The Single Dad's Second Chance

“Did you at least have a ring?” Rachel asked, as she dipped her fork into the slice of chocolate-raspberry cake that had been set in front of her.

“No. We went to get one the next day.” He realized, as he shared the details with Rachel, that it no longer hurt so much to remember the special moments he and Nina had spent together. He’d grieved for his wife for a long time after her quick and unexpected death, but he’d finally accepted that she was gone—that it was time to move on with his life without her.

“I hate being alone on Valentine’s Day,” Rachel admitted. “But it must be even harder for you—to have found the one person you expected to share your life with, and then lose her.”

He shrugged. “Being alone on Valentine’s Day isn’t really any different from the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.”

She considered this as she took another sip of her wine, then shook her head. “Logically, I know that’s true. And I’m generally satisfied with my own company. But somehow, on February 14, being single is suddenly spelled A-L-O-N-E, all in capital letters.

“I blame the greeting card companies,” she continued. “And the jewelers and chocolate shops—”

“And the florists,” he interjected dryly.

She smiled again. “I’m well aware of the hypocrisy. I’m also grateful that the shop keeps me busy so I don’t have a lot of time to think about it. But when I lock the door behind the last customer, there’s a strange sense of emptiness.” She shook her head, as if to shake off the negative thought. “And I just filled that emptiness with too much pasta and bread.”

“So let’s do something,” Andrew suggested impulsively.

She blinked. “What?”

“That was the advice my mother always gave me,” he told her. “Don’t stew, do.”

“Sounds like good advice.”

“Are you up for it?” he challenged.

She eyed him with a combination of curiosity and wariness. “I guess that depends on what ‘it’ is.”

He just smiled and called for the check.

* * *

Rachel wasn’t in the habit of getting into a car with a man she barely knew, especially not heading off to a destination unknown. But Andrew insisted that he wanted to surprise her, and she figured she was safe with him because Gemma and Tony knew him and they knew she was leaving the restaurant with him.

A development that had Gemma’s brows rising in silent question when she told her of the plan. Rachel had answered with a shake of her head, warning her friend not to make a big deal out of something that wasn’t. She only hoped that she could follow the same advice.

But as he drove toward Ridgemount, she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Andrew Garrett—aka Sexy White Roses Guy—was no longer married. And while she understood that his legal status had changed, the fact that he continued to wear his wedding band on his finger confirmed he was still emotionally unavailable.

And that was okay, because she wasn’t looking for a relationship. She had no intention of ending her sixteen-month dating hiatus simply because she was in the company of a really hot guy who made her heart pound and her blood hum.

Because somewhere along the line—no doubt when her heart was still bruised over her breakup with Eric—she’d developed a bit of a crush on Andrew Garrett. Her feelings had been fueled, at least in part, by his obvious love for and commitment to his wife. Every time he’d come into the shop, she’d looked at him as proof that there really were good guys in the world. And because she’d believed he was married, she’d been confident that the attraction she felt would never be anything more than an innocent infatuation.

Now that she knew he was widowed, she was afraid that crush might develop into something more. She wasn’t looking for anything more, and yet she’d accepted his cryptic challenge. After a brief tussle over the bill—which Gemma settled by refusing to take money from either one of them—she’d chosen to spend time with him rather than go home alone. And after a ten-hour day that left her mentally and physically exhausted, she was a little worried about what that meant.

“Here we are,” he said.

Rachel stared at the blinking neon that spelled out Ridgemount Lanes with two crossed pins and a ball between the words.

Apparently “it” was bowling.

He pulled into a parking space and unfastened his seat belt. She didn’t move.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she told him.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t remember the last time I was bowling.” She considered for a minute, her brow furrowed. “Actually, I think it might have been way back in high school.”

“How far back is ‘way back’?”

“I graduated ten years ago.”

“Which means that you’re about...twenty-eight?”

Her gaze narrowed. “And you’re sneaky.”

“Am I right?”

“I’ll be twenty-eight at the end of July,” she admitted. “How long ago did you graduate high school?”

His smile was wry. “Before you started.”

“Another reason we should reconsider this,” Rachel told him. “The physical activity might be too strenuous for a man of such advanced age.”

“I can handle it if you can,” he assured her.

She unfastened her belt.

Before she could reach for the handle of her door, he was there, opening it for her. She followed him through sliding glass panels that parted automatically in response to their approach and was immediately assaulted by unfamiliar noises and scents. The thunk of heavy balls dropping onto wood; the crash of pins knocking against each other and toppling over, punctuated by an occasional whoop or muttered curse; the smell of lemon polish and French fry grease with a hint of stale sweat.

There were thirty-two lanes, and Rachel was surprised to note that almost half of them were occupied. There were several teams in coordinated shirts that identified them as part of a league, a few groups of teens and several older couples. But the bigger surprise was the discovery of Valentine’s decorations hanging from the ceiling: cutouts of cupids’ silhouettes and foil hearts, and bouquets of helium-filled heart-shaped balloons at every scoring console.

“So much for forgetting it’s February 14,” Rachel noted, as she followed Andrew to the counter.

His only response was to ask, “Shoe size?”

“Eight.”

The man behind the counter—whose name tag identified him as Grover—had three days’ growth of beard, red-rimmed eyes and wore a T-shirt that barely stretched to cover his protruding belly with the inscription: Real Bowlers Play With Their Own Balls. The image effectively killed any romantic ambience and made Rachel feel a lot better about this outing.

“Welcome to Ridgemount Lanes,” he said, his voice showcasing slightly more enthusiasm than his tired expression.

“We’re going to need a men’s twelve, a women’s eight and a lane.”

“Number Six is available,” Grover said. “And just like the Stay Inn, we rent by the hour so you can play as much as you want.” He relayed this information with a lewd smile and an exaggerated wink.

Andrew looked at his watch. “There’s still two-and-a-half hours of Valentine’s Day left,” he told Rachel. “Do you want to do two hours?”

She had no idea how much bowling it would take to fill two hours, but since it wouldn’t be much of a hardship to spend the time in his company, she said, “Sounds good.”

Grover plunked two pairs of shoes down on the counter then punched some buttons on the cash register.

Rachel looked at the battered shoes that were half red and half blue with threadbare black laces, her expression of such horror, Andrew couldn’t help but laugh. She picked them up gingerly and held them at arm’s length.

She slipped her feet out of the low-heeled boots she was wearing and eased them into the rented footwear. She wiggled her toes then fastened the laces. He programmed their names into the computer, while she took a few steps, testing the shoes.

“Ugly but surprisingly comfortable,” she decided.

“You’re up first,” he told her.

“Why?”

“Because my father taught me that ladies go first.”

“But I don’t know what I’m doing,” she reminded him.

“Take a few practice throws.”

She surveyed the selection of balls in the return, finally choosing a pink one. She studied the holes for a minute before sliding her fingers and thumb inside. She took her position on the approach and glanced toward lane ten, where a sixty-something woman strode toward the lane and let her ball fly. It thunked on the wood, dangerously close to the gutter, then hooked back toward the middle and crashed into the pins, taking seven of them down.

Andrew watched Rachel square her shoulders, no doubt confident that if the blue-haired lady could do this, she could, too. She took a few tentative steps toward the foul line then bent to release the ball. As she did so, he couldn’t help noticing what a nicely shaped derriere she had.

His eyes skimmed downward, appreciating the long, sexy legs encased in snug denim. His gaze moved up again, admiring her distinctly feminine curves, and he felt that stir of something low in his belly again.

When she turned back, her brow was furrowed. She picked up another ball—a blue one this time—and flung it toward the pins. He forced himself to watch the ball rather than her back end and noticed that the blue orb made it about halfway toward the pins before it veered off and into the gutter.

“What am I doing wrong?” she demanded.

“You’re turning your wrist.”

“No, I’m not.”

He shrugged. “Okay, try another one.”

She picked up the pink ball again, watched it roll into the gutter, and sighed. “Okay, maybe I am.”

“Maybe?”

“But I’m not doing it on purpose.”

He stood behind her and wrapped his fingers around her wrist to immobilize it. He felt her pulse racing beneath his fingers and realized that his own heart was beating a little bit faster than usual, too. And when she moved to release the ball, the sweet curve of her bottom brushed against his groin, causing a jolt of lust to spear low in his belly and spread through his veins.

Three pins fell down. She turned around, and the smile that curved her lips illuminated her whole face. “I did it.”

“Now do it again.”

She picked up the ball with more enthusiasm this time.

“Concentrate on keeping your wrist straight,” he told her.

She did so, and knocked down two more pins.

“I think I like this game now,” she said, and made him chuckle.

“Ready to get started?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she agreed.

Her enthusiasm waned quickly as she watched Andrew knock down pins with seemingly little effort. But she got a little bit better as the game progressed, although she continued to throw occasional gutter balls. It was near the end of the second game, right after he’d thrown back-to-back strikes, that she eyed him suspiciously.

“Why don’t you use any ball except that green one?”

“Because it’s the right weight for me.”

“Can I try it?”

His brows lifted. “You want to play with my ball?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I want to see if I can knock down more pins with the green ball,” she said carefully.

“It’s heavier than the one you’ve been using,” he warned.

“You don’t think I can handle your ball?” she said, tossing his innuendo back at him.

He handed it to her. “You’re welcome to try.”

She did—and though she didn’t move the ball with much speed, she did manage to knock down six pins. And then she went back to the pink ball.

Andrew didn’t comment on her choice. Although he enjoyed the flirtatious banter, he wasn’t sure that either of them was ready to follow where a continuation of the conversation might lead.

As the final score was noted, he caught Rachel stifling a yawn. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Did I keep you out past your curfew?” he teased.

She shook her head. “No curfew, but I do have to be at the shop for my flower delivery in the morning.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

He winced. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she told him. “I had a good time tonight.”

“Well, let’s turn in those snazzy shoes and get you home.”

“You don’t have to take me home,” she protested. “I can call a cab.”

“It’s almost midnight—I’m not sending you home in a cab.”

“I don’t want you to go out of your way.” She slipped on her own footwear and picked up the bowling shoes to return them to Grover.

“I won’t know if it’s out of my way if you won’t tell me where you live,” he said logically.

“Two-twelve Parkside, just past Queen Street.”

He nodded. “I know the area.”

They chatted amicably on the drive back to her apartment. When he approached the building, she suggested that he could just drop her off in front. Instead, he parked in an empty spot designated for visitors and walked her to the door.

He didn’t follow her into the building, because that might seem too pushy—and too much like a date. Instead, he waited until she’d unlocked the exterior door and said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Thanks. For a few hours, I actually managed to forget that it was Valentine’s Day.” Then she impulsively touched her lips to his cheek.

He stood on the step as she went inside and realized that, for the few hours that he’d been with Rachel, he’d forgotten a lot of things—including that holidays without his daughter usually left him feeling sad and lonely and alone. Because he’d felt none of those things with Rachel tonight.

Now he needed to decide whether or not that was a good thing.

* * *

Morning came early, but Rachel didn’t mind. More than three years after Buds & Blooms had first opened, she still experienced a thrill every time she unlocked the doors, and she still felt like a kid in a candy shop when a delivery of flowers arrived. Today’s delivery would be a big one to replenish the stock sold the day before. She was cataloging and sorting various blooms and an assortment of greenery when Holly wandered in at eight—a full two hours before she was scheduled.

Her friend immediately started to prioritize the day’s orders then began to gather the necessary containers and flowers.

Rachel let her get organized before she said, “I have to admit that your early arrival today has me wondering about your date last night.”

Holly cut a block of floral foam, stuffed it into a decorative watering can. “It was a disaster.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, until Rachel couldn’t take it anymore. “You have to give me more information than that,” she protested.

“He made me dinner at his place, with candles and music and wine, and then he asked me to marry him.” Her friend cut the stems of a trio of candy-pink gerberas. “Usually I can read guys pretty well, but I did not see that one coming.”

Rachel’s gaze shifted to Holly’s bare left hand. “You turned him down.”

“I’m not ready to get married.” Holly pushed the stems into the floral foam, then added some pale pink carnations. “And even if I was, I’m not planning to marry someone like Shane.”

“So why do you keep dating guys like Shane?”

Her friend sighed. “Because I know I’m not in any danger of falling in love with guys like Shane.”

“Too bad Shane didn’t know that.” And though she knew her friend had done the right thing by turning down his proposal, Rachel couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy.

“But he should have,” Holly insisted. “I mean, who proposes marriage to a woman who has carefully avoided any use of the L-word?”

“You’ve been together almost two years—obviously he thought it was implied.”

“Except that he’s not in love with me, either. He just thought it was the next logical step in our relationship.”

“This is why I don’t date,” Rachel told her. “Because a few dates eventually lead to a relationship and one party or another ends up with a broken heart.”

“I should have come over to your place last night for the Criminal Minds marathon.”

“Actually, I wasn’t home last night.”

Her friend pushed the finished watering can arrangement aside. “Where were you?”

“Bowling.”

“By yourself?”

“No.” She plucked the wilted blooms out of a container and tossed them into the garbage. “With Andrew Garrett.”

Holly frowned. “Sexy White Roses Guy?”

Rachel nodded.

“The one with the wedding ring on his finger?” her friend pressed.

“He’s widowed.”

“Oh.” Holly considered for a minute. “How long?”

“Three years.”

“And he still wears the ring?”

Rachel shrugged.

Holly counted out eight white lilies. “I didn’t know you bowled.”

“I don’t.”

“So how did this come about?”

“We were both at Valentino’s for eat-in takeout, and the next thing I knew, I was wearing ugly shoes.”

“That’s probably why you don’t bowl,” Holly noted. “The shoes offend your impeccable sense of style.”

“And yet, I had a good time.”

“Because you enjoyed the game—or because you enjoyed being with Sexy White Roses Guy?”

“He is sexy,” Rachel acknowledged. “And charming and interesting and funny.”

“Uh-oh.”

She frowned. “Uh-oh—what?”

“One date and you’re falling for him already.”

“It wasn’t a date and I’m not falling for him.”

Holly didn’t look convinced. “I’m all for you finally ending your ridiculous dating hiatus, but I don’t want you getting hung up on somebody else who isn’t available.”

“I’m not hung up on him.”

“You went bowling with him—and you don’t bowl.”

Rachel sighed. “Our options were limited.”

“Did he kiss you?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“That wouldn’t stop most guys I know from making a move,” her friend noted. “Then again, most guys I know don’t wear wedding bands—even the ones who are married.”

Rachel waited until her friend finished then she said, “Actually, I kissed him.”

“What?”

“It was a thank-you,” she explained. “An impulse.”

“Was there tongue?”

She rolled her eyes. “I touched my lips to his cheek.”

“Oh.” Holly sounded disappointed. “I’m not sure that even counts as a kiss.”

“Then I guess I didn’t kiss him.”

“When you kissed him, did you feel those little flutters in your belly?”

“Make up your mind—did I kiss him or not?”

“That depends on whether or not there were flutters.”

There had been definite flutters, and her heart had raced and her knees had gone weak. But she wasn’t prepared to admit any of that to her friend.

“Customer,” she said, when the bell over the door jangled.

“We’re not done with this conversation,” Holly warned.

But more customers kept her busy in the front of the shop so that Holly was unable to continue her interrogation. And when Rachel left work at two o’clock, she was confident that she’d kept the truth about her feelings for Andrew Garrett to herself.

Chapter Three

Saturday afternoon, Andrew was in his home workshop assembling a sideboard when his middle brother stopped by.

Nathan walked around the piece, giving it a thorough examination. “Nice—but not your usual style.”

“It’s for Ed and Carol’s dining room.” The Wakefields were his in-laws—or maybe they were former in-laws. Andrew wasn’t sure if the death of his wife changed the relationship between himself and her parents. Either way, they were still his daughter’s grandparents.

“Don’t they know that you’re the VP of Product Research and Design for a multibillion-dollar furniture company now and not just a carpenter?”

“I’m still a carpenter,” Andrew insisted. “A fancy title doesn’t change that.”

“And a damn good one,” Nate agreed, continuing his inspection of the work. “Is this an original design?”

He nodded. “Ed wanted something special for Carol, for their fortieth anniversary.”

“When’s that?”

“Not until October. But I had the time now, so I figured I’d get started.”

“Mom and Dad’s fortieth is in May,” Nathan reminded him. “And Mom wants a party.”

“She always wants a party. Do you remember Maura’s first birthday? She invited sixty people.”

“It was a kick-ass first birthday,” his brother agreed.

“I can only imagine how many people she’ll invite to a fortieth wedding anniversary.”

“Apparently we’re supposed to do the inviting.”

“Huh?”

Nate nodded. “She said that proper etiquette requires the party be hosted by someone other than the anniversary couple. Preferably the couple’s children.”

“Not if she wants it done right,” Andrew noted.

“Daniel suggested we hire an event planner.”

“Not a bad idea,” he admitted. “And since it was his idea, he should look into that.”

Nate went to the mini-fridge and took out a couple of beers. He twisted the caps off both, then handed one to his brother. “Speaking of anniversaries—I stopped by last night.”

Andrew tipped the bottle to his lips. “So...today is the twenty-four-hour anniversary of your visit?”

“Okay, I guess that wasn’t a very good segue.”

“What are you trying to segue into?”

“Asking where you were last night.”

“Did we have plans that I forgot about?”

“No—but it was Valentine’s Day.”

Andrew slapped his hand to his forehead. “And I didn’t even get you a card.”

“You’re a funny guy,” Nate said, his tone devoid of amusement.

“Yes, it was Valentine’s Day,” he agreed. “And Maura was with the Wakefields and I was hungry, so I went to Valentino’s to grab a bite to eat. I ran into someone I know, so we had dinner together and then went bowling.”

“I assume this ‘someone’ you know is female?”

“Yes, she’s female. No, it wasn’t a date.”

“You’ve grieved long enough,” Nathan told him.

“I’m not still grieving,” Andrew told him. “Yeah, I still miss Nina sometimes—” which was a vast improvement over the “all the time” that he’d missed her and looked for her in the first year after her death. “But it’s not like I’ve put my life on hold.”

“It’s exactly like you’ve put your life on hold,” his brother countered. “Or is there another explanation for the fact that you haven’t had a relationship with anyone else since Nina died?”

“I’ve been on dates,” he protested, although they both knew that he’d only been out a handful of times since his wife’s death—the first being only about six months ago.

“A few first dates and not a single second date.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t met anyone that I wanted to go out with more than once.”

Even as Andrew said the words, a carousel of images played through his mind—and all of them were Rachel. Behind the counter of the flower shop, a small smile on her face as she wrapped a bouquet; in the kitchen at Valentino’s, a hint of sadness clouding her gorgeous blue eyes when she mentioned her dating hiatus; at the bowling alley, a brilliant smile illuminating her face after she’d knocked down her first pins; outside her apartment building at the end of the night, her eyes soft and warm, as her lips touched his cheek.

“What about Bridget?”

He pushed the memories of Rachel to the back of his mind. “Bridget was serious stalker material.”

“What did she do—call you the day after your date?”

“She called. She texted. She emailed. And then she showed up at the house—and I never told her where I lived.”

“Okay, that’s a little obsessive,” Nathan allowed.

“And when I made the mistake of inviting her to come inside for a drink—because I didn’t know how else to respond to her presence on my doorstep—she immediately started making decorating suggestions.”

“Well, she is an interior designer.”

“Who walked through the house until she found my bedroom and then told me the feng shui wasn’t conducive to getting naked and sweaty.”