Page 9 of A Whim and a Prayer

For the love of Pete—or in Winnie’s case, love of Cary Grant—she was an actress to the core, the lead in every high school play from sophomore year on and the top student in her drama class in college. Acting was both her life and her salvation, because it allowed her to hide her true feelings from everyone in the world.

Her lips went flat. Everyone except Beckett, apparently.

“Do what?” he said with his usual benign smile, those blue-green eyes all but twinkling as they glanced her way.

“See into my soul like that! I swear, Beck, you’ve been doing that since I was five years old, and to be honest, sometimes the actress in me resents it.”

He grinned as he put the car in gear and eased away from the curb, his voice gentle and low. “True, but the scared little orphan in you depends on it, Winifred Doe, having a best friend you can spill your heart to.”

“Unfortunately true,” she whispered, chest rising and falling as she stared aimlessly out her side window.

She could feel Beckett glancing her way. “So … your mom again?”

“Who else?” she whispered, wondering how the woman who had saved her life had become the bane of her existence because God knows her father always understood her, and Hope and Julia were near perfect.

“Okay, what did she do this time?”

“Oh, the same thing she does every time. She hovers, she controls—or tries to,” she underscored with a grunt, “every single thing in my life.”

Her head bounced back and forth as she proceeded to play-act her mother. “Winnie, take a jacket because it’ll get cool later. Winnie, no, 4-inch heels are not necessary, young lady, because you’re petite and men like petite—”

“They do,” Beckett agreed with a nod.

Ignoring his comment, she continued on. “No, Winnie, you may not straighten your hair, darling. Your curls are in style and quite becoming—”

“They are,” Beckett confirmed with a smile.

“And, no, young lady, you may not dye your hair dark brown like Hedy Lamarr because I happen to think your flaxen curls are beautiful.”

“Ditto.”

She seared him with a hurt look. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours, kiddo,” he said with a slap of the blinker to turn onto Abby’s street, “especially when your mother is right, which is more often than you think. Because the truth is … temps are going to drop tonight, your five-foot height is flat-out adorable, and I absolutely love your blond curls.”

“A-dor-a-ble?” She dragged the word out like it was a profanity, then jutted her chin high. “Well, for your information, Beckett Campbell, I don’t want to be adorable like a little kid.”

Palm to her chest, she struck a dramatic pose with a come-hither look that made him grin outright because she was so darn cute. She fluttered her lashes. “I want to be sexy like Hedy Lamarr.”

Chapter Seven

Lord, have mercy! Beckett was grateful it was dark so Winnie couldn’t see the blood crawling up the back of his neck as he parked in front of Abby’s house.

For crying out loud, the woman’s self-perception was so skewed and badly damaged that she had no earthly idea just how sexy she actually was—both to him and the horde of males always looking her way. And the fact that she didn’t know how pretty she was only made her all the more attractive, to his way of thinking.

“Jean Harlow’s sexy,” he offered, hoping that would lift her spirits, but deep down he knew it wouldn’t. When it came to her own self-confidence as a woman, Winnie was damaged goods, compliments of rejection as a cross-eyed orphan, insecurity of being the only non-blood-related member of her family, and inferiority stoked by a beautiful mother she felt she could never measure up to. “And she’s petite with curly blond hair, just like you.”

Winnie’s mouth went paper thin as she looked down at her slight body, which was as lithe and delicate as Jean Harlow’s was buxom. “She’s a bombshell. I’m not.”

“Which is good, Pooh, because as obsessed as you are with Hollywood romance and excitement, being a bombshell might not be the best thing. Especially for someone as adventurous and uh … spontaneous … as you.” He punctuated the thought with a blow of the horn.

AHOOGA! AHOOGA!

“What’s wrong with spontaneous?” she asked with a scrunch of her nose, ready to take him on, as always.

He shrugged and got out of the car, bending in with a smile. “Nothing, Pooh. I just don’t think Hollywood is the safest place for whims and spontaneity, that’s all.” He shut his door before she could counter, unwilling to continue the conversation.

“Hey, Abs,” he said as Winnie’s cousin scurried to the car, “front seat or back?”