”

  He was staring at her hair, no doubt thinking what a complete nuisance it was. “O…kay,” he murmured, then practically fell out her front door into the cool air…and was gone.

  5

  I’LL DO MY BEST.

  Andrew was taking a break, standing at the door of the kitchen pantry, drinking a tall glass of cold water after a morning of hot, tedious work cleaning up his father’s property. He stared at the row of bottles containing the pink Mane Squeeze conditioner, along with a long list in Barber’s handwriting of individual customers awaiting delivery. He’d been all set the previous night to tell Summer that although he respected her efforts, bringing a hair conditioner to the marketplace wasn’t a project in which he was prepared to invest time or money.

  Instead, he’d been mesmerized by that mane of exquisite hair, fixated on the thought of seeing her nude with her glorious golden veil all around her, and said he’d do his best.

  He sighed, then wiped his sweaty neck and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, stopping on an entry for an advertising associate in Nashville who specialized in direct-to-consumer sales and pressed the connect button. It was probably a waste of time, but…

  “Andrew MacMillan for Charles Basker.…Charles, hello.…Yes, long time, no see. How are you?…Good. Listen, I’m back in Tennessee for a few days, and I have a favor to ask. My veterinarian father recently passed away.…Yes, thank you. The reason I’m calling is I just learned that he and a friend of the family developed an organic hair conditioner that’s become a bit of a local sensation. I was wondering if you’d be interested in taking a look at it and giving me an opinion on its viability in a wider market?…You will?…Okay, I’ll ship a few bottles your way. Thanks, man.”

  He ended the call, a little nonplussed, but not overly concerned, because the man probably said yes a hundred times a day and meant it a fraction of the time. Over the years he’d received his own fair share of similar calls from friends and associates and he couldn’t remember a single personally referred product that had panned out. But he’d do this so he could in good conscience tell Summer he’d tried.

  As long as he wasn’t looking into those sexy blue eyes of hers, he might be able to pull off a half-truth. He hoped the woman had no idea how much he’d wanted not only to tear off his own shirt last night, but to relieve her of her clothing, as well. And lose himself in her eyes and her body and that amazing hair.

  He touched the cool glass to his forehead.

  But then what? He’d come back to Tiny to tie up all the loose ends, not to create more. He glanced into the living room where his father’s ashes still sat on the mantel, mocking him. Yet another decision that needed to be made.

  Andrew found a box and pulled out six bottles of the conditioner, then picked up the list of supplies he needed from the hardware store, grabbed the keys to his dad’s pickup truck and left by the back door. Truman was waiting for him and happily jumped into the bench seat when Andrew opened the creaky door of the truck. Andrew felt a pang for the dog who had obviously fallen into a comfortable routine of accompanying Barber wherever he went.

  When Andrew left, he’d have to find a good home for Truman. Summer would probably be willing to take him in, but that cat of hers would make his life miserable. Andrew looked at the sweet-faced dog. Yet another decision to make.

  As he circled around to drive by the front of the house, Andrew surveyed the progress he’d made clearing the yard of overgrowth and clutter. He’d managed to uncover the building where his father had once maintained his veterinary office, resulting in a huge pile of bramble that needed to be burned or hauled away. He’d peeked in a dusty window to see furniture and equipment encased in covers and realized the building would be a perfect office for an animal-rescue center.

  Then he quickly turned his mind elsewhere.

  Retailers in Tiny were hyping Valentine’s Day, reminding shoppers not to forget their lovers on their special day! Red balloons abounded. Andrew tucked his tongue into his cheek—over the years he’d enjoyed a few mildly serious relationships with women, but he’d always managed to avoid Valentine’s Day by scheduling work travel. He rejected the idea that a made-up holiday could or should bring a couple closer.

  He stopped by the post office and mailed the box of conditioner and copies of the ingredient-testing reports to Charles. The task took longer than he’d planned because people recognized him and stopped to give their condolences. It made him real
ize just how far from Manhattan he was. Here in Tiny, everyone knew everyone. And so it continued as he stopped by the hardware store to buy paint and countless other supplies, as well as when he stopped by the City Hall building to inquire about the property taxes due on his father’s farm.

  The clerk was Roberta Bride, who pinched his cheeks and said nice things about Barber. When she presented Andrew with the tax bill, he managed to hide his surprise at the substantial sum, but assured her he would settle the debt as soon as he got his father’s financial affairs in order. And he thanked her for the apple pie. She dimpled and said it was nice to see he hadn’t gotten “above his raising.”

  Andrew smiled, but on the way out of the building, his mind churned with all the decisions at hand. He was feeling overwhelmed and eager to get back to the relatively calm chaos of Manhattan.

  He heard his name and turned his head. Tessa Hadley, dressed in a smart skirt suit, her dark hair bobbed, was walking toward him, wearing her “agent” smile.

  “Andrew, I thought that was you.” Then she gestured to his jeans, T-shirt and the old boots he’d pulled from the closet of his bedroom that had remained unchanged after he’d left home. “Even dressed like a local, you stand out.” She stepped forward to clasp him in a hug and held on a little longer than necessary. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you,” he said, extricating himself.

  “Did you like the Mexican dip I made?” she asked brightly.

  “Er, yes,” he said, deciding not to tell her about Red’s warning and even Truman’s subsequent refusal to eat it. “That was kind of you.”

  “You live in New York, I understand. How exciting! You’re in marketing?”

  “Advertising. I see you’re doing well.”

  “Yes,” she said, sweeping an arm down her figure as if she were a game show prize. Then she angled her head. “Our phone call yesterday was cut short.”