Hitched For The Holidays: Hitched For The Holidays / A Groom In Her Stocking. Barbara DunlopЧитать онлайн книгу.
short, but the fashionable spikes seemed limp in spite of the salon special wax.
Did the turquoise enhance or clash with the green glints in her eyes? Was she out of her mind fussing over what she wore on a pretend date orchestrated to keep her father from meddling in her love life or lack thereof?
The door chimes startled her, which was ludicrous since she’d spent the past hour anticipating Eric’s arrival. Peaches bounded off the bed with more agility than her short legs suggested and stood impatiently, nose to the door, waiting for Mindy to open it.
“Now don’t slobber, shed or jump on Dr. Eric,” she warned sternly. “I don’t want to look for a new vet because you can’t behave.”
She hadn’t exactly looked for the one she had. When Peaches was a pup, she’d taken her to a busy clinic where the wait was always considerably longer than the appointment. A client had raved about a new vet in Chandler, which wasn’t unreasonably far from Tempe, where Mindy lived. The rest was history. Peaches loved her new doctor and stopped trying to amputate a finger or two during exams.
As soon as the bedroom door opened, Peaches was a streak of brindled tan and white racing to the front door, nails clicking on the red-tiled hallway.
“Now behave!” Mindy whispered sternly before she opened the front door. She might as well tell a dust storm to settle down.
Where was Dad? If he’d overslept, she’d have to make small talk. Wouldn’t that be awkward! What could she say to a man she’d coerced into pretending to be the love of her life?
She grabbed Peaches’s collar with one hand and opened the door with the other.
“Hi. I knew this was the right place when I heard Peaches,” her date for the evening said.
“Dr. Kincaid, I’m glad you found it okay.”
It was a wonder anyone ever found her little patio house in the huge development of similar white-stuccoed bungalows. The streets curved and meandered with a total absence of memorable landmarks. If it weren’t for the black wrought-iron street numbers on the ruddy-orange front doors, she might get confused herself.
“No problem.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shouldn’t you call me Eric?”
“Oh, right, thanks.” She spoke softly and looked over her shoulder. No sign of her dad. “Please, come in.”
“Nice plants.” He gestured at the big earthenware pots flanking her flagstone walk. “I like natural desert, sand and cacti. Why come to the Southwest and try to grow a lawn?”
He stepped inside and casually walked into her living room on the north side of the house. The big picture window faced west and gave her a great view of sunsets, but it meant the bedrooms at the rear caught the early-morning sun and woke her up before any sane, civilized person should stir.
She’d opted for a simple decor, as much from poverty as design. The windows had pale green slat blinds, but no curtains. The red-tiled floor was bare throughout the front of the house, except for a round braided rug in the living room, one of her few new purchases after buying the house a couple of years ago. The bright greens and yellows made her gray pseudo-suede couch and recliner seem less drab in their new setting. The thrift-shop tables she’d re-painted mustard yellow and emerald green were kitschy but cheerful. She was still in the process of finding art for the walls, a search stymied by lack of time and money. For now, a few castoff flower prints a friend had given her hung over the couch, leaving the rest of the rough-plastered white walls unadorned.
“Nice place,” he said, standing beside the couch which she’d forgotten to vacuum free of doggie hair. Fortunately it wouldn’t show much on his pale yellow short-sleeved dress shirt or tan chinos if he decided to sit down.
He was wearing a tie, bright green with tiny Scottie dogs silhouetted in black. No doubt it was the kind of gift people gave vets, cute but not too cutesy. Trouble was, he’d clearly been in a rush as it was tied wrong with the bottom length hanging longer than the top.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, wondering where the heck her father was. He was so darn eager to meet The Boyfriend. Why wasn’t he ready to go to dinner? “I have diet cola, lite beer, mineral water and a bottle of champagne Dad brought to…”
She nearly said “celebrate.” More specifically, her father hoped to toast her engagement with the bubbly, although she’d never, ever given him reason to believe her nonexistent romance had progressed that far.
“Where is your father?” he asked.
“He took a nap.” Scratch her hope for a short evening. “Guess I should knock on the door to be sure he’s awake.”
“I’m awake and eager to meet your young man,” Wayne Ryder said, coming out of the guest bedroom and into the kitchen.
How could he say something that corny? She tried to cut him some slack because he’d never fully recovered from losing her mother in an auto accident nearly five years ago, but sometimes he talked as though the twentieth century had never come and gone. He’d definitely prefer to live in an age when fathers arranged marriages for their daughters.
“Eric Kincaid, sir.” He offered his hand with a deference that made her want to hug him.
“Eric, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Just call me Wayne.”
“My pleasure, Wayne, sir.”
Mindy wasn’t fooled. Her father was the alpha male locking horns with a young buck. He might approve of her new boyfriend in theory, but he was gearing up to interrogate him in the best—make that worst—CIA tradition. If she ever did find the right man, she was going to elope before her father got wind of him.
When he wasn’t confronted with her male friends, her dad was a sweetheart in spite of being too rigid. He wanted the best for her, but her future husband had to meet his impossibly high standards.
“Well, Mindy, let’s break open that bottle of bubbly before we go,” he said.
Dad had left all twenty or so of his business suits in shades of black, gray and navy at home. He’d gotten into the Southwestern spirit by wearing jeans and a navy knit shirt with a collar. He was even sporting a bolo tie, but his attempt to look casual was spoiled by his black wing tips. It didn’t really matter. Her father looked like an accountant even when he wore a bathing suit. Neither tall nor short, he was lean and slope-shouldered with the bland looks that made him easily forgettable. His face was long and narrow, always clean-shaven with smooth skin. Only the vertical lines on either side of his mouth gave away his age, those and the fact that his gray-brown hair barely covered his scalp, although a side part and a good haircut gave the illusion that he still had a head of hair.
“I’ll pass on that, sir…Wayne,” Eric said. “Mindy and I decided to take both cars tonight in case I’m paged.”
His excuse sounded lame to her, but Dad seemed to like it. A busy doctor had to stay sober and alert.
“Well, what do you say we get going then?” her father said, giving them their marching orders.
They filed out with Peaches dancing around their heels hoping to be included.
Mindy waited until the two men were out of hearing then hissed at her disappointed pet. “You’re the lucky one! You get to stay home.”
Her father went to the carport and got behind the wheel of her second-hand van with Ryder Reorganizing Inc. painted on the sides. He was going to follow the two of them, naturally expecting her to ride there in Eric’s dark red Tracker.
One thing was still bothering her.
“Ah, Eric, would you do me a tremendous favor?” she asked, coming around to the driver’s side of his vehicle before he got in.
His look suggested he already was, but he only shrugged.
“Your tie.”
“My