"Must be a lovely neighborhood," she muttered. Still, she couldn’t deny the guy had a legitimate complaint."Look, I'm really sorry. I only needed to run upstairs for a minute.”
"Since I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, that's not really true, is it?"
Well, ex-cuuuuuse me, Mr. Mercedes. She’d apologized. Did this bozo want a blood oath? "Like I said, I'm sorry. I'll just get in my car and head on home." Praying Mr. Mercedes wasn’t some crazy-ass psycho—‘cause it would be exactly her luck to block in an ax murderer-- she opened the car door, shoved the box of food across the seat, and slid in, quickly slamming and locking the door. She looked over and heaved a sigh of relief when he got back into his car.
She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. A weak grrrrrr sounded and nothing else. She tried it again. An even weaker grrrrr came out. On the third try, nothing. She thunked her forehead on the steering wheel.
"This day has to end . . . this day has to end . . . this day has to end!" She turned the key again, but only silence met her ears.
A tap sounded on the driver's window and Melanie yelped in fright. She looked up and saw a face peering at her from beneath a black umbrella. Touching her palm to her thumping heart, she sucked in a deep breath. Mr. Mercedes. She rolled down the window an inch.
"I don't mean to harp on this," he said in a distinctly sarcastic tone through the crack, "but when you said you were leaving, I sort of assumed you meant sometime tonight."
Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. Mr. Mercedes was a veritable Jerry Seinfeld. Smothering a growl of annoyance, Melanie turned the knob to lower the window farther.
The knob came off in her palm.
She squeezed her eyes shut and mentally cursed the Dodge in six languages. Pulling herself together, she looked up at Mr. Mercedes. She couldn't see much through the crack in the window, but what she could see didn't scream serial killer. At least he didn't have crazed murderer tattooed on his forehead.
Clearly he was just a tired businessman trying to get home from work. Of course, he seemed irritated, but who could blame him? She was a bit out-of-sorts herself. Deciding her choices were to face Mr. Mercedes or rot in the Dodge, she opened the door. He backed up to give her room to get out.
"Look," Melanie said, standing under his umbrella, trying to keep her impatience under control, "I'm really sorry about this, but now it seems that my car won't. . ."
Her voice trailed off as she got her first good look at Mr. Mercedes. Whoa. Must be a trick of the light and the sheen of the rain. No man could be that gorgeous.
He stood at least six two, and his face looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. All sculpted planes and a firm, square jaw complete with sexy five o'clock shadow. She couldn’t tell exactly what color his eyes were, but even glittering with annoyance they were the sort that could reel a woman in like a fish on a hook.
A stark white dress shirt contrasted with his dark hair and accentuated his broad shoulders. He'd loosened his conservative paisley tie and his shirtsleeves were rolled back, exposing muscular forearms. Gray dress pants hugged his lean hips. Her eyes traveled back up his long length. No doubt about it: The good-looks god had clearly favored this guy. He had to be married. She looked at his left hand. No ring. Probably gay.
"Your car won't what?" he asked, bringing her thoughts back to her present problem.
Melanie snapped her gaze back up to his face. He was scowling at her. "Start," she replied. "My car won't start."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. I don't know much about cars, but I know when one won't start. It growled at me twice then died."
His gaze shifted over her shoulder to look at the Dodge. "Can’t say I’m surprised. It looks like it was time for it to kick the bucket about ten thousand miles ago."
Melanie drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches. "Hey, this car is a classic. It's in perfect condition. Almost. It might not be as fancy as your wheels, but it gets me where I've got to go… or at least it did until a few minutes ago."
"Mind if I give it a try?" he asked. When she hesitated, he looked skyward. "I'm not about to steal your car, okay? I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm soaked from the knees down, and I'd like to get out of here sometime before midnight. Until that piece of… er… your car gets moved, I'm stuck."
Sheesh. What a grouch. And at least he was only wet from the knees down. She was soaked through to her skin. "Be my guest," Melanie said, sweeping her hand in a grand gesture toward the driver's seat.
"Thanks. Here," he said, passing her the umbrella. "Hold this."
He slid into the driver's seat and yelped in pain, pushing up his hips as high as the steering wheel would allow.
"Watch out," Melanie warned. "There're a couple of broken springs in the seat."
He sent her a withering look. "Thanks."
"No problem."
He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. "You said it growled at you?" he asked, looking up at her.
"Twice. Then it died."
"Well, I'd guess that your battery is dead.”
“Story of my life tonight,” she mumbled.
“Do you have jumper cables?"
Melanie shook her head. “'Fraid not."
He muttered something under his breath that Melanie didn't catch, but based on the look on his face, she decided that was probably for the best.
"Maybe the person who's parked in front of you or behind you will show up," she suggested, hoping it was true.
"Based on the day I've had, they've probably gone on vacation and won't be back 'til Christmas." He took a deep breath. "I might as well jump you-- "
"Whoa, buddy. Hold it right there." Melanie backed up several steps. "If you touch me, I'll scream. I've got chicken legs and I'm not afraid to use them."
He stared at her as though she was an escapee from the home for the criminally insane. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"If you think I'll stand here and let you jump me-- "
"Your car. I'll use my jumper cables to jump-start your car."
Melanie’s face heated with embarrassment "Oh. Right. I knew that."
He muttered again and shook his head. "I'll just pop the hood." He slid across the seat, got one leg out of the car and stopped. Melanie stared down at him and waited. He jerked forward a few times but didn't move.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He looked up at her with an unreadable expression. "You said something about broken springs in the seat?"
Melanie nodded. "Yeah. Why?"
"It seems my pants are snagged."
"Snagged?"
"I'm stuck."
"What do you mean?"
He sent her a potent glare. "Which word are you having trouble with-- I'm or stuck?"
"Sheesh. There's no need to be sarcastic."
He wiggled his butt a bit. Melanie could almost hear his teeth grinding together. "Stuck. Caught. Trapped. I can't move."
Melanie shook her head in sympathy. "Bummer. I know just how you feel. Just last week I ruined a skirt because of those darn springs."
He stuck his hand under himself and yelped. "Jesus! Look at this! I'm bleeding!" He withdrew his hand and held up fingers smeared dark red. "I'll probably get tetanus from this rattletrap."
Melanie bent over, grabbed his hand, and peered at it in the dim interior light. Then she sniffed. "Barbecue sauce."
"Excuse me?"
"That isn't blood. It's barbecue sauce. A stray packet from a previous delivery order, no doubt. Here." She reached under the seat and handed him a wad of paper napkins.
He wiped his fingers and gave her a look that was surely meant to incinerate her on the spot. "So, my pants are ripped and stained."
"Seems so."
"Well that’s just perfect."
Melanie considered pointing out to him that the barbecue sauce wasn't doing her upholstery any good, but it didn't seem like something he would appreciate hearing. Instead she said, “I really am sorry about this.”
"Oh. Sure." Melanie rested the umbrella between the open door and the car roof and leaned in across him, trying to see where his pants were caught. "Sorry," she mumbled, pushing her way in. "Gotta crawl over you. Passenger door doesn't open."
Chris stared down with disbelief at the woman sprawled across his lap. Her short skirt was hiked up and barely covered the essentials. Since her backside was practically in his face, he couldn't help but notice the curve of her hips. She had a great butt. At the moment, however, her long, lean legs stuck out the open door, dangling in the rain. He prayed none of his coworkers-- or a cop-- happened by. This definitely did not look good.
Something pinched his rear and he sucked in a breath. “What the hell are you doing to my ass?” he asked, annoyed to be placed in this awkward spot. “This isn’t the time or place to be copping a feel."
She pushed herself up and glared at him. Her head was only inches from his and with the aid of the interior light Chris got his first good look at her face. Her hair was half plastered to her head, half sticking up at crazy angles. She looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electric socket
Her mascara had run, forming black moons under big, expressive, chocolatey-brown eyes that studied him with clear exasperation. She had creamy skin, and a battalion of pale freckles marched across her straight nose. Two deep dimples winked at him from the sides of her lush mouth. Despite his annoyance, his attention lingered there for several seconds.
Forcing his gaze away from her plump lips, he noted her shirt was soaking wet and clung to her like a second skin, clearly outlining soft curves encased in a lacy bra. The words pampered palate were embroidered on the pocket. Recognition clicked. The woman from the elevator. He breathed in. She smelled like fried chicken.
"Listen, you pervert," she said, "I was not copping a feel. I was trying to save your pants."
She was breathing hard, and every time she inhaled her breasts pressed against him and before he could so much as blink his groin tingled and his heart sped up.
He shook his head. Jesus, he must be losing his mind. She looked like a drowned rat and for all he knew she was a lunatic. This woman was nothing but a pain in the ass-- literally. He was simply suffering from malnutrition-induced dementia. Of course he would be affected by a woman who smelled like chicken. It had nothing to do with the curves plastered against him. Not a thing.
Wanting her away from him as soon as possible, he said, "If you'll just move, I'll save my own pants."
She scooted off him, stood and grabbed the umbrella. "Fine. But don't blame me if-- "
The sound of material ripping was unmistakable.
"Uh-oh," she said.
Gritting his teeth, Chris got out of the car. He peered inside and saw a good-sized piece of dark material on the seat. Hoping it wasn't what he suspected, he picked it up, dangling it between his fingers.
Dark wool.
Like from a man's suit. His suit. His brand-new suit.
"Oh, boy. That doesn't look good," she said. "Looks just like my skirt did." She peered around at his backside, then straightened. "Hmmm. I see you're a boxer man."
Chris mentally counted to ten. The sooner he jumped her car, the sooner she'd be on her way, and the sooner he could get home. Without a word, he popped her hood then walked to his car to get the jumper cables. He left the umbrella with her. There wasn't any point in bothering with it—his suit was already ruined. And the rain was tapering off a bit anyway.
She stood under the umbrella and waited while he attached the cables.
"Okay," he said. "Turn the key."
She slid into the car, turned the ignition, and the engine coughed to life. Chris almost jumped for joy. He quickly disconnected the wires from both cars and replaced the cables in his trunk.
"I think that should do it," he said, slamming the Dodge's hood.
"Yes. Thank you very much. I really appreciate the help." She smiled, and those two deep dimples winked at him. "My name's Melanie. Melanie Gibson. But everyone calls me Mel."
His brows shot up. "Your name's Mel Gibson?"
A sheepish grin touched her lips. “Crazy, huh? Since I wasn’t born a boy and couldn’t be named Melvin after my mother’s dad, they gave me Melanie. But just like Grandpa, I’ve always been called Mel. How’s that for luck?”
He couldn’t help but grin in return. “Melanie’s better than Melvin.”
“I suppose. Especially since I’m a girl.”
“So, how’s that name workin’ out for you?”
She laughed. “It wasn’t too bad when the other Mel Gibson was a hot Hollywood commodity, but after he went off the deep end, it was pretty much a pain in the butt. What’s your name?”
He couldn't believe he was standing in the rain talking to a lunatic woman named Mel Gibson. "I'm Peter Pan."
She looked him up and down then shook her head. "I don't think so. Peter Pan wore green tights.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, Groucho-style. "I already know you're wearing white boxer briefs."
In spite of himself, Chris felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. He quickly smothered it. Why the hell did he feel like laughing? He was angry. Inconvenienced. Wet. Hungry. His suit was ruined; probably his shoes, too. Clearly he was deranged from lack of food.
"So, are you going to tell me your name?" she asked. "Don't be shy. Believe me, it can't be worse than mine. No matter how hard I try, no one will call me Melanie."
He held out his hand. "Christopher Bishop. Call me Chris."
She shook his hand, and to his surprise a warm tingle zoomed through him. This woman was so completely not his type, it was laughable. He preferred petite, curvy, blue-eyed blondes. Mel Gibson with the broken-down Dodge was tall, lanky, and dark-eyed. Not to mention a mess.
Yet there was something about her that had all his senses standing at attention. He shook his head. Must be because she smelled like food and the final stages of malnutrition were setting in.
Her look turned serious. "I really am sorry I blocked you in. And about your pants." She reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a card. "If you send the repair bill to me, I'll be happy to pay it."
He took the wet card and studied her closely. Now that home was again fifteen minutes away and the rain had dwindled down to a mere drizzle, his annoyance dissipated. "I doubt they can be repaired, but thanks anyway." He leaned closer and sniffed. "I saw you on the elevator. You smell like fried chicken."
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Wow. Words I've always longed to hear."
He laughed. "I meant, I smelled you in the elevator and ..." His voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Somehow that doesn't sound right, either."
"That's okay. I smelled you in the elevator, too. You smell much better than chicken."
"Not if you're starving." As if on cue his stomach let out a loud growl.
"Well, Christopher-call-me-Chris Bishop, you sound hungry, and I happen to have three hundred bucks' worth of Pampered Palate food in my car. Could I interest you in a meal? As a way of saying thanks?" She smiled. "We make the best fried chicken in Atlanta."
Since he was ready to eat the windshield wipers off the Mercedes, he didn't even consider refusing her offer. "Sounds good."
She handed him the umbrella and leaned into the car, once again affording him a heart-stopping view of her long legs. She straightened and handed him two to-go boxes. "Here you go. Enjoy."
He barely held back a groan at the mouth-watering aroma emanating from the boxes. "Thanks."
"Least I can do. Well, I'd better let you get home to your dinner." She slid into the Dodge and waved to him. He nodded in return and walked to his car.
Melanie clicked her seat belt into place and pushed her wet hair behind her ears, trying not to watch him as he climbed into the Mercedes. Whooooeee. Christopher Bishop was one fine looking specimen.
He wa
s gorgeous when he frowned, but when he'd smiled at her, yikes! His was the sort of smile that made knees go weak and panties fall off. Dry, he was beautiful. But wet? Utterly stupendous. Looking at him, with his dress shirt molded to his muscular arms and chest and his hair combed back by his hands, she got a clear image of what he must look like coming out of the shower. Thank God she wasn't a cartoon character-- her eyes would have bugged out two feet and her tongue would have rolled out onto the ground.
Well, she'd never see him again. Good thing, too. Any guy who looked that good and smelled that good was a hazard to her mental health. She knew firsthand that men who looked like Christopher Bishop couldn't be trusted. Brokenhearted women probably littered the sidewalks around his house. Yup, he had girl in every port written all over him. Been there. Done that. Never again.
She put the Dodge in gear and pulled forward, driving to the end of the curved driveway. The moment her foot touched the brake, the car stalled.
"Oh, no. Not again." She turned the key. Growl, growl, silence. She turned it again. Growl, silence. One more turn. Silence. She looked around her. At least she wasn't completely blocking the driveway. Cars could get around her. She was just contemplating the wisdom of screaming and pulling out her hair when a horn tooted. She looked out her window and saw the Mercedes pull up next to her.
She felt around on the seat for the missing knob then jammed it back on and rolled down the window. Christopher Bishop looked at her from the driver's seat of his car.
"What's wrong?" he called.
"I stalled out."
"There must be something more wrong than the battery," he said, frowning. "Probably faulty spark plugs or a wet distributor cap."
"Oh." Faulty spark plugs. And her thingamabob was wet. Swell.
"I'd try drying it off for you, but there's not much point as long as it's still drizzling."
Melanie muttered an oath that would make Nana blush. Now what? It would seem a call to Nana was in order. She rolled up the window, opened the door, and slid out. No point bothering with the umbrella. The rain was now nothing more than an annoying drip-drip, and she was soaked anyway. And barefoot. She refused to again wonder if this day could get any worse, because clearly it still could.
Kiss the Cook Page 2