by Scott, Lisa
Leaning forward, he splayed his hands on the coffee table. “I’ve been married twice. But my first wife died.”
I sucked in a breath, replaying her words. “That’s right. She said you’d been married twice. I just assumed….” I reached for his arm, setting my hand on his soft, flannel shirt. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
His gaze shifted to the back window, staring out into the dark night. “We were coming home from a party. I fell asleep at the wheel. Walked away without a scratch. But she’d forgotten to put on her seatbelt.” He closed his eyes and his face twisted in pain. “It happened right after Halloween. That’s why I cancelled our plans that weekend. It was too close to the anniversary of her death.”
I touched his arm. “I’m so sorry, Jeff.”
He nodded. “I leave flowers at her grave for her birthday. Our anniversary. I just want her to know I’m sorry.” He looked at me. “That’s why I’m buying flowers so often.” He shook his head. “And that’s why my second marriage broke up. And it’s the reason I haven’t wanted to get married again. I just can’t forget about Kelly. I didn’t stop loving her when she died.”
“Of course not. And you don’t have to forget about her.”
He looked up at the ceiling. I wondered if he was fighting back tears. He sighed. “It just seems to get in the way of other relationships.”
I scooted closer to him. “You just haven’t found the right relationship.”
He shrugged. “After my divorce, I thought, I can’t do this again. So I try to make everything fun and jokes so it can’t get serious, you know?”
I nodded and smiled. “And I’m too afraid to have any fun at all.” The things he’d said to me over the past few weeks made sense now. “But I remember some good advice you gave me and clumsy equestrians everywhere. And here I am. You’re right. We can just have fun.”
He reached for my hand. “Since I met you, I’ve been thinking having fun isn’t enough anymore. I want more than that. But I’m nervous.” He laughed softly. “Can’t believe I admitted that.”
I laughed. “I’m sure we can find a solution in the middle.”
He took my hand in his. “Good. It’s worth a try.”
I squeezed his hand, a shiver shooting through me. “It’s scary, isn’t it?”
Nodding, he blew out a long breath. “But it was even scarier to think I’d never be able to do this again.” He tipped my chin up and brushed his lips across mine. Then he trailed his kisses over to my ear. “You don’t have your pirate costume in the car, do you?”
I giggled, chasing away the fear, realizing what I was truly afraid of—putting my heart out there and never feeling like this again. “I’ll bring it next time,” I whispered.
Next time. It felt good saying that.
“Should I go put on my cop uniform?”
I laughed. “No, this is good for now.” I patted his arm. “Perfect, actually.”
“Good. Because I’m pulling a twelve-hour shift tomorrow. It’s Black Friday.” He rolled his eyes. “Nightmare. But I’m going to be thankful for this right now.”
His lips crushed against mine, and I held on to him as we started this crazy, scary wonderful ride, hopeful where it would take us.
“Holiday Rush”
By Lisa Scott
Lindy Richards pulled into the Save Land parking lot and let out a tremendous sigh. Christmas music was playing on the radio already, but she certainly wasn’t in the holiday spirit—not after the Black Friday from hell. She turned off the car and reached for her purse. It was wedged between the console and her seat. When tugging didn’t free it, she pawed through the contents, pulling out lipsticks and receipts, gum and tissues, and finally managed to fish out her credit card. That’s all she needed for the world’s fastest shopping blitz, anyway.
It was ten minutes to nine, and somehow, the day just kept getting worse. Scheduling her first blind date after the busiest shopping day in the world was her first mistake; wearing cheap tights from the clearance bin was the second. But Lindy wasn’t one to pass up an end-of-the-season sale. She’d been raised a bargain shopper, and it was a hard habit to break even though her wardrobe these days could be featured on the pages of Vogue. Or at least Elle.
The upscale boutique Lindy managed wasn’t top on most Black Friday shoppers’ lists—her clientele didn’t wait for sales—but Sublime had been busy that day, and she hadn’t been adequately staffed to handle the crowds. Which was why she was late to meet Spencer in person for the first time. Drinks and maybe dessert? She wiggled in her seat just thinking of him, with the dreamy profile picture, a love of New Zealand wines and a fondness for foreign films. She could learn to like those.
On the ride to the bar, she’d ripped her tights and cut her leg on the broken molding on her car door—the molding she’d been meaning to fix for three months now. The broken strip of trim had left a long gash on her leg, and without realizing is, she’d smeared blood all over the door. I really need to upgrade my ride. Just as soon as she stopped buying three-hundred-dollar shoes.
Her roommate Darcy liked to compare her to a shark on a feeding frenzy when she hit the mall. “You need to be reeled in. Seriously,” Darcy had told her.
That’ll be my New Year’s Resolution, Lindy thought. Maybe.
She snapped off the broken molding, inspected her leg again, and groaned. Clearly there was no way she could show up with ripped, bloody tights on a first date; third date, maybe. But definitely not after Spencer had mentioned his stockpile of bleach wipes. Darcy had raised her eyebrows at that bit of news.
“What?” Lindy had said with a huff. “Opposites attract.” At least he’s not going to show up on Hoarders, she’d thought to herself.
He seemed perfect, and she wasn’t going to blow this because of a wardrobe malfunction and a flesh wound. Why didn’t these kinds of things happen to anyone else? She frowned at the blood on the door, and the bloody fingerprints she was now leaving on the steering wheel.
With ten minutes to spare before Save Land Department store closed, she’d rush inside to grab a new pair of tights. She thought about wearing sunglasses—just in case anyone spotted her there. The manager of the chicest boutique in Rochester shouldn’t be cruising a discount department store.
She popped open her glove compartment, dumping out the contents searching for a pair, but came up empty. With credit card in hand, she hopped out, hoping her car would be safe for a few minutes since the driver’s door had stopped locking two days earlier. When it rains it pours—and it’s been a tropical storm, she thought.
A dusting of snow skittered across the parking lot, chilling her toes. She threw out the broken molding, tossed a handful of change from her coat pocket in the Salvation Army kettle, and walked through the sliding doors. Her jaw dropped. The place looked like it’d been looted. She wound her way between wayward shopping carts, empty display racks, and half-stocked supply carts. She grabbed a pack of baby wipes to clean up, and finally found the ladies department, pawing through the meager selection of tights. Her ripped tights were maroon, to go with her forest green wool skirt, but they only had bright red, navy, brown and black to choose from. Figures. She’d have to go with black.
She grabbed a pack in her size and headed for the register, when the cutest leggings caught her eye. Only fifteen dollars? You couldn’t buy anything in Sublime for fifteen dollars. Maybe a bottle of designer water. The cheapest piece of clothing they carried was a thirty-dollar pack of socks. Glancing around, she saw that no one was looking and snatched the leggings—in silver, fuchsia, and blue—along with a matching over-sized sweater. She dashed to the dressing room in the far back corner of the store. The attendant must have abandoned her post long ago from the look of things. Can’t blame ya, sister.
Lindy bustled into the dressing room and thought about calling Spencer to tell him she’d be late. That’s when she remembered she’d left her purse in the car—with her cell. Oh well, she’d be fashionably late in her unf
ashionable tights.
She slipped on the leggings, trying different combinations with the sweaters and decided blue and silver looked best, but she’d never ever admit where she’d gotten them. She shuddered, imagining what her boss, Michaela, would say if she found out Lindy was wearing an outfit from Save-Freaking-Land.
She turned around in the mirror examining the perfect fit. Cute was cute, no matter the cost, right? Of course, that hadn’t been her opinion when she was a kid and her father could only afford to clothe her in garage sale finds and hand-me downs. The memory hit her like a brick. She’d never forget queen bee Vicky Givens teasing mercilessly about her the three-seasons-old coat.
She dropped onto the bench seat in the dressing room and stared at the worn blue industrial carpet. Hangers littered the floor. She took a deep breath, waiting for the bad feelings to slink away. After Lindy had learned how to sew in home economics class, she’d shortened ugly skirts, and jazzed up plain shirts with trim. Several girls started doing the same thing—even a few who could afford the latest Abercrombie and Hollister wardrobes. But still, she’d always regretted not being able to wear the latest fashions like Vicky Givens and Tiffany Carter. Once, Tiffany wore a two hundred dollar skirt just one time, before deciding the color was ‘pukey.’
Shaking away the memory, she blinked, felt better, and decided this was the best chance to change into her tights. She’d pay for them on the way out. She tore open the package, when the lights in the dressing room dimmed.
She swore to herself, trying to get the tights on quicker. Hopping on one foot to pull them up, she heard the fabric rip and swore again. Fine. I’ll wear the sweater and leggings. She quickly changed into the outfit, scooped up her own clothes, and dashed for the changing room door to head out and pay for it all.
She tried to turn the handle. This time she swore aloud; the changing room door was locked. She pounded on the door. “Hello! Someone’s still in here! Hello?” She checked her watch. It was nine-fifteen. She probably had fifteen more minutes before they closed the store.
But shaking the handle and hollering didn’t get anyone’s attention. They were surely all up front, closing down the registers, ready to go home and soak their feet. No one was back here. Once again, she reached for the purse she wasn’t holding and the phone that was in it—currently, both stuck between the seats, with her keys—in her unlocked car.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She tried tripping the lock on the door with her credit card, like she’d seen a few detectives do on TV. Then she tried the straightened end of a hanger, but still no luck. She was stuck inside the Save Land changing room when she should be enjoying a drink with the cute, cultured, hygienic guy she’d finally agreed to meet.
Black Friday had been a very bad day indeed. She curled up on the seat in the biggest changing room and finally let the tears loose.
Then the lights went out.
***
The phone woke Alex at six-fifteen in the morning. He groaned. He wasn’t due back at the store until noon. This better be good—or really, really bad. He fumbled for his cell on the nightstand. “Hello?”
“Hey boss, it’s Laurel. Sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know the news is reporting live across the street from our parking lot. Some woman is missing, and her car is in our lot, covered in blood.”
Shit. “Thanks. I’ll be right there.” He fished out a fresh suit from the closet and cursed his father once more for sending him here to earn his wings. He belonged in New York or Philly, or even Boston for crying out loud. But Rochester? With missing shoppers as breaking news?
Alex arrived just in time to hear the tail end of the 6:30 live report. “Ms. Richards, manager of the Sublime boutique downtown, left work and was expected on a blind date last night, where she failed to show up. Her roommate reported her missing last night. When detectives found this abandoned, they linked it to her. The car was ransacked, blood covered the door and steering wheel, and her keys and cell phone were inside. We’ll keep you updated on the very latest.”
It was more serious than he thought. He hoped the woman was okay. The photographer flicked off his light. Alex dodged the reporter and headed for the cop in charge of the scene. “I’m Alexander Whitney, the manager here.”
The policeman shook his hand. “Detective Jeff Williams. We’ve been trying to contact someone from the store. We want to take a look at your security tapes. You’ve got one on the parking lot, right?”
“We do. Let me show you.” He unlocked the store, hoping to God that Save Land had nothing to do with this. His father would probably keep him here even longer, blaming him for the bad publicity, as if Alex had snatched the woman himself.
After flicking on the store lights, he led the detective to the security office in the back of the store. Had someone really been abducted in their parking lot? The thought made him sick. He opened the office, wondering if anything helpful was on the tape. But with blood in her car, it didn’t look good. “Do they suspect the blind date?” he asked the cop.
“We interviewed him, but he has a solid alibi. He was at the bar waiting for her.”
Alex nodded and turned on the lights in the office. Then he paused, cocking his head. “Did you hear that?”
The detective’s hand flew to his gun and the two of them ran to the changing rooms. Someone was inside, pounding on the door. He heard a woman cry, “Help me! I’m stuck inside here!”
Alex fumbled with the keys and unlocked the door. A tall woman tumbled out and fell into his arms. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her and they stared at each other for a moment. Her dark hair was tousled and he fought the urge to brush it off her cheek.
“I’m Alex Whitney, the manager here. Are you okay?”
She narrowed her eyes then balled up her fists. “No, I am not okay! Some nitwit locked me in the changing room last night! What kind of operation are you running here?” She pulled herself out of Alex’s embrace, tugging her sweater back into place.
He felt the blood drain from his face. He had locked the changing rooms last night—without making sure they were empty; without following store procedure.
No time for regret. He smoothed his tie back in place after the impromptu pummeling. His management training had him thinking damage control. Save Land could be held liable. He’d be held liable—by his father, if not this woman. He had to think fast.
The cop interrupted his frazzled train of thought. “I assume you’re Lindy Richards?” he asked.
She tipped up her chin. “I am.”
Alex ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Are you okay, Miss Richards?” he finally managed to ask. “What happened?” He got caught in her big blue eyes and disheveled hair. Even with the bloodshot eyes, she was pretty.
Her shoulders slumped and she groaned, a bit of the anger seeping off her. “I stopped in right before the store closed to get some tights and I tried on some clothes—”
“—The clothes you’re wearing,” Alex said, gesturing to her outfit.
She put her hands on her hips. “Yes. And next thing I know, someone locked the door. I yelled, but no one heard me.”
The cop crossed his arms. “What about the blood in the car? Your purse and cell phone were inside. It looked like an abduction.”
She sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “I cut my leg, ripped my stockings and that’s why I had to dash in here.”
“On the way to your blind date?” Alex said.
She stepped back. “How do you know that?”
“It was on the news.”
Her eyes widened and she turned three shades paler. “What was on the news?”
“You, missing,” Alex said.
Her hand flew to her mouth and she shook her head. “I really need to use the restroom.”
“Follow me.” Alex led her to the front of the store. He held the door open for her and smiled. “I’ll make sure you don’t get locked in.”
Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t look half bad for spe
nding the night in a dressing room. Hell, she looked beautiful—and pissed off. Not exactly the best profile for the woman holding his future in her hands.
Once she disappeared behind the door, the cop looked around nervously. “Say, you don’t sell Mrs. Santa costumes here, do you?”
Was Alex the only one who wasn’t nuts for the holidays? He gave the officer the once over. “Mrs. Clause?”
The cop shook his head. “Not for me. It’s for a friend. She likes to dress up.” He cleared his throat. “So, how’d Lindy end up locked inside?”
Alex frowned. “Someone forgot to check that the dressing rooms were clear before locking the door.”
The cop whistled. “I’d hate to be that person.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
***
Lindy squeezed into the nearest stall. A half-hour longer in that dressing room, and things would have been messy. She wrinkled her nose. At least it was over, and the nausea had subsided, so she wasn’t going to puke. But she was embarrassed, angry, and stiff from her restless night trying to sleep propped up against the wall—and trying to pretend germs weren’t coating the wall. That was one of the bad things about working in retail—she knew what people did in dressing rooms.
She splashed water on her face and fluffed her hair. Not because the manager was handsome. What a jerk, wearing Gucci when he was managing a Save Land. Or mis-managing was more like it. Who did he think he was, selling discount clothes and wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit? He looked fantastic in it, but still, rather uppity of him.
Desperate to go home and shower before heading back to the boutique, she hurried out of the bathroom and realized she was still wearing the sweater and leggings, price tags and all. Too tired to care, she headed for the exit.
Alex’s gaze went from head to toe. After all that, he’s worried I’m leaving without paying! She tipped her nose in the air. “I’m not stealing them. I was detained on my way to the register last night. I certainly don’t want them anymore, but I’ve worn them, so I’ll buy them.” She held out her credit card. “Let’s go ring it up.”