coffee cup and stared at the delicate flowers painted around its base. "He doesn't like kids, Jonesy. I may lust after a man who doesn't like kids, but I could never love one."
* * *
Kent sat in the car and watched rain course down the windshield. He was thirty feet from the door of the club, but he couldn't make himself open the car door.
And what the hell had made him drive right past Beachline and land on Rosie's doorstep? He might as well have been on autopilot. That bit about his misplacing his phone was a crock. He'd wanted to see her. Had to see her. It was as simple as that.
Not simple at all.
The woman was a fertility goddess in training. He shuddered. Kids. She wanted kids, a whole scout troop of them. And she'd used them like garlic on vampire to ward him off. He admitted she'd been fair—and right. So why had he spent the whole weekend thinking about her? He had no intention of overworking a stork. They were about ten kids apart and would probably stay that way.
Unless...
Marlene rapped on the window. He opened it, and the damp air invaded the car like a sodden wind. "Kent, what are you doing sitting out here? Are you okay?"
She peered at him from under a huge golf umbrella. "Yeah, just thinking." And working up a Machiavellian plot to change a certain lady's mind about a bearing a child for every sign in the zodiac. He'd be doing her a favor. One good look at her "plan" in living, breathing color, and she'd backtrack faster than a tourist faced with a grizzly.
Marlene stepped back and he opened the door.
"Packard's waiting. He's threatening to walk off the project if you initiate the penalty clause."
She lifted the umbrella to accomodate his height, and he stepped under. "Let's go." He took Marlene's arm and headed for the door. Packard he could handle. Rosie he wasn't so sure of.
The meeting with Packard took less than half an hour, ending with the man's agreement to add more manpower and swallow some overtime costs. If he kept to his word, everything would be smooth sailing from here on in.
When he got back to his office, the first thing he did was rifle through his mail. Nothing from the mysterious Gardenia. And for the first time, he was disappointed.
He wasn't disappointed by his phone messages. Rosie had called. He picked up the phone and hammered in her number.
"Rosie?"
"Hey, Summerton, I just wanted to say thanks for the home remedy. It helped. I'm feeling better."
"I'm glad."
"In fact I felt good enough to crack open the Beachline manual. I've already got some questions and was wondering if I could call your pro shop. That's who manages tee times, right?"
"Right. But I'm sure I can answer most of them. Try me."
"Actually, I'd rather talk to the golf pro and the people who deal with the golfers on a day-to-day basis. If that's okay?"
"Sure, I'll let them know you'll be calling." He paused. "You know, it would be a good idea if you met the people here, got a feel for the place. Why don't I pick you up tomorrow—say around eleven. After you've made the rounds, I'll take you to lunch."
For a moment she was silent.
"Strictly business, right?" she said.
"Absolutely. You think I want to get myself tangled up with a woman who plans to spend the rest of her life in a delivery room?"
Another brief pause. "No. I don't think you do. Eleven will be fine."
He hung up, feeling smug. The plan— his plan—was in motion.
* * *
Rosie shoved a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear and watched Kent turn into her driveway. Font imitated a growl and glanced up at her. When she shook her head to tell him that guard dog duty wasn't called for, he lined up his gaze to match hers. Together they watched Kent Summerton drive the gravel path to the house, the sunlight bouncing off the polish of his high-powered car.
She waved and ignored the wobble in her knees, the rubbery muscles in her calves.
The car crunched up to the bottom step, and she started down.
"Are you always so prompt?" she asked,
* * *
Kent sat in the car and watched rain course down the windshield. He was thirty feet from the door of the club, but he couldn't make himself open the car door.
And what the hell had made him drive right past Beachline and land on Rosie's doorstep? He might as well have been on autopilot. That bit about his misplacing his phone was a crock. He'd wanted to see her. Had to see her. It was as simple as that.
Not simple at all.
The woman was a fertility goddess in training. He shuddered. Kids. She wanted kids, a whole scout troop of them. And she'd used them like garlic on vampire to ward him off. He admitted she'd been fair—and right. So why had he spent the whole weekend thinking about her? He had no intention of overworking a stork. They were about ten kids apart and would probably stay that way.
Unless...
Marlene rapped on the window. He opened it, and the damp air invaded the car like a sodden wind. "Kent, what are you doing sitting out here? Are you okay?"
She peered at him from under a huge golf umbrella. "Yeah, just thinking." And working up a Machiavellian plot to change a certain lady's mind about a bearing a child for every sign in the zodiac. He'd be doing her a favor. One good look at her "plan" in living, breathing color, and she'd backtrack faster than a tourist faced with a grizzly.
Marlene stepped back and he opened the door.
"Packard's waiting. He's threatening to walk off the project if you initiate the penalty clause."
She lifted the umbrella to accomodate his height, and he stepped under. "Let's go." He took Marlene's arm and headed for the door. Packard he could handle. Rosie he wasn't so sure of.
The meeting with Packard took less than half an hour, ending with the man's agreement to add more manpower and swallow some overtime costs. If he kept to his word, everything would be smooth sailing from here on in.
When he got back to his office, the first thing he did was rifle through his mail. Nothing from the mysterious Gardenia. And for the first time, he was disappointed.
He wasn't disappointed by his phone messages. Rosie had called. He picked up the phone and hammered in her number.
"Rosie?"
"Hey, Summerton, I just wanted to say thanks for the home remedy. It helped. I'm feeling better."
"I'm glad."
"In fact I felt good enough to crack open the Beachline manual. I've already got some questions and was wondering if I could call your pro shop. That's who manages tee times, right?"
"Right. But I'm sure I can answer most of them. Try me."
"Actually, I'd rather talk to the golf pro and the people who deal with the golfers on a day-to-day basis. If that's okay?"
"Sure, I'll let them know you'll be calling." He paused. "You know, it would be a good idea if you met the people here, got a feel for the place. Why don't I pick you up tomorrow—say around eleven. After you've made the rounds, I'll take you to lunch."
For a moment she was silent.
"Strictly business, right?" she said.
"Absolutely. You think I want to get myself tangled up with a woman who plans to spend the rest of her life in a delivery room?"
Another brief pause. "No. I don't think you do. Eleven will be fine."
He hung up, feeling smug. The plan— his plan—was in motion.
* * *
Rosie shoved a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear and watched Kent turn into her driveway. Font imitated a growl and glanced up at her. When she shook her head to tell him that guard dog duty wasn't called for, he lined up his gaze to match hers. Together they watched Kent Summerton drive the gravel path to the house, the sunlight bouncing off the polish of his high-powered car.
She waved and ignored the wobble in her knees, the rubbery muscles in her calves.
The car crunched up to the bottom step, and she started down.
"Are you always so prompt?" she asked,
Similar Books
