by Cindy Kirk
“More beautiful than me?” Mitzi couldn’t believe she’d allowed the question to slip past her lips. Dr. Mitzi Sanchez didn’t beg for compliments.
She braced herself for the slap down, a pithy one-liner that would make her feel even more foolish. Kelvin had been king of pithy one-liners. Especially if he sensed weakness.
Instead Keenan’s eyes softened. She couldn’t begin to describe the look that filled them, but it made her feel warm and gooey inside.
“There’s nothing and certainly no one more beautiful than you.” He brought her hand to his lips. With his eyes still firmly focused on her, Keenan brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “Tonight you look especially delectable.”
Just like that, Mitzi’s confidence was back and she was ready to face the evening. She and Keenan chatted easily during the drive to the social hall.
After spending most of her working hours around people who were superintense, it was refreshing to simply enjoy the evening with a man who found humor in the most unlikely things and who didn’t take himself or anyone else too seriously.
A good friend.
She thought about telling him—it never hurt to reinforce what they were to each other—but the conversation veered toward her house and when it would be completed.
“Another two weeks and you should be able to move the rest of your stuff in.”
“We’ll have to have a big party to celebrate.” Mitzi stifled a groan as what she’d said registered. We. Had she really said we?
Keenan didn’t appear to notice. “You definitely should show it off. Just make sure Bitty is locked in a bedroom. Having all those people around will freak her out.”
“She’s fine around you.”
“She’s used to me,” he reminded her. “Sees me all day and most nights.”
“True enough.” Perhaps the knowledge should have disturbed her but it didn’t.
“Tell me more about this shindig.” He turned in the direction of the community hall in downtown Jackson.
“It’s a big deal. Angela—Consuela’s daughter—will be wearing a formal gown and the boys will be wearing tuxedos.”
Keenan shifted in his seat when they stopped for a red light. “Seriously?”
“Like I said, it’s a big deal.”
He cast a questioning glance in her direction. “Did you have one of these things?”
“There was no money,” Mitzi said simply. The year she turned fifteen, her eighteen-year-old sister had been pregnant with baby number two.
Keenan nodded and she saw he understood. It didn’t surprise her. Sometimes she swore he could not only read her mind but see deep into her soul.
“Were we supposed to bring a gift?” he asked.
Mitzi wasn’t sure if it made her feel better or not to hear Keenan use the plural. She tapped the clutch on her lap with her index finger. “In here.”
“Must be small.” Keenan looked mildly curious. “What is it?”
“A necklace. A silver cross with a blue topaz in the center.”
“Sounds nice.”
“When I was telling Consuela about my upcoming hair color change, she told me Angela’s favorite color is blue.” Mitzi lifted one shoulder. “I probably went a bit overboard. But blue topaz is my favorite stone, and the art deco scrollwork on the cross caught my eye.”
Mitzi realized she was babbling again, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t a crime to buy someone a nice gift, the kind of gift she’d have killed to have gotten if there’d been money for her quinceañera.
Keenan pulled the car into the gravel parking lot next to the large frame building, making sure to avoid a couple of ruts the size of moon craters. “Is jewelry the gift of choice?”
“That or a Bible, prayer book or rosary.” Mitzi’s lips curved. “When I was that age I wanted anything with a blue stone. But I’d also have accepted a tiara.”
He shot her a teasing look, gave an exaggerated sigh. “A princess even back then.”
Mitzi fingers curved around his hand as she stepped from the car. “A princess with no prince, no crown and no money.”
He flashed a grin. “You don’t want much.”
She met his gaze. “I want it all.”
“You deserve it all.”
For some reason, instead of making her smile, her heart swelled with emotion. She’d never had anyone accept her so fully. Not even her own mother. She shifted her gaze and rapidly blinked away tears.
He held her arm as they negotiated the gravel lot. When they drew close to the entrance, Mitzi tugged him to a stop. “We need to talk about something.”
“Okay.” Looking suddenly ill at ease, Keenan slid his hands into his pockets. “Talk.”
“The people who will be attending this event likely are most comfortable speaking Spanish. I know some think if they’re in the United States they should speak English but—”
He touched her lips with the pad of one finger. “As far as I’m concerned, this is their party. They can speak Portuguese if they want. And, as long as there’s cake, I’m happy.”
“Trust me. There’ll be cake.” Still, she was glad she’d warned him because they were greeted in Spanish at the door.
Mitzi responded easily in her native tongue. Until she’d gone to kindergarten, Spanish was all she’d known. There had been a time as a young teen that she’d been embarrassed by her Mexican heritage. Now she was grateful. Being bilingual came in handy for patients with limited English.
Hector and Consuela spoke rapidly, expressing pleasure at her presence at their daughter’s special day. Conscious of Keenan standing patiently at her side, Mitzi began the introductions.
Keenan extended his hand to Mr. Herrera and introduced himself in Spanish.
One more surprise from a man who seemed to constantly surprise her.
Consuela shot Mitzi an approving glance. “He will be your husband. He is why you needed a bigger home.”
Mitzi saw the amusement in Keenan’s eyes. She patted his arm. “He’s my good friend.”
“He will make a handsome husband.” Consuela spoke as if they were alone, as if Keenan wasn’t standing right there beside them with those laughing eyes understanding every word.
As soon as she could slip away, Mitzi tugged Keenan through a pink-and-white balloon arch into a hall sporting congratulatory banners and even more colored balloons.
“Looks like we got here just in time.” Mitzi looped her arm through Keenan and pointed.
His gaze fixed on the group of young teenagers, currently positioning themselves in the center of the hardwood.
“The dance they’ll perform is considered part of the celebration,” Mitzi informed him. “It’s usually well practiced and quite impressive.”
“Can’t be as impressive as that cake.” Keenan let out a low whistle, gesturing with his head to a long table with a mound of presents at one end and a multitiered cake at the other.
“Angela’s gift.” Mitzi snapped open her purse, pulled out the box with shiny silver-and-white paper. “I’ll be right back.”
Leaving him where he stood, Mitzi hurried to the table and placed the gift where it wouldn’t be lost or knocked aside. She returned to Keenan’s side.
“I never asked the purpose of all this,” he said as the choreographed dance of Angela and her “court” began.
“The quinceañera marks a girl’s transition from childhood to maturity.” Mitzi’s heart swelled at the youthful innocence on the faces of the girls. “It celebrates the virtues of family, religion and social responsibilities.”
The dance ended to bows and cheers, and Mitzi and Keenan joined in the applause.
They stayed at the party until after the toast and the presentation of the gifts. Before they left, Mitzi signed the guest boo
k then took a moment to extend her congratulations and best wishes to Angela and her parents.
As they were walking out the door, Mitzi realized Keenan hadn’t once pressed to leave. He’d laughed and talked with Consuela’s family and friends. Over the course of the evening, he’d impressed them. And her.
Once they reached the car, Mitzi wound her arms around his neck. She pressed her mouth to his. “Thanks. I owe you.”
Puzzlement filled his eyes. “For what?”
“For being a good sport.”
He didn’t say anything until they were in the car and heading down the road. “I’m not sure why you think you owe me. I enjoyed the evening.”
Mitzi raised a skeptical brow.
“I enjoyed dancing with you.” A rarely seen dimple in his right cheek flashed. “And the cake was excellent.”
“Ah, yes, can’t forget the cake.”
“Most of all—” he reached over and took her hand “—I loved spending the evening with you.”
* * *
When Keenan arrived on his sister’s back doorstep the next day to drop off the clothes, he found Nate playing trucks on the kitchen floor, Ryan at the stove and Betsy nowhere to be seen.
Betsy, Ryan informed him, was out having lunch and shopping with friends. He was in charge of providing a nutritious meal for their son.
Though Keenan had doubts about Ryan’s cooking abilities, he accepted his friend’s invitation to stay for a “nutritious” lunch.
The orange slices Ryan tossed on each of their plates were hard to screw up, but the grilled cheese sandwich had gone beyond well-done to burnt. Keenan decided to start the meal with a good stiff shot of no-name cola.
Ryan lifted a glass of milk to his lips. He’d told Keenan he was drinking the white stuff because he wanted to set a good example for Nate. “How was the birthday party?”
“It wasn’t a birthday party. It was a quinceañera.” Keenan took another sip of the cola. “For the daughter of Mitzi’s cleaning woman.”
“I wish Bets and I could afford to have someone come in and clean.” Ryan glanced into the living room strewn with toys and blocks. “You’re lucky.”
“What are you talking about?” Keenan took a bit of sandwich, trying to ignore the blackened bread. “The boardinghouse doesn’t employ a cleaning service.”
Ryan took a bite of his sandwich, frowned. He flipped it over, sighed, and then began to scrape off the charred parts with a butter knife. He stopped for a second to glance at his son, who was eating the sandwich he’d cut up for him without complaint.
“C’mon, Keenan.” Ryan dropped the sandwich to his plate. “Everyone knows you’re practically living with rich—and incredibly hot—Dr. Sanchez.”
The chunk of bread that had been sliding quite nicely down Keenan’s throat came to an abrupt halt. It took a big gulp of soda to wash it the rest of the way down.
“I live at the boardinghouse.” His tone dared Ryan to disagree. “Mitzi and I are friends.”
Ryan cocked his head. “Friends with benefits?”
Keenan gave the charred sandwich in front of him one last look before pushing the plate to the side. He lifted his chin. “Friends.”
Ryan gave a snort, worthy of any of the bulls he used to ride. He started to speak but was drowned out by his son.
“More,” Nate bellowed. “Want more.”
Most of the grilled cheese pieces remained on the high chair tray but the orange slices had disappeared.
“Say please,” Ryan prompted when Nate banged his hand against the tray.
Nate’s face took on a mulish expression.
“Say please,” Ryan said again.
The little boy gave his father an angelic smile. “Pease.”
“That’s my boy.” Ryan tousled his son’s dark hair and dropped several orange pieces onto the tray.
“Go slow,” Ryan warned, when the boy started shoveling them in. “And eat your sandwich, too.”
“Puffy eat.” Nate swept his arm across the tray and pieces of grilled cheese rained down on the Pomeranian waiting at his feet. “Yucky.”
Keenan suppressed a smile when the child turned back to the orange slices. He had a feeling Ryan and Betsy were going to have their hands full with their little buckaroo.
Once the dog pranced off with the chunk of sandwich in her mouth, Ryan turned to Keenan. “You realize that Mitzi and I went out a couple of times. We were just friends, too.”
A knot formed in the pit of Keenan’s stomach. “Friends with benefits?”
Ryan laughed so uproariously that Nate shrieked and waved his arms excitedly.
“Heck, no,” Ryan managed to sputter when he finally stopped laughing. “She wouldn’t let me touch her. Not even a kiss. I decided she must be a cold fish.”
“No,” Keenan said, thinking of her warmth, her passion and the scorching heat that flared whenever they were together. “Not cold at all.”
“What you’re saying is I wasn’t her type.”
“That lawyer brain is firing on all circuits today.”
“The doctor is hot for you.”
“For now. Until she finds Mr. Right.”
Obviously confused, Ryan cocked his head. “I thought you were Mr. Right.”
“I’m a placeholder.” Keenan’s laugh held no humor as he thought of Mitzi’s list. “Until the right guy appears.”
“Does that bother you?”
Keenan started to deny it, and then reconsidered. If he could talk to anyone about his jumbled feelings, it’d be Ry.
“It didn’t at first,” he admitted. “But somewhere along the way, things changed. At least for me.”
“You’re in love with her.”
The words hung there like a red flag, waving between them in the breeze.
“Yeah, I love her.” Keenan scowled. “Now I have to decide what I’m going to do about it.”
* * *
When Keenan headed for the Clippety Do-Dah Salon Thursday afternoon, he still hadn’t decided what he was going to do about his feelings for Mitzi. He considered telling her he loved her. But then wondered if that would just make things awkward and ruin what time he had left with her.
He’d never told a woman he loved her. Because Mitzi was the first woman he ever loved. He didn’t want to be a placeholder. Heck, he didn’t want to even be her boyfriend.
He wanted to marry her. He wanted to be her husband.
Husband.
The word pulled him up short.
Marriage. To Mitzi. Was it really such a crazy thought?
Yes, he told himself with increased agitation, it was crazy to even think of it, much less consider it an option.
Mitzi was a doctor, for chrissakes. Established. Ready to settle down. She was building a million-dollar home in an exclusive subdivision of Jackson Hole.
While he didn’t believe himself to be less than any other man, Keenan was also a realist. Mitzi was ready to settle down while he was starting over.
But if he loved her and she loved him...
He pulled his thoughts up short. That was really the crux of the matter. What did she feel for him?
If she did love him, why couldn’t they build a life together? He was driven to succeed. He would work hard, be as successful in his chosen field as she was in hers. If she’d just give him a chance...
“Keenan.”
He jerked his head up and realized he’d reached the salon.
Cassidy’s smile was wide and friendly and the tension gripping his shoulders eased.
“Ready to go blue?” the hairstylist asked. “It’s a delightfully delectable color and it’s trending right now.”
His gaze lingered on her short choppy hair, streaked royal blue and silver. “Looks go
od on you.”
“Aren’t you a sweet man.” Her smile widened with pleasure.
Looking at her now, at the wide smile on her face, his heart warmed. He recalled the child who’d worn a Halloween catsuit every day to kindergarten, a little girl from the wrong side of the tracks whom teachers labeled quirky. But even back then Keenan had known that survival took many forms.
Remembering—understanding—spawned a rush of brotherly affection. While he and Betsy had each other, Cassidy had been the sole sane one in that dysfunctional house at the end of the block.
“If you and Dr. Sanchez go Splitsville, you know where to find me,” Cassidy said in a loud whisper.
Impulsively, Keenan looped a companionable arm around her shoulder and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek. “Cassidy, darlin’, you’ll be the first one I call.”
Like a missile, red shot up her cheeks. She cleared her throat then gestured with her head. “Your honey arrived early.”
Keenan turned toward a row of chairs to find the pretty doctor sitting patiently while one of Cassidy’s associates wrapped little pieces of foil in her hair.
Her eyes met Keenan. She raised a brow.
Releasing Cassidy’s arm, he strolled over to Mitzi. When he got close, he stopped, cocked his head. “I can’t picture you as a blue-head.”
“Would it insult you if I admitted I have no problem picturing you with blue spiky hair?”
He laughed. God, he loved this woman.
“You’ll look elegant, as always.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “While I will resemble a Blue Man Group castoff.”
“If you’d like, you can sit right here, Keenan.” Cassidy gestured to the chair next to Mitzi, casting the doctor an apologetic look. “That way the two of you can talk while you go blue.”
“Great.” Keenan plopped into the chair before Mitzi could respond.
Cassidy studied his hair with an experienced eye. “While you’re here, should I trim it up?”
Keenan slanted a sideways glance at Mitzi. Though it was longer than he normally liked, she’d told him more than once how much she liked running her fingers through it when they made love.
But her face was expressionless, telling him nothing.