Chapter Eight
Anthony
The eating options in this God-forsaken town are downright depressing. Dismal. How am I supposed to take a woman on a decent date in Red Rock Place? The most disturbing question… Why do I care so much? This is a fake date to make Aunt Doris stop yapping about how wonderful Lottie Alden is. I know how wonderful she is. But I’m not interested. I can’t be.
Then why am I doing this?
I don’t care to examine the real answer, instead turning east at the intersection—that is, making a left. One week in this town, and I’m a mobile compass like the rest of the inhabitants. This can’t be good.
What am I thinking going on a date in this place? My only priority should be the health of my mom, and then I’m going to get out of dodge. ASAP.
Abandoning my search for a quality restaurant for tonight, I stop by the care center to visit my mom. There’s a sparkle in her eye, and she opens her mouth, trying to talk. She still hasn’t made more than a gurgle. It rips my heart to pieces every time she tries.
“It’s okay, Mom.” I pat her hand, willing her to stop trying. “You’ll get there, okay?”
This day feels eternal, and I know why. I struggle to focus as I work and zone out during a video conference. I’ve been forced to use Lottie’s porch for any video conferencing because the connection isn’t strong enough on Aunt Doris’s porch.
Am I living in a parallel universe, or am I really practicing law from a next-door neighbor’s front porch in Iowa? One day I’ll look back and shake my head. Right now it’s not funny. Especially when a tractor taller than the house and almost as wide makes its noisy way down the road in front of the house. It gets so loud, I can’t hear a thing on my Zoom call, and I’m pretty sure no one else can, either.
When the dust settles—literally—and quiet is restored, Greg looks at me on the screen. “Anthony, where are you?”
They don’t want to know. Truly, they don’t.
By the time seven o’clock rolls around, I’m both jittery and cranky. This has to be the worst idea I’ve had in a long time. But I’m a man of my word, so I stroll across the lawn to Lottie’s front door, one hand in my black trouser pocket. She opens the door as I crest the four-high steps, and I stall completely on the porch.
Wow. My mouth tries to form the word, but I stand there, mute.
Charlotte Alden does own a dress. A dress that fits her to a T and wraps around that petite, lithe figure with perfection. It’s hot pink, one side of the hem ending well above one knee, the other dipping low, almost halfway down her lovely calf. There are no sleeves, only three thin spaghetti straps on either side. Still modest but oh-so enticing.
I’m still staring, unable to speak, when she cocks her head to the side, her eyes full of a teasing light I feel like I’ve known all my life. “Hi there, Suits.”
I try to speak again. I’ve got this. “Hi.” Is it possible to slur a one-syllable word? Because I think I just did—and I don’t even drink. I clear my throat, dredging some intelligence from the crevices in my brain. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” She steps out the door, pulling it shut behind her, and my eyes zero in on her feet. Strappy white heeled sandals. Hot pink toes that match her dress. Is that for me?
Something zings inside me. Something that absolutely should not.
“Didn’t know a farm girl like me could clean up, huh?” She tosses a saucy look over her shoulder as she trots down the porch stairs and heads straight for my car. I have to jog to catch up with her.
“You got me there, Farmer Jane.” I throw in a wink, and she scrunches her nose with distaste at the name. Her face is as different as her clothes. If she usually wears makeup, it’s minimal. Tonight, it’s more prominent but still not overdone. It accents her natural beauty.
Long, dark lashes frame blue eyes, and her lips are bright pink, like her dress and toes. Even her hair is different, the short choppy layers smoothed into soft waves that fall around her head with feminine grace.
I can’t tear my eyes away from her face.
“Watch out!” she squeals—one second before I slam into the rear bumper of the Mustang. The force sends me sprawling onto the grass on my rear end. Humiliation sears my face with heat, and the only thing I see is her hand extended to help me up.
“Not the most illustrious start to a date I’ve ever had,” she says, her voice laced with laughter as I push myself up, my dignity too tattered to consider accepting her help.
“Oh, you’ve had a lot of dates, have you?” I brush a hand at my backside. This is the worst start to any date I’ve had—but I haven’t had one in eight years.
“Sure, lots,” she chirps as she opens the passenger door. “But you’re my first lawyer.”
This woman is going to be the death of me. Or at the very least, the death of my ego.
I slide behind the wheel and heave a sigh that is very un-attorney-like. “I gave up trying to find a classy place to take you in this town. You pick.”
“No place better than the diner.”
I was afraid she was going to say that. I passed Right Way Delights during my fruitless search earlier. As I pull out, she begins thumbing through the radio stations until she gets to the fourth country station. Not my forte. Since she leaves it on, I guess it’s hers. She croons along, and well, she can sing better than me, that’s sure.
“Oh!” She breaks abruptly with the female singer whose name is lost on me as we pass Accurate Care and Home. “I visited your mom on my lunch break today.”
“You did?” I glance at her as I reach the fork and bear northwest. That’s really…sweet of her.
“I sure did.” She turns a full grin on me, and I’m nearly blinded. “I told her you asked me on a date. She looked very happy.”
This explains Mom’s efforts to speak today. “I don’t suppose you mentioned it’s a fake date,” I deadpan, and she shakes her head, a laugh spilling out of fuchsia lips.
“I’ll let you do the honors.”
“Wow, thanks so much. You’re really kind.”
“I try.”
We’ve reached the main street that houses a row of businesses on each side. Angled parking spots line the street. I find a spot near Right Way Delights. I can’t wait to see what’s on the menu. Insert sarcasm.
“Did you know the town wasn’t always named Red Rock Place?” Lottie walks beside me on the sidewalk, and I love that even in heels, she’s shorter than me.
“What did it used to be called?”
Her face scrunches again as she tries to remember. It’s adorable, and I want to gaze at it all night long.
Whoa, there, partner. This is fake.
And since when do I talk to myself like I’m a cowboy? This is Iowa, not Texas.
“I don’t remember, honestly. You’d have to ask Doris. She and your mom were born here before they built the dam. Lake Red Rock was named for one of the towns they destroyed to expand the river into the lake. Enough of those displaced citizens moved here from Red Rock that they decided to change the name in sixty-one.”
This history lesson feels fuzzy, as if I’ve heard it before. My mom used to drop all sorts of Iowa trivia as I was growing up. I wish now I’d listened better.
“That’s really interesting,” I say—because it is. We’re in front of the diner now, and I pull open the door. Immediately we’re bombarded with attention. Everyone knows Lottie. And everyone knows she’s on a date.
“ ’Bout time, Lottie!” a heavy-set woman calls out as she passes with a round serving tray laden with drinks balanced in one hand. “Good choice, mister. She’s Red Rock Place’s finest female catch!”
A grandfatherly man at the counter nods with a knowing smile. “Can’t tell you how many decent bachelors she’s turned down in this here place. You must be somethin’ special.”
I lift an eyebrow at Lottie. “This is even more interesting.”
A blush fills her cheeks, and she waves away the gossip like it’s nothing. “My favorite booth is at the back. Come on.”
I follow her like I’m a horse on a lead rope.
Great. Even my mental analogies are becoming rural. But at this moment, I’m pretty sure I’d follow Lottie anywhere.
Reality catches up with me when she slides into one side of the booth and points to the other side. Right. Not a real date. Not sharing one side of a booth.
I take my seat across from her and pick up a menu. “What do you suggest?”
She doesn’t even touch her menu. “I always get the Made-Right.”
“The made what now?”
A slow, sly smile grows over her face. “You gotta try it, Anthony. You can’t come to Iowa once in your life and not try a Made-Right.”
Who says I’m only coming once? I choke on the thought and cough into my hand.
“Melinda?” Lottie raises her arm and beckons to the waitress. “Can we get—” She looks at me and whispers furtively, “What are you drinking?”
I’m so lost in this environment. “Whatever you are.”
Her look is one of approval. “Two raspberry lemonades and two Made-Rights, please?”
Melinda, apparently, nods across the room and disappears.
“You know everyone here,” I state the obvious.
“Born and raised, what can I say?”
Silence falls between us, and I reach to adjust my tie. Why did I wear a tie? I’m the only person in the entire building besides Lottie not in jeans. I feel sudden appreciation for what she wore. She’s as overdressed as I am. Which means she predicted my apparel and dressed to match.
That’s really sweet. Again.
“So…” Are my hands sweating? I’ve represented clients in trials and not felt the slightest presence of perspiration. This is ridiculous. “Where’s Felicity tonight?” See? I can converse like a normal human being.
“My mom took her to the farm. She’s having her stay overnight.”
“I see.”
Her eyes grow as wide as the circular placemats between us. “I am in no way implying I am free for the whole night for this date—or anything else.” Blotches of fresh color appear on her cheeks, and I drop my head with a chuckle.
“Lottie, you offend me. You think I’m that kind of guy? I’ve already established this date is to get Aunt Doris off my back. I’m not going to milk it for anything else. I have more decency than that.”
Her relief smites me in the chest. “A girl can’t be too careful,” she says softly, and I’m instantly hungry to know everything about her.
“So tell me,” I say casually, “how you came to be Charlotte Alden, instead of Huisman.”
She darts her gaze at me, then away when Melinda arrives with the drinks.
“On the house, Timmy says. He’s that happy to see you on a date, Lottie.”
“But I’m paying,” I say lamely as she whisks herself and her tray away.
Lottie bites back a smile and shrugs. “Welcome to small-town life in Iowa.”
“I can’t imagine anything better.”
Her laughter fills the space between us. “Don’t get grumpy on me.”
“Answer my question, and I won’t.”
She toys with the paper napkin rolled around a set of silverware. “How much did Doris tell you?”
“That your ex-husband ran off with another woman two years ago.”
“Three.”
I pause. “Three other women? Or three years ago?”
Her shoulders sag with disbelief. “Three years ago. But by now, there’s no telling how many women are in between me and his current item.”
I can’t believe any man would walk away from Lottie. She’s that rare kind, like a precious gem found in a pile of dirt. “Your ex was a world-class idiot.”
As she peers at me with those enormous blue eyes, I realize I’m an idiot, too. There’s nothing fake about this date. The feelings inside me are all too real. So are the ones in Lottie’s eyes—until the softness evaporates, and she sits up straight.
“You know how to lay on the charm, Mr. Lucio. Is this how you’d do it in real life? Move this fast with a woman you met last week?”
My heart is galloping inside my chest. My brain nudges me to abort. Give a diplomatic answer. Say no way, this is all for show.
“In real life,” I answer, “if I were in a position to have a relationship right now, I wouldn’t mess around for a second without claiming you before anyone else could.”
Shoot. I had to be honest. In a panic, I grab the glass of lemonade and take a gulp. It’s the biggest swallow of liquid I’ve ever ingested at one time, and it doesn’t all fit down my throat. I choke, pink liquid exploding from my mouth all over the tabletop in front of me.
Lottie rears back before she jumps up and races from the table.
Well played, Lucio, I think as I continue hacking into my elbow. This date is over. She’s running in terror from me.
Instead, she returns with a wad of napkins. She mops up the lake on the table while casting concerned glances at me as I keep coughing and slamming my hand against my upper chest.
“Are you okay?”
I raise my palm, worried she’ll haul me upright and do the Heimlich or something. No telling what this woman is capable of.
“I’m okay,” I force the words from my throat in a rasp.
She disposes of the napkins and by the time she returns, I’m breathing normally again and able to take a sip of my beverage. I’m also mortified.
“This is getting filed as the most embarrassing date of my life,” I say as she takes her seat once more. The sound of her laughter as she tilts her head back, showing me her gorgeous neck, is the best thing I’ve heard all day. Maybe in my entire life.
I open my mouth to redirect the conversation back to her, but Melinda shows up with our orders. In front of me is a messy monstrosity inside a bun. It’s like a less sloppy Sloppy Joe on steroids.
“What is this thing?” I poke at it with my finger like it’s a caged animal that might bite.
“That, my lawyer friend, is a Made-Right.”
Yowza.
I rub my hands together, then pick up the massive, oozing sandwich of ground beef. It smells like edible heaven. “All right, Iowa. Show me what you got.”