Moon Over Miami: A Romantic Comedy

by Jane Graves

  "I will."

  "Good."

  "Just let me finish this drink first."

  As exasperated as Liz was over his reluctance to take action, at the same time she couldn't ignore the tiny thrill that swept through her. The longer he sat there, the more obvious it became that if he wanted to get that woman's attention, he was going to need some help.

  Her help.

  People's problems naturally piqued Liz's interest, hence her interest in psychology. It was in her genetic makeup, just as her auburn hair was, and her green eyes. Decades ago, her great grandmother had run a soda shop in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and aside of the usual problems she addressed on a daily basis, family legend had it that after the stock market crash of 1929, she'd actually prevented one distraught customer from climbing to the top of the four-story building next door and taking one of those much-publicized free-falls.

  Liz's grandmother was similarly gifted with fabulous advice for anyone who needed it. Queen of the quilting circle at her church, the other women relied on her to put their problems into perspective and then send them off in the right direction.

  Then there was Liz's mother, Laura Lee Prescott, who ran a hair salon in Big Fork, Texas. Even as a child, Liz realized the people who patronized her mother's place of business generally wanted more than a cut or a perm.

  I told him exactly what you said last week, Laura Lee. I told him it was time to poop or get off the pot. And guess what? We're getting married in June!

  I kept my mouth shut about the twenty dollars she owed me, just like you said. Then I found out she'd stuck it into the pocket of my purse last week at bingo and forgot to tell me!

  I thought you was nuts, Laura Lee. But I gave her the new clothes dryer on her birthday instead of perfume and flowers, and she said it was about time I gave her something to help out around the house instead of something silly and useless.

  To Liz and everyone else in town, Laura Lee Prescott had been Dr. Phil, Ann Landers and Sigmund Freud all rolled into one. Even as a child, Liz had stood in awe of the way people respected every word her mother uttered. As Liz eased into womanhood, the tingle she felt inside every time she sensed a problem in her vicinity told her, without a doubt, that she was now the keeper of the family heritage. And she was even taking things one step further than her mother and grandmother by getting a degree in psychology. Best of all, she intended to specialize in couples therapy. She couldn't imagine anything more satisfying than being an interim matchmaker, spending her days repairing broken relationships and bringing people back together again.

  But right then she had a different kind of matchmaking to attend to.

  "Give me one of your business cards," she told Mark.

  He looked at her warily. "Why?"

  "Just do it."

  He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and produced a business card. Liz took it from him, then tilted it slightly to read it in the dim light. Mark McAlister. Tax Accounting Manager. Nichols, Marbury & White, Certified Public Accountants. White with black lettering. She sighed. Did it get any more boring than that?

  Oh, well. She had to play the card she was dealt. She stuck the card into her apron pocket and started toward the fridge.

  "Liz?" Mark said. "What are you doing?"

  "Trust me," she said over her shoulder. "I'll get the door open, but you've got to walk through it. Now, pay attention."

  "Hey!" he said. "Wait a minute! Get back here!"

  Liz ignored his protests. She pulled a bottle of the ridiculously overpriced white wine Ms. High-and-Mighty was drinking from the fridge, poured a glass, then strolled over and placed it in front of her. Gwen looked at her questioningly.

  "It's from the gentleman at the other end of the bar," Liz said, handing her Mark's business card. Gwen scanned the card briefly, then zeroed in on Mark.

  When Mark realized Gwen was looking at him, his eyes widened. He sat up from his dejected slump and tried to look cool and nonchalant. But as Gwen's gaze flicked up and down appraisingly, Liz could tell he was coming up short.

  "Him?" Gwen said, crinkling her nose as if she'd smelled something rotten.

  "Yes. The handsome dark-haired man." Liz gave the blonde a conspiratorial, woman-to-woman wiggle of the eyebrows. "He's very intriguing."

  "Yes. Well. I'm sure you'd think so."

  Because you're a low-class, drink-slinging barmaid, Liz said to herself, filling in the rest of that unspoken thought, then wondered how Gwen would like to stop drinking her wine and start wearing it.

  Very deliberately, Gwen pushed the glass of wine to the back of the bar. Then, with her fingertip alone, she slid Mark's business card away from her until it came to rest against a bowl of peanuts an arm's length away, insuring that no one, under any circumstances, would even think of associating her with it. Then she resumed her conversation with the woman next to her, as if Liz hadn't just offered her an introduction to a man who might possibly be willing to worship the ground she walked on.

  Liz couldn't believe it. She thought her ploy would at least give Mark a chance to say hello, but no such luck. And now that Princess Gwen had banished him to the dungeon for eternity, he was going to feel embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated.

  But to Liz's surprise, when she turned back around, he didn't appear to be any of those things. He was something worse. And that something was directed right at her.

  She watched with mounting apprehension as Mark gulped the rest of his drink, then slammed the glass down on the bar, glaring at her with a narrow-eyed, tight-lipped expression that told her it was a real good thing he wasn't armed. His face actually started to turn red, and if smoke had come out his ears she wouldn't have been surprised. He skewered her with his angry gaze for a full five seconds, then rose from his stool, tossed money by his empty glass, and stalked out of the bar.

  2

  Mark strode through the parking lot toward the sanctuary of his silver Volvo, hauling his keys out of his pocket as he walked, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the Humiliation Zone as possible. Gwen Adams, the woman he needed, the woman who could solve all his problems, the woman whose grace and refinement would make Tiffany Sloan look like a reality show reject, had just regarded him as if he were something disgusting growing on the underside of a rock. What had ever made him think she'd want anything to do with him?

  He reached his Volvo and got inside. Actually, he might have had a chance with Gwen, if only a certain redheaded bartender hadn't gotten in the way. How could she have done that to him? How could she have screwed up his one chance at meeting the woman who could help him reach every goal he'd ever had?

  "Mark! Wait!"

  He spun around, stunned to see the bartender in question trotting down the sidewalk. Her skirt was too short, her heels too tall, and as she hurried toward him, several strands of her hair pulled loose from the bun at the crown of her head and trailed behind her in streaks of red. She circled his Volvo and skidded to a halt beside the passenger door. She knocked on the window. He shook his head and started the engine. She knocked again, more urgently this time, jabbing her finger toward the lock.

  Oh, boy. He did not need this.

  With a heavy sigh, Mark reached to the panel beside him and flipped the lock. She yanked the car door open and slid into the passenger seat, closing it beside her with a solid thunk. She turned and stared at him with soft green eyes--eyes that might have seemed really innocent if he hadn't known about the pushy, presumptuous brain that lurked behind them.

  He glared at her. "What do you want?"

  "Well," she said, shifting around to face him. "I just wanted to tell you that I don't think things are as bad as they look. We haven't done any permanent damage where Gwen is concerned. I think if we--"

  "Wait a minute. What's this we stuff?"

  "I'm not going to lie to you. That woman is wrong for you. I'd hate to think of the man she'd be right for. But if you're determined to go after her, I suppose..." She paused. "I suppose I'd b
e willing to help you."

  Mark couldn't believe it. This woman was loony. "Help me? Haven't you helped me enough already?"

  "I know I was a bit hasty," she admitted. "But if you'll just give me a chance, I'll show you how we can--"

  "You keep saying we. This is not a we thing."

  "I admit she's going to be a tougher sell than I thought. But when it comes to getting someone’s attention, I'm an expert."

  "Experts get things right. You missed this one by a mile."

  "Maybe I did this time. But at least I took action. Were you ever going to get off that stool and go talk to her? Or were you going to spend the whole evening staring at her, then go home and kick yourself for not approaching her?"

  He hated to admit it, but she was right. Gwen had paralyzed him, making him feel like the unsophisticated small-town guy he was. Still, did that give this woman the right to butt in?

  "I just miscalculated a little," she went on. "That's all. But if you'll give me another chance, I know I can help you."

  "I don't get it. Why do you want to help me?"

  She smiled. "Practice. See, I'm going to be a clinical psychologist some day. Couples therapy. Helping people is my destiny."

  Destiny? What in the hell was she talking about? "No. You can't help me. You don't even know me."

  "Of course I know you. You've been sitting at my bar for a couple of weeks now."

  "No," he corrected, pointing an accusing finger at her, "that does not mean you know me. And still you came running out here and jumped right into my car. That's a very dangerous thing to do. That's how women get abducted and murdered."

  Her mouth turned up in an amused grin. "So you're a dangerous man?"

  Mark sighed inwardly. Dangerous man? Just once he'd love to have a woman think so. Instead, he'd always been the kind of shy, unassuming guy that would make overprotective fathers put their shotguns away on prom night and forget all about curfews.

  "Oh, yeah. Give me the tax code and an Excel spreadsheet, and I'm the most dangerous man you've ever met."

  She smiled again. "I'll keep that in mind next April."

  Yeah, he could spin circles around a tax return, all right. And right now he'd trade the majority of that knowledge for the ability to utter one charming, sophisticated sentence to a charming, sophisticated woman without feeling as if she saw "Waldon Springs" plastered across his forehead in neon lights.

  She leaned toward him, a conspiratorial look on her face. "What if I told you I know a way you can get Gwen's undivided attention for at least fifteen minutes and be a hero in her eyes at the same time?"

  Yeah, and pigs were going to sprout wings and head for the clouds. "I'd say you're nuts. Now, would you mind getting out of my car?"

  "I'm serious! I can tell you how to do it!"

  Mark let out an exasperated sigh. It appeared that if he wanted her out of his car, he was going to have to do one of two things: Forcibly remove her, or listen to her crazy advice.

  "Okay," he said, glancing at his watch. "You've got two minutes. Tell me."

  "It's kind of complicated. Two minutes is not enough--"

  "Sorry. It's all I've got." He started the car.

  "No! Wait!"

  He turned and glared at her, the engine idling softly.

  "It's just that I'm supposed to be in there working," she went on, "not out here chatting, and it will take a little time to tell you what I have in mind. Gwen's a regular. She usually comes in about 6:30. If you'll come by about 6:00 tomorrow night, I'll explain everything."

  "Don't you have to work when you're at work?"

  "It's okay. If I know in advance, I can get someone to cover for me."

  Mark started to tell her for the third time that their conversation was over, only to find her looking at him with such a hopeful, expectant gaze that his resolve wavered. A curly strand of hair fell across her face, which she brushed away, only to have it fall against her cheek again. She had three piercings in each ear filled with an assortment of silver stars. Her form-fitting knit top was cut a bit too low, her skirt a bit too high, and he'd be willing to bet that somewhere on her voluptuous body she had a tattoo. Just a small, unobtrusive one that said "body ornament" without saying "biker's chick." He could imagine her lounging in a tattoo parlor, selected parts of her body exposed, as some guy named Vinny permanently etched a happy face on her hip, or maybe a rosebud on the swell of her breast...

  Good God--what was wrong with him? What was he doing taking a mental tour of her body in search of tattoos? For all he cared, she could have a skull and crossbones on a body part polite people didn't talk about.

  "There's no point in going any further with this," he told her. "You can't help me. Gwen's different. She's--"

  "No. That's where you're wrong. When it gets right down to it, she's no different from any other woman. If you know which buttons to push, she's yours."

  She's yours. Mark fought to quell the tiny rush of excitement he felt when he heard those words, as if Liz really was offering him the key to his future. She made it sound so easy. Just a little button-pushing.

  No. You know it won't be that easy. This woman is nuts. Run. Save yourself while you still can.

  "No," he said. "I'm not coming back here tomorrow night."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  He opened his mouth to say, again, that of course he was sure, when all at once he thought about Gwen, and about how bright his future would be if she were by his side. But there wasn't a thing this woman could do to make it happen.

  "Of course I'm sure. I'm not coming."

  She smiled.

  "I said I'm not coming."

  Her smile widened even more. Did she have a hearing problem?

  "Did you hear me? I will not be here!"

  "I'll see you at six o'clock."

  She got out of his car and trotted back across the parking lot, leaving Mark sitting behind the wheel of his Volvo, his teeth clenched with frustration. She dodged a black Mercedes coming into the parking lot, then hopped onto the sidewalk and scurried toward the door of the club, her skirt swishing back and forth in rhythm with her high-heeled strides.

  If audacity were a crime, he'd certainly collected enough evidence to convict her of it now. She actually expected him to come back there tomorrow night for his first class in Attracting the Opposite Sex. What did she think he was? Crazy? Desperate? Even more off-the-wall than she was?

  If you know which buttons to push, she's yours.

  Mark froze, his hands on the steering wheel, staring at the dashboard. Liz's words echoed around in his head, taunting him with the possibilities, and just for a moment he thought maybe...

  No. He had no business having anything to do with a pushy, underdressed bartender who undoubtedly watched dumb reality shows, drank beer from a bottle, and painted her toenails purple. A woman like that wouldn't have the slightest idea how to attract a woman like Gwen. She'd screwed up his life enough already. Why give her the opportunity to add insult to injury?

  He started his car and headed toward home, telling himself that his situation would have to get a whole lot more desperate before he'd even think about accepting help from a crazy woman. There was no way was he was coming back there tomorrow night.

  No way.

  * * *

  "Let's get something straight right off the bat," Mark said, as he slid onto a stool at the bar the next evening at precisely six o'clock. "I'm here to listen. That's all. If you tell me to do anything that sounds ineffective, or off-the-wall, or just plain weird, I'm outta here."

  Liz gave him one of her ultrabright smiles. "Hello, Mark. It's good to see you, too. Can I get you a drink?"

  I was insane to come here, Mark told himself. Totally and completely insane.

  All day long at work he'd stuck to his guns, telling himself he was not going to go there tonight. Then before Sloan left for the day, he stopped by Mark's office to rub his nose in the fact that he and Tiffany were meeting one of the partners and
his wife for dinner after work. As he walked away with that annoying little chuckle of his, Tina had taken out her frustration by making a highly inappropriate gesture behind his back that highlighted one of her long, pink fingernails. Mark wished his own frustration could have been as easily soothed. Desperate to find a way to beat Sloan at his own game, he'd headed for Simon's again in spite of his vow to avoid it at all costs.

  "No," he told Liz. "I don't want a drink. I want to get down to business."

  Liz inched closer and rested her forearms against the bar in front of him, a conspiratorial grin on her face. "Wait till you hear my plan. It'll knock your socks off."

  If he emerged from this experience minus only a pair of socks, he'd consider himself lucky. “

  "Okay," he said, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. "Tell me what you have in mind."

  * * *

  "I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Mark muttered as he strode through Simon's parking lot alongside Liz, berating himself with every step. "What if somebody catches us?"

  "That's why you're going to be my lookout," Liz said. "Just tell me if somebody comes."

  "What if a cop drives by?"

  Liz rolled her eyes. "A cop's not going to drive by. You're not going to jail, and you're not going to hell. Didn't you ever do this when you were a teenager?"

  "God, no."

  "Did you ever toilet paper a house?"

  "Nope."

  "Egg a few windows?"

  "Of course not."

  "What did you do?"

  Mark shot her an irritated look. "Where I went to school, vandalism wasn't a prerequisite for graduation."

  "Yeah, that's the problem with education these days. They don't teach real-world skills."

  Mark had always wondered what teenage vandals were like when they grew up. Now he knew. They grew into adult vandals.

  "There it is," Liz said, pointing toward a dark blue Beemer at the back of the parking lot.

  "You're sure it's her car?"

  "I'm sure."