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“He’s in a cast,” Nancy observed in a high-pitched whisper.
“Don’t panic,” Carla said in a reassuring tone. “He doesn’t look like the type to order a margarita.”
Nancy opened her purse and put on her glasses. “Not bad-looking.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Carla agreed, although she thought he looked too much like a movie star—smooth and suave—to suit her. His toothy smile looked bright enough to blind someone in broad daylight. For Nancy’s sake, she hoped the guy was into wine. “You can back out if you want,” Carla said, almost wishing Nancy would. The whole idea was crazy.
“Not on your life.”
“The guy’s in a cast up to his hip. I’d say he was encumbered, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” Nancy replied smoothly. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“You know.”
“Fine, I’ll shut up. If you want to be stuck with a guy who leaves a funny trail in the sand, that’s fine with me.”
“Look,” Nancy whispered, “your fellow’s arrived.”
Quickly, Carla’s attention focused on the lounge entrance at the other side of the room. She recognized him immediately as someone from the same flight as theirs. Not that she’d found him particularly interesting at the time. He’d sat across the aisle from Nancy and read a book during the entire trip.
“Hey, he was on the plane with us,” Nancy pointed out.
“I know,” Carla answered evenly, trying to disguise her disappointment. Secretly, she’d been hoping for someone compelling and forcefully masculine. She should have known better.
Both women sat in rigid silence as their eyes followed the young cocktail waitress, who delivered two margaritas: one to the looker and one to the bookworm.
“You ready?” Nancy whispered.
“What are we going to say?” Carla’s hand tightened around her purse.
Nancy gave another one of those glares normally reserved for her pupils. “Good grief, Carla, we’re mature women. We know what to say.”
Carla shook her head. “Mature women wouldn’t do something like this.”
They stood together, condemned prisoners marching to the hangman’s noose. “How do I look?” Nancy asked with a weak smile.
“Like you’re about to throw up.”
Her friend briefly closed her eyes. “That’s the way I feel.”
Carla hesitated.
“Come on,” Nancy whispered. “We aren’t backing out now.”
Carla couldn’t believe that calm, levelheaded, left-brained Nancy would actually agree to something like this. It was completely out of character. Carla was the impulsive one—creative, imaginative, right-brained. That was why they were such good friends: Their personalities complemented each other’s perfectly. Right-brained, left-brained, Carla mused. That was the problem. Each of them had only half a brain.
She studied the man from the plane. He wasn’t anyone she would normally have sought out. For a light romance, she wanted someone more dynamic. This guy was decidedly—she searched for the right word—undashing. He was tall, she remembered, which was lucky. At five-nine, she didn’t look up to many men. And he was on the lanky side. Almost reedy. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, which gave him a serious look. His sandy hair, parted on the side, fell carelessly across his wide brow. His tan was rich, but Carla mused that he didn’t look like the type to use a tanning bed or lie lazily in the sun. He probably worked outdoors—maybe he was a mailman.
He glanced at her and smiled. Carla nearly tripped on the plush carpet. His eyes were fantastic. A deep gray like overcast winter clouds with the sun beaming through. A brilliant silver shade that she had never seen. Her spirits brightened; the man’s eyes, at least, were encouragingly attractive.
“Hello,” she said as she stood in front of his deep cushioned chair. “I’m Carla Walker.” She extended her hand. Might as well be forthright about this.
He stood, dwarfing her by a good four inches, and shook hands. “Philip Garrison.”
He looked like a Philip. “We were on the same flight, weren’t we?”
