Stick Shift

Dear Reader,

About three years ago, when I was living in Irvine, California, I accepted a job at a high-tech company in San Diego, about one hundred miles away. I worked twelve hours on my first day, and for almost three months afterward I never had a day off. During that time I became a regular at the local hotels and motels, courtesy of my new employer. At one point, when I had stayed in San Diego longer than anticipated, I was stuck wearing the same outfit for three straight days. My company generously provided me with its very own top-of-the-line logo clothing: two blouses and an oversize sweatshirt.

When the chip finally taped out, the project team was treated to lunch at a trendy beachfront restaurant. I hitched a ride back to work with my boss in his black Lamborghini. And as the world sped by me, the idea for Stick Shift was born.

This is my first book, and I’m thrilled to be a part of the FLIPSIDE series. I so look forward to writing many more, because I now have the time—I don’t have that twelve-hours-a-day job anymore, and just between you and me, I burned the logo clothing.

Best wishes!

Mary Leo

“This food should not be fed to a dog!” the deep voice growled beside her

It had been a miserable transatlantic flight, and now Mr. Charming Italian—who smelled deliciously of garlic—wanted to complain about his breakfast. He might be gorgeous, but Lucy wished he would just shut up.

Actually, she thought her tiny omelette du jour, filled with some kind of unrecognizable cheeselike substance, was rather tasty.

“How you eat that? It’s not food. It’s plastic.”

Despite herself, Lucy had to answer him. “I think it’s wonderful! Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

He made a dismissive gesture and called for an attendant.

Lucy continued to enjoy her breakfast, making little yummy sounds as she chewed. Though parts of the omelette were beginning to taste like dishwater, she’d never say so out loud.

“Take this away. I should eat my shoe rather than smell what you call an omelette,” he said to the male flight attendant. “Look,” he continued as he pulled off his black leather sandal and everyone turned to watch, even Lucy. “My shoe tastes better.” He took a bite.

Ironically, part of his sandal came off in his mouth. Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. Mr. Garlic was actually chewing his shoe.

Stick Shift

Mary Leo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stick Shift is Mary Leo’s debut novel. She's had careers as a salesgirl in Chicago, a cocktail waitress and keno runner in Las Vegas, a bartender in Silicon Valley and a production assistant in Hollywood. She has recently given up her career as an IC layout engineer to pursue her constant passion: writing romance.

Mary now lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and new puppy.

To my provocative husband, my three incredible children, RWASD, WA, Kathryn Lye, Janet Wellington and the hardworking women in electronics

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

1

LOVE WAS highly overrated, Lucy Mastronardo thought as she yawned and set her alarm clock for 5:00 a.m. All that spooning and mooning crap was for romance novels and love songs, not for real life.

She had always dreamed of the logical mate: a man who had the same goals as she did, a man who found happiness in schedule and conformity, a man who planned out every detail of his life, their life, a man who happily sent her off to another continent a week before their wedding because it was “good for your career.”

Yes, she could sleep quite soundly knowing that computers made the world go round, not love.

BY THE TIME Lucy awoke at six, having managed to sleep right through the alarm clock’s annoying buzz, she was already running late.

The drive on Interstate 280 out of San Jose, California was not what she had expected. Normally, on a Sunday morning it was an empty freeway, but there had been two minor accidents, turning the quick forty-five-minute jaunt into a tedious hour-and-a-half drive.

Then, as if that wasn’t frustrating enough, she needed to call her mother to tell her where she was going and why. But the thought of talking to her mother while she tried to maneuver a crowded freeway gave her an immediate stomachache. She decided to put the call off until later, way later, when she was stationary and had some control over her emotions. If she phoned now, she would probably end up causing accident number three and totally miss her flight. Definitely not an option.

Parking at San Francisco airport should have been a snap, but, of course, she had to circle and circle and circle the lot some more, driving up one aisle and down another, until she ended up following a middle-aged man and his white standard-sized poodle through the maze of cars as though she was on stalking detail for the FBI.

When the poodle-man finally found his vehicle, he messed around inside playing with his dog until Lucy was ready to get out and slug him.

Finally, she tapped her horn.

He turned around to look at her.

The poodle turned around to look at her.

They both gave her the evil eye before he drove away.

Fine, she thought, I’m starting my trip out with a curse from a guy and his dog.

The scene inside the airport wasn’t any better. From the moment she rolled her suitcase onto the speckled high-grade linoleum, it had been a test of will. Long lines choked the airport, turning the whole travel experience into a nightmare journey.

Fortunately, Alitalia’s line seemed to be shorter than the others, which was a good thing, considering she had less than an hour to board her flight to Rome.

While she stood in line with the hundreds of other harried souls in the crowded airport, trifling with the prospect of making that phone call to her mother, and once again deciding to do it later, a young girl in some kind of blue uniform handed out cookies from a silver tray. Like a cookie was somehow going to sooth nerves and make the wait a more pleasurable experience. On the other hand, Lucy mused, if cookie-girl were handing out day-long passes to a spa or vouchers for free housekeeping, now that would most definitely turn this wait into something worth waiting for.

Silly thoughts made the time pass quickly and after Lucy got her prized boarding pass, she had to sprint to the gate, nearly knocking down a few people along the way, until she caught up to a guy who stood in front of her on the moving walkway. He wouldn’t step to the right so she could get around him. An annoying guy, with a Giorgio Armani black suede jacket slung over his shoulder, carrying a totally “now” Louis Vuitton brown bag, wearing obviously Italian sandals. The man was an ad for high fashion, who remained ahead of her right before the X-ray line.

He took forever to put his things up on the conveyor belt, as if each item were something sacred, something precious.

Lucy thought about going to the other line, but it was even longer. She wondered why she had hesitated. Why she had stayed to watch when she was in such a hurry. She drew in a deep breath while leaning slightly forward and immediately knew the answer. It was his scent of garlic, not the kind that repelled, but the fresh kind. The aroma that permeates the air when you cut into a really sweet clove.

He went to the tray and removed a small ladle from his shirt pocket, a few dollar bills from another, a garlic press and a head of garlic from his jacket. The security guard immediately confiscated the garlic press.

Lucy stood right next to him while he emptied his pants pockets of change, car keys, a silver money-clip, a clump of fresh basil and a handful of pistachios.

After he finally walked through without a beep or a buzz, and the guards were satisfied that a garlic press couldn’t be used as a weapon, he stuffed everything back into his pockets, one item at a time. She never got a good look at him because he never quite turned around, but it didn’t matter. It was the familiar scent that had lured her—garlic, the scent of romantic dinners and passionate love.

Seth, her fiancé and soon-to-be husband, was allergic to garlic. It gave him diarrhea and cramps.

Frustrated with the whole spice adventure, Lucy flew past Garlic Man without so much as a question from the guards or a beep from the metal detector; she had been very careful packing.

Suddenly, there was less than ten minutes to catch her flight. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Garlic’s scent, and the fact that he looked oh-so-sweet from behind, she would have pushed him aside and yelled out her annoyance. Garlic mixed with a little basil were foods she had learned to live without. Like onions, all they did was give you bad breath and indigestion. But for a moment, a twinkle in time, she had enjoyed the ambiance.

She ran the rest of the way. Fortunately, the boarding gate wasn’t very far. Her momentary foolishness about a common herb had almost cost her the flight. She and someone running up behind her were the last two people to board the plane.

Lucy found her row and sat next to the window. Just as she secured her seatbelt and let out an I-made-it sigh, the Italian Garlic Show walked up, boarding pass in hand.

Before she had time to react to the amazing coincidence he said, “Scusi, signorina, but you are in my seat.”

She turned. “I don’t think so,” Lucy said, annoyed. “I always sit next to the window.”

“Yes. It helps from getting nauseous,” he said, standing in the aisle, looking down on her.

“No. I don’t get sick. I just like the view.”

“And what a beautiful view it is,” he said, obviously flirting.

She blushed and pulled out her ticket. Sure enough, she was in the wrong seat. “I’m sorry. I just assumed—”

“An easy mistake,” he said and just stood there. Waiting.

She waited, thinking he would be the gentleman and tell her to stay where she was.

He didn’t.

“Please take your seats,” a male flight attendant said.

Mr. Garlic smiled.

Lucy smiled, but no one moved.

“Is there a problem?” the attendant asked.

“No. No problem,” Lucy said.

“We’ll be taking off shortly. Please be seated,” the attendant repeated.

“Certainly,” Mr. Garlic said, smiling. But he didn’t budge.

Finally, Lucy gave in with a huff. She gathered her belongings and moved out of the row.

“Grazie,” he said and climbed into his victory, sliding his bag under the seat in front of him and draping his jacket around his shoulders, then carefully fastening his seatbelt.

When he finally settled down, he turned and threw Lucy a contented smile, as if he wanted to start up a conversation on the virtues of correct seating or something.

She was so not in the mood for his smiling chatter.

Instead, she decided to ignore him for the rest of the trip. If she wanted to look out of the window she would gaze out of the opposite one. However, there were three rather large people sitting across the aisle from her, entirely blocking any hopes of seeing anything.

Fine, she thought. I’ll just work and sleep. I have a lot to do to prepare for my meeting. I don’t need a view.

But a curious thing happened once she strapped herself in and the plane shook with its thrust down the runway. Despite her circumstances and the weirdo sitting next to her, instead of apprehension and her usual flight-fright, Lucy felt excitement.

Joy, even.

What was that about? She blamed her lack of appropriate apprehensions on the sleeping pill she’d taken the night before and settled in with the latest copy of Complete Woman, turning to the article entitled, “Rule Your World: 10 Ways to Get Control When Life Feels Wacko.”

2

“THIS FOOD should not be fed to a dog!” the deep voice beside her growled.

It had been a miserable, turbulent flight so far and now Garlic Guy wanted to complain about his breakfast. Lucy wished he would just shut up.

Actually, she thought her tiny omelette du jour, filled with some kind of unrecognizable cheese-like substance, was rather tasty.

She didn’t want to even look at him, even give him the slightest indication she recognized his presence, but he poked her in the arm to get her attention.

“How you eat that? It’s not food. It’s plastic. That’s what it is, plastic food.”

Despite herself, Lucy had to answer. “I think it’s wonderful! Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

He made a dismissive gesture, and called for an attendant.

Lucy continued to enjoy her breakfast, making little yummy sounds as she chewed. She had to admit there were parts of the omelette that tasted like dishwater, but she would never say it out loud.

“Take this away. I should eat my shoe rather than smell what you call an omelette,” Garlic Guy said to the male flight attendant who stood in the aisle. “Look,” he continued as he pulled off his black leather sandal. Everybody around him turned to watch, even Lucy. “This shoe, my shoe, tastes better.” He took a bite.

Ironically, part of his sandal came off in his mouth. Lucy sat there, gawking. The flight attendant, a tall Harry Potter look-alike, stood spellbound, until some kid said, “Gross!”

Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. Mr. Garlic was actually chewing his own shoe.

Disgusting.

Fine, she thought, I’m destined to be tormented by this shoe-eating, garlic-toting idiot. I must have done something bad in a past life, or the current one, and he’s my punishment.

VITTORIO had to admit he amazed himself when a piece of leather came off in his mouth. He never actually meant to eat his own shoe, but there it was, sliding around, mixing with saliva, breaking into pieces. The taste was rather interesting, certainly better than the omelette. Would he actually swallow?

But the girl next to him was waiting. Watching. So, he swallowed. And just like that, Vittorio Bandini had eaten a piece of his own shoe.

“It is good,” he said, beaming.

“I’ll need you to calm down, sir. And if you want to eat your shoe, please wait until the plane has landed,” the attendant said as he removed the offending breakfast tray.

Vittorio put his shoe back on his foot, a concession he went along with because the leather had immediately upset his stomach. And if he didn’t relax he would vomit all over the pretty, brown-eyed beauty sitting next to him.

She was the type of girl Vittorio was attracted to, the type of girl who made his heart race; a beautiful, brown-haired Penelope Cruz type. His dream girl. He would not vomit on his dream girl.

He refused to believe it was the leather, the fine Italian leather, that made him sick, so he blamed it on the foul-smelling breakfast instead. The rotten eggs kept him from making a move on the Madonna next to him, not the shoe leather.

Vittorio unstrapped his seatbelt, pushed himself up from his seat, and stepped over the Madonna, squishing her toe as he climbed out.

“So sorry, signorina,” he mumbled about a dozen times. She shot him a nasty, pained look and he headed up the aisle toward the toilets.

Never again, Vittorio thought as his stomach churned and flipped. Never again would he eat shoe leather, even if it was Italian.

LIMPING UP the aisle, Lucy found another seat a few rows away from the shoe eater. She wondered what the hell was wrong with her? Why was she being so silly? Who makes yummy sounds over airplane food?

She couldn’t come up with an answer.

A young kid in the aisle seat concentrating on his electronic game paid absolutely no attention to Lucy as she crawled over him. He was the perfect traveling companion. She could do anything she wanted and he would never notice.

She popped a couple of Tums, tucked her sore foot up next to her butt and detached the phone in the seat ahead, to call Seth.

When he didn’t answer, she left a long-winded message about work and obligation and how much she missed him already and not to worry. She would be back in plenty of time for the wedding.

Their wedding…in exactly six days from that very moment. The vision made her smile: a church filled with family and friends, her dad walking her down the aisle, her white dress (the one her mother made her get…the one that looked like an exploded marshmallow, but she wasn’t going to dwell on negatives) shimmering in the sunlight that beamed in through the windows and fell on Seth’s face…dear Seth…dear, sweet Seth.

Okay, so he wasn’t exactly a “dear” or “sweet” kind of guy. He was more the logical Dilbert kind, who was absolutely perfect for her, if she overlooked his funky sex-only-on-Friday-night habit, and the fact that at twenty-seven she had never had an actual orgasm with him or any other guy for that matter, and the fact that he was obsessed with their careers in electronics.

Actually, she thought he was a lot like her dad—also a design engineer, who promoted working long hours and giving up personal time for the job. The dad-clone-thing traits were just what a girl wanted in a fiancé.

Weren’t they?

She dialed Seth’s cell phone this time, thinking she needed to apologize for last Friday night. She hadn’t been in the mood. “But it’s Friday. Sexday,” Seth had said, almost whining. Like, Saturday was actually Laundryday, and Sunday, Groceryday. Seth had worked out a daily schedule for his life, their life, but for some reason, lately, Lucy wasn’t able to keep up.

A perky blond flight attendant with a pasted-on smile interrupted the apology-call to offer her a cup of coffee.

Lucy snapped the phone into its holder.

“No, thanks,” Lucy said, thinking perhaps she’d make the call later, once she was settled in her room, once she could come up with a logical reason why packing had seemed like a better alternative to Sexday.

The shoe eater stood in the aisle directly behind the attendant, looking rather ill. He wasn’t particularly handsome, his nose was a little too long, his hair too shiny-black for his light olive skin, and he had the strangest colored eyes, some sort of a brown-hazel-green combination.

She couldn’t imagine what all the fuss had been about. Why she had to move in closer when she stood behind him in line. Why she had to watch him as he ate his shoe, or felt the need to tell him about her breakfast. He was just your typical, ordinary, unexceptional quirky guy.

Then he smiled. Smiled right at her.

A mischievous grin that required a return gesture. It was a natural reaction. A reflex. A totally spontaneous occurrence that gave her goose bumps and made her toes itch. The guy was so utterly charismatic. So completely awesome that she had no choice but to return his beam. With that smile, he looked like the type of guy who could have a hot babe draped on each arm.

Cufflinks, Sinatra used to say.

She smiled right back at him, a wide, toothy Julia Roberts grin.

Don’t stare, she told herself as he tried to make his way past the attendant, but Lucy was powerless. There was something about him.

Something in the way he moved.

She noticed his hands first, the long fingers with the manicured nails that grabbed at the backs of the seats for balance as the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. She wondered what they would feel like against her skin—soft and smooth or rough with calluses?

She liked the way his deep-green sweater clung to his trim body. Liked the way it made his skin seem to glisten. She even liked the way he wore his hair, cropped short, almost old-Roman style, but with skinny sideburns.

A great look, she thought. Seductive.

Lucy continued to stare as he walked right past her without a word. Without so much as a nod of recognition, as though he had been smiling at air.

She sighed and turned toward the window. Bright blue. Miles and miles of bright blue. As if the plane wasn’t moving at all. As if she were caught in a blue capsule, suspended in the middle of forever. The thought made her stomach roll as she searched inside her purse for a tranquilizer.

AS IT TURNED OUT, the shoe leather settled nicely inside Vittorio’s stomach and the walk to the toilets cleared away any lingering nausea. Perhaps it wasn’t the walk at all, Vittorio thought, but the bella signorina staring up at him. The girl he had been sitting next to, wearing a beautiful white pant suit with her shoulders wrapped in a red scarf. Now that he had dared to get a good look at her, he never wanted to look at another. Que bella!

He could not leave the airplane without officially meeting her.

By the time he decided to turn around with his new mission, a serving cart blocked any hope he had of meeting the beauty in red.

Attendants busied themselves with morning liquids, forcing him to wait.

Vittorio had come from Italia to San Francisco to attend a culinary conference at the Masconi Convention Center. Ever since he was a young boy, he had wanted to see San Francisco. It was only in the last year, when his small restaurant in Napoli had become a hit, that he could afford the trip. La Bella Note was a huge success due to Vittorio’s scrumptious recipes.

The conference had proved to be disappointing for Vittorio. He’d thought he would learn something new, something exciting, but instead he had taught the teachers. One man, who called himself an Italian chef, tried to make a pistachio pesto with nuts that came from North Carolina.

Vittorio didn’t exactly know where North Carolina was located in the United States, but he did know it wasn’t anywhere near Sicily. Anyone who called himself an Italian chef would know there were no other pistachios in the entire world to compare with the flavor of the Sicilian pistachio. Its silky herbal oil, and its vibrant green color exuded an incomparable flavor experience. Vittorio had brought a bag with him and had remade the pesto sauce for the ricotta ravioli. The chef couldn’t believe the difference in taste and invited Vittorio to cook with him on his TV show the next time he came to America.

But it would probably never happen because Vittorio hated to fly. To him, it was like being trapped inside a moving tin can without any room for mingling.

It amazed him that people flew so often they actually accumulated enough miles to fly for free. A car was better, or a ship. At least he could meet people along the way, and meeting people, especially women, was something Vittorio made a career of, like the Madonna sitting alone in the last row of the plane.