A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart

Giggling, Melanie shook his hand as she answered.

“Melanie Stewart, no age and definitely no weight.”

“Okay.” He dragged the word out. “So, Melanie, what’s your favorite food?”

She joined in the game easily enough. Mitch appeared to hold no ill feelings, and she had more than paid him back for his high-handedness.

Besides, she was a little embarrassed at her behavior. Her temper had always been a sore spot. Whenever she lost it, she invariably regretted her lack of control. Maybe she could redeem herself. She focused on the conversation.

“Chinese, especially the vegetables. What’s yours?”

Mitch lounged comfortably beside her, his long legs stretched out. Dark head tipped back, he thought for a few minutes before answering. “Food.”

Melanie frowned. “Pardon?”

“I like just about everything as long as someone else cooks it.” His mouth slanted mockingly as he leered at her. “I can make a mean raspberry punch, though.”

“Oh. Well, good,” Melanie answered lamely, refusing to acknowledge the spark of awareness that flew each time he brushed against her.

It was the heat, she told herself. She should never have remained in the Jacuzzi for so long. The reason she had, of course, was her swimsuit.

It had been a lapse in judgment. She knew that. Her bust was too full and her hips too round to wear something this defining. Nevertheless, the heat was unbearable, and she had to leave. Now!

“Excuse me, I have to get out.” Melanie moved slowly and calmly up the stairs, aware of his eyes on her legs. Once out of the heat, she could draw cooling air into her lungs. She reached for her towel and quickly tugged it over her shoulders, trying to ignore him as he sat there watching her.

“Did I drive you out?” His eyebrows tipped downward.

“Oh, no.” Melanie cinched her towel a little tighter across her shoulders. “I just can’t take the heat.” Her face flooded with pink. She rushed to correct herself.

“Of the pool. I mean, the Jacuzzi. After a few minutes, the heat really gets to me.”

Mitch knew what she meant. The heat was getting to him, too. He could feel it frying his brain to mush as he admired the lovely Melanie.

He’d seen far skimpier suits on many of the local beaches, but nothing that looked as elegantly attractive as this. Mitch decided he much preferred it over the pink uniform she had worn the other day. Her long auburn hair was curling wildly around her shoulders and face, hugging the wide cheekbones and delicately arched brows.

Flushing brightly, Melanie turned her back to him to gather her belongings. As she did, her towel slipped to the floor.

What was wrong with the men in town, he wondered, watching her. The woman was gorgeous, and apparently had brains, too. Yet here she was, spending her evening alone. Idly, he wondered if there was someone special in her life.

Mitch watched her pull on a white terry covering that just grazed her thighs. When the heat began to addle his brain, he moved out of the swirling hot tub to tug on the baggy jogging pants he had tucked into his sports bag. Something was definitely going on between them, he decided, some spark of interest he’d noticed from the first. And despite his best intentions, he was going to investigate the fiery redhead.

“How about going to dinner with me?” The phrasing wasn’t the greatest, he decided, but it was hard to make sense when your brain was the consistency of mashed potatoes.

She was slipping on shorts, and at his question, Melanie stood stock-still, perched like a startled flamingo on one leg. Her tousled hair tumbled around her face, huge green eyes questioning. She had a fresh, clean-scrubbed look he found very attractive.

“I don’t—”

He cut her off before she could refuse.

“Please,” he cajoled, tugging on a shirt. “You would really be doing me a favor.” He tried to look forlorn and alone. “I just moved the last of my stuff in and I can’t possibly do any more hard work today. I deserve a break. Please?”

She looked at him steadily, obviously gauging just how reliable he was. He was surprised himself at how anxious he was to get to know her better.

“All right,” Melanie agreed finally. “But I think you’d better come with me. I agreed to have dinner with my mother tonight.” If she thought she would turn him off by introducing her mother, she had been dead wrong.

“Is she a good cook?” Mitch asked warily, watching her gather her belongings.

“The best. You may need to do a few more laps when you’re finished.”

He looked affronted as he pulled on his clothes. One hand patted his washboard-flat stomach experimentally.

“I could stand to gain a few pounds. You think?” He cocked his head with that little-boy grace she was coming to recognize.

“No comment.” Melanie giggled and went out. “I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

He wasn’t late, but she was there before him, tapping one foot impatiently against the marble floor.

“I wondered if you’d changed your mind,” she murmured, tossing her hair over her shoulders. Melanie stepped through the door and began to stride down the street. Mitch was forced to hurry to keep up with her.

“A woman who’s on time,” he muttered, huffing as he marched beside her. “Who would believe it?”

“Quite a few people, actually. It’s just one of my failings.”

“Why are we running when we could have taken the car?” Mitch panted, half-walking, half-jogging across the street.

“We’re not running, we’re walking. My mother lives only three blocks away. There’s hardly any point in driving. Besides—” she grinned at him pointedly “—it’s good exercise.”

“I prefer swimming.” He breathed, trying to look macho while his lungs burned. To his disgust, Melanie seemed totally unaffected by the speed race.

“Most out-of-shape people do prefer exercise that isn’t weight bearing,” she murmured without losing a step.

“Now just a minute! I am not—” Mitch felt himself collide with the pavement at the same moment his temperature hit boiling. There was a web of stabbing pain radiating from his left knee, and his pants were torn.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said furiously as he stood with some difficulty, pushing her helping hand away. “I’m not going out for dinner looking like this.”

Her green eyes flashed with something he might have thought was sympathy. Except for her next words.

“Mm, lack of coordination, too. Don’t ever take up jogging, Mr. Stewart. You’re not the type.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” he said through clenched teeth as he brushed bits of gravel from his palms. “And I am not uncoordinated! If you didn’t insist on making this the Indy 500…”

“Oh, now it’s my fault! If that isn’t just like a man! Blame it on me because I keep in shape and you don’t. As if I or anyone else could make you exercise more. Men!” She spat the word with a telling glance that relegated him to one of the lower subspecies in the universe.

Mitch smiled grimly.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, limping at a pace that was still far too fast but considerably slower than her former fifty knots. “But I am a man. I wouldn’t have come with you if I had known you hated men.”

“I don’t hate men,” she said in exasperation. “I quite appreciate them.” Her eyes flickered and he wondered if he could call that stretch of her lips a smile. “Some of you are even quite useful.”