LITMIR.BIZ

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lip and frowned. “Come to think of it, I do recall some boy getting hit in the nose with a ball one time. There was no family there to tend to him, and Sophia insisted on us driving him down to the med center in McMinnville. She always was one to look out for the underdog.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Ragamuffin, he was. I was half embarrassed to be seen with him in my minivan. Made you want to take him home and give him a bath, then a haircut. Can you believe the way some children are raised? Eventually the receptionist managed to track someone down and told us we could leave.”

      Sam fidgeted. Where was Red?

      At the height of his discomfort, a door opened down the hall and a dressier, sexier version of Red appeared, smelling flowery.

      He stood. “Wow, Doc. You look great.”

      “Look what he brought you,” said her grandmother. “Gerbera daisies. You can plant them, later.”

      Tentatively, Red fingered a blossom. “Wet nails.” She smiled at him. “Pretty.”

      “Where are you two off to?”

      “Sam’s taking me to The Radish Rose.”

      “Isn’t that nice? Well, be good.”

      On their way to his van, Sam said, “That wasn’t awkward.”

      “What do you mean? Were you uncomfortable?”

      “Like a cow on roller skates. Kept expecting she was going to tell me to have you back by ten.”

      “You’ll be happy to know I have a liberal curfew.”

      “Then again, you are a grown woman with a PhD and her own business.”

      He put the van into reverse and looked in the rearview, catching a glimpse of her legs on the seat next to him where her skirt had slid up when she got in.

      His arm automatically contracted to place his hand on one milky thigh before he remembered the new rules.

      “How was your week?”

      “Busy,” she replied, smoothing her skirt down demurely toward her knees, leaving her hands on her thighs for her nails to dry. “Yours?”

      “Same.”

      A clumsy silence descended. Hard to believe this stiff, wooden couple was the same one who had a penchant for steamy matinées in the great outdoors.

      “Hope you’re hungry.”

      “Starved. I worked later than I intended. The only time this one couple could come in was between five thirty and six thirty. They paid their sitter double to stay late.”

      “Kind of throws a wrench into your day, letting people pick their own hours.”

      “I know. But they have little kids, and if they’re willing to do the work and I can keep their family together…”

      “Lucky for them you’re so willing to adjust your schedule. Hope it works out.”

      Was this the kind of dry conversation Red was looking for?

      After the van, The Radish Rose hummed with energy and movement. They had just got their breadbasket when the hostess led the Bergs past their table. James owned the gas station across the street from the consortium, and Pat worked at the Albertson’s in McMinnville.

      “Dr. McDonald,” exclaimed Pat, touching Red’s shoulder. “Thanks again for seeing Cassadee on such short notice. Those nightmares of hers are keeping the whole house up.”

      Red smiled tightly. “No problem.”

      Did Pat not realize the position she was putting Red in? Not to mention clueing in the whole town that her daughter was in therapy.

      It was at that moment that Pat noticed that Red wasn’t alone.

      “Hello, Sam. How’s the wine business?”

      Sam saluted, silently willing Pat to move along.

      “Hold on,” Pat said, eyeing Red’s fancy top, her hair piled on top of her head. “Are you two on a date?”

      Red lifted a questioning brow at Sam, passing the burden of answering on to him.

      “Everybody’s got to eat,” he said, ripping off a chunk of baguette, slathering butter on it and cramming it into his mouth.

      Red’s brightly painted lips pursed. Then she turned to Pat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we are.”

      “Isn’t that special?” Pat clasped her hands. “James, did you hear that? Dr. McDonald and Sam Owens are dating.”

      “The girl’s waiting,” said her long-suffering husband, pointing with the top of his head to where the hostess stood holding their menus while at the front of the house, a line formed.

      “Whole town’ll know now,” sighed Sam as the Bergs walked away.

      Red perused her menu thoughtfully. When Sam didn’t open his, she asked, “Do you already know what you’re having?”

      “Same thing I always have here. Spaghetti.”

      “Don’t you even want to look to see if something else might catch your eye?”

      “Why should I? They make great spaghetti.”

      “Hm. I hear the seared tuna is good. Or I could get the artisanal cheese quiche.”

      “You could.”

      “Tonight’s special is chicken parm with penne. You know what they say about penne.”

      “Tell me.”

      “It’s the perfect date pasta.”

      “There is such a thing?”

      “Sure. It’s all about the shape of the pasta. Not like spaghetti, where you have to slurp it up and there’s a chance you might splash red sauce on your top.”

      “Who knew? Well, I happen to like spaghetti. I’m willing to live dangerously.”

      When their food came, Sam dug into his spaghetti and meatballs and continued his story of how the website snafu got cleared up.

      “So then I posted the problem on their help forum—”

      Red tapped the corner of her mouth discreetly. Sam assumed that meant he was dragging the story out, so he speeded it up.

      “—and bam, right away, customer service comes back and—”

      She tapped again.

      “What?” He waved his fork in the air.

      “You got red sauce. Right…” She indicated a spot on her own face.

      He wiped at his chin. “Did I get it?”

      “No.”

      He stunk at this dating thing. He wondered if Red was wondering the same thing he was—what they were going to do with themselves after dinner, if sex was off the menu.

      Their server, Liz Greenburn, came back around to ask if they wanted dessert. Last winter, Liz and Heath Sinclair’s dad, Scott, had stunned all of Clarkston by moving in together. Turned out middle aged people weren’t too old for such shenanigans.

      “We have homemade peach pie tonight.”

      Red brightened. “I like pie.”

      Sam slapped closed the menu and handed it back to Liz. “One slice of pie.”

      “Am I supposed to feed it to you?” he asked when it arrived.

      “You’re mixed up. That’s ice cream.” Red cut through the flaky crust into the sweet filling and deposited a bite into her mouth, closing her lips on the fork and drawing it out slowly.

      An erotic feeling stirred in Sam’s center.

      “Besides,”

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