Man In A Million

Paris glanced at her sister. “How do you know that?”

“Mariah knows him. He works for Whitcomb’s Wonders, you know. He’s on a janitorial crew that services her husband’s building. Randy and his fiancée had been through medical school together and were interning in the same hospital when she got cancer.”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. What did you think of him?”

That was hard to simplify into words. He was handsome, annoying but oddly appealing, a little bossy, yet seemingly concerned for her welfare. She didn’t know how she felt about him—just that an image of him lingered in her mind.

“Um…” She shrugged again, trying to minimize his impact on her. “Nice-looking, thinks he knows everything, tries to be charming. You know, typical guy.”

“I don’t think he’s very typical. Mariah says she saw him save a man’s life at the gym. The man collapsed on a treadmill, wasn’t breathing, and he brought him back. The ER doctor said he wouldn’t have made it if Randy hadn’t been there. I know it’s what he’s trained to do, but Mariah thought it was pretty amazing close-up.”

Paris could imagine that that was where his confidence came from. Saving a life was pretty big stuff.

“About the wallet…” She tried to divert the conversation.

“I’ll get it. But you can search for information about your father,” Prue insisted, “and still get to know Randy.”

Paris pulled into the driveway of their home and left the motor running, turning to her sister with a firm expression. “If you pressure me and cause me stress,” she warned, “I’m liable to turn to chocolate. And if you expect me to wear that red wool thing you showed me the sketch of the other day…”

“All right, all right,” Prue said defeatedly. “I just think if you’re presented with the gift of a nice guy with romance on his mind, you should take it. But what do I know? Thanks for the lift. I’ll take over for you at four.”

“Six,” Paris corrected. “Have a good dinner, be sure to fix yourself a thermos of coffee, and I’ll turn the cab over to you. If you promise you’ll keep in touch throughout the night.”

“I promise.”

“All right. See you at six.”

“Do I get to say ten-four?”

“No.”

CHILLY HAD ALREADY GONE home to his wife, and Randy had finished restocking their vehicle and was in the office, checking out, when he noticed the leather wallet with the broken chain still sitting on Kitty’s desk. There was no note on it to indicate that Kitty had spoken to its owner, a procedure she usually followed when something was left in an ambulance.

Randy opened it, consulted the business card inside the flap and dialed the number. He would show Paris O’Hara that he could be businesslike even if she couldn’t.

A familiar voice answered. “Miss O’Hara?” he asked.

“Ah…used to be,” the voice replied. “Now I’m Mrs. Hale. Actually, that’s not quite right because I used to be that, too. But I’m not anymore.”

Good grief. Her sister? Did everyone in her family think everything to death?

“Berkshire Cab?” He tried another tack.

“Yes,” the voice replied. “Always Safe, Always Friendly.” She recited the slogan on the business card. “Can I pick you up?”

Now, there was a line a man liked to hear. Well, most men did. With his determination to have relationships on his terms, he had to be selective.

God, he was sounding just like the O’Hara sisters.

“I’m calling from the Maple Hill Fire Station,” he said. “We have your wallet.”

“Aah.” There was something speculative in the quiet way she drew out the word. “Randy Sanford?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“My sister asked me to pick it up, but I’ve been busy since I came on. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

He met her in the driveway so that she wouldn’t have to get out of the cab. But she seemed to want to. She leaped out from behind the wheel and offered her hand with a warm smile.

“Prudence O’Hara Hale,” she said as he shook her hand. “I guess if I just use both names, I don’t have to explain as much.” She laughed over her earlier dithering.

“You don’t have to explain at all,” he said, handing her the wallet. “I’m just a stranger, trying to return something your sister dropped.”

“Ah, but you’re not a stranger at all,” she corrected him, accepting the wallet. “Thank you. Addy makes you sound like a cross between George Clooney and the surgeon general.”

He had to laugh at that. Addy was enthusiastic about her matchmaking avocation.

“I suppose my sister came on all cool and distant,” Prudence guessed, opening the wallet and peering inside.

“She did,” he agreed.

She glanced up at him. “She’s really not like that at all. She’s usually very warm and open, but she’s got a crisis going at the moment.”

He nodded. “Don’t we all.”

“I’m sorry about your fiancée,” she said without warning. It always unsettled him when someone brought it up when he wasn’t expecting it. Often conversations led that way and he was prepared. But sometimes he wasn’t.

“Thank you,” he replied, wondering where she’d learned that information. Addy?

“Mariah Trent is a friend of mine, too,” she explained. “She’s also hoping you and Paris give each other a chance.”

“Your sister was pretty adamant that she wasn’t interested.”

“She lied,” Prue said as though completely convinced that was true. “She was a little flustered after she left here. Paris is never flustered.”

“Really.”

“Yes. She thought you were handsome and charming. She tried not to make it sound as though those were good things, but I think they made an impact on her. And she’s trying to ignore it because she’s struggling right now.”

He wasn’t sure if it was okay to ask what she was struggling with. Then deciding honesty had always served him better than calculation, he asked, “A man?”

She smiled, but there was curiously little humor in it. “Yes, but not in the way you’d think. She could use a friend. Sometimes a man understands what a devoted mother and sister just don’t get.”

That was cryptic. He wasn’t really into mysterious women. He liked them openhearted and easy to understand. Still, this woman was warm yet distant—a contradiction in terms. There was that scientific element that fascinated him despite his usual preferences to the contrary.

“You didn’t eat the chocolate,” Prue noted, closing the wallet.