Betty Jo Schuler

Finding Mr. Romantic

Chapter One, continued

"You're full of it too. You're afraid of marriage, women, and love. Yet, you think you can write about it."

Nick, hearing a bell ding, knew a customer had entered Dell's sporting goods store. He spoke quickly. "I'll find a way to make this the best damned love story you ever read, Delbert Dennis. Just wait and see."

Nick kicked the junk back in the closet and slammed the door.

The mop fell over and he sighed. Standing up the 'woman' he'd created, he adjusted her mask and scarf. "If you only had a brain," he said softly, "maybe I could get inside your head." There wasn't a blink of an eye behind the slits in the mask. His mysteries sold and he could whip one out in six months. Two and a half months left on this book, and he was stuck in the second chapter.

Sitting down, he flexed his fingers and read John's question aloud."Why?"

Nick had never been in love and didn't have a close woman friend or relative. He might have been able to talk to Dell's mom, but she'd moved to Florida after Uncle John died. Nick gazed out the open trailer door. The sun shone brightly. Wind chimes he'd made from old spoons tinkled. A squirrel scampered across the wire hookup to his trailer. The call of a summer afternoon.

The tall grass felt cool beneath Nick's bare feet as he stepped outside, and the air smelled sweet. Easing himself into his hammock, he succumbed to its soothing motion and closed his eyes. Life was for enjoyment, and he was free as the birds in the trees to enjoy it. He'd find a way to learn what went on inside a woman's head, finish his romance novel, and win his bet. Mañana.

***

Cee shifted into Drive and tried to pull forward. No luck. Switching off the motor, she opened the door and jumped down to check things out. She'd run over a railroad tie at the back of her lot and hung up her right rear wheel. Wooden ties marked the end of each space. Hers, knocked askew by other campers, lay hidden in the grass. Smothering a groan, she stepped inside the RV to survey the damage.

A basket of fruit had slid off the table and books she selected from the New York Times Best Seller List lay scattered on the carpet. Stepping over apples and grapes, she picked up Susan's picture. It had fallen face down on the bed that spanned the back wall. Leafy branches covered the windows behind and beside it. Cee set the picture upright where it belonged.

Climbing down from the angled RV, she tapped a fingernail against her teeth. The right wheel had completely passed over the wooden beam and the rear end of the trailer was in the trees. She shoved at the railroad tie with both hands. It wouldn't budge. She turned away.

Ocean blue eyes set in a deeply tanned male face sparkled over the edge of the hammock on Lot E. Her neighbor was enjoying her predicament.

She glared. He raised his head and grinned. She shot him her most lethal glance. Lazy. Inconsiderate. Rude.

Turning away, she crouched beside the RV. Footsteps padded slowly toward her. She bent her head in pretended concentration.

Bare, strong feet stilled at her side. Tanned, dusty feet she could picture kicking a horse into motion on woodland trails. Following the light tracing of hair on muscled calves upward, her heart beat faster, imagining them gripped tightly against the horse's flanks. A crescent-shaped scar on one bronzed knee, a scab on the other, gripped her attention momentarily. The ragged edge of cut-off jeans halted the ascent of her gaze.

"Trouble?" Her neighbor's voice was laced with laughter.

Cheeks burning, she stuck her head under the RV. 'Trouble' was standing next to her, making her imagination run rampant. "I'm trying to see if the ... you-know ... is still intact."

His laughter erupted, sexy as hell. "Believe me," he gulped between guffaws, "the you-know is still there."

"I was talking about the tailpipe." She jerked her head angrily, and her hair caught on a strip of chrome. She tried to yank it free. Since she'd had it streaked, the shoulder-length mass seemed even thicker, with a will of its own.

"Do you make a habit of getting hung up?"

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