Delivered with Love Page 16

  Claire could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. "I wasn't sure. "She looked straight ahead through the window. "These days couples our age expect to go 'dutch.' " Did she call them a couple? She hoped Blake didn't notice.

  "Couple, huh?" He turned left onto Monterey Avenue. "I like the sound of that."

  He had noticed. Claire slipped her bare feet into her heels and kept her eyes away from him. "What I mean is—"

  "No need to explain." Blake turned right on Capitola Avenue. "I hope you're hungry. Bella Roma has won awards for its cuisine."

  Her stomach growled—loudly. Claire sunk deep in her seat. "I'd say I was hungry."

  "Good." Blake pulled against the curb in front of the restaurant. "Wait right there. I'd like to open your door."

  Claire's heart thumped in her chest. Is this the kind of date you had in mind, Haley? She doubted Mark ever opened Haley's door or treated her sister to a fancy dinner. The thought brought a mixture of satisfaction and sadness. She quickly composed herself.

  Blake opened the door and held out his hand. "Watch the curb—"

  Claire swung both legs out of the car, grabbed onto Blake's warm hand, and hoisted herself to standing. Stepping forward, she caught her heel on the edge of the curb . . . and fell into Blake's arms. "Sorry. I'm such a klutz."

  "No need to apologize." Blake's eyebrow arched. "I kind of liked it."

  Claire quickly righted herself and ran a hand down the skirt of her dress. She could hear her mother now, "Chin up, back straight." She clutched her purse with one hand and stood erect.

  Blake closed the truck's door and held tight to her arm. "You're cute when you're nervous."

  "Who's nervous?" She giggled.

  Blake led Claire up the steps and through the doorway.

  She looked around the room. Italian paintings graced the peach faux-finished walls. Columns separated the dining room tables, each set with white tablecloths, cloth napkins, and goblets rimmed with gold.

  "Welcome to Bella Roma. Do you have a reservation?" The host, wearing a white chef's smock with blousy sleeves, looked up from behind the reservation desk.

  "Yes," Blake answered. "For 6:15. Blake Coombs."

  "Ah, yes." The man ran a finger down the list of names. "There you are. Please follow me." The host led them to a table in the corner by the window. After Claire and Blake were seated, he handed them each a menu. "Your waiter will be by to take your order." He smiled, then walked away.

  Claire was overwhelmed. She didn't know what to order. "What do you recommend?"

  "You can't go wrong here." Blake studied the menu. "The lobster ravioli is amazing."

  Claire fidgeted with the hem of the tablecloth away from Blake's view. She loved Italian food. The spaghetti joint down in Los Angeles was her favorite—a long shot from the classy atmosphere of Bella Roma. "Sounds good to me."

  She'd have to come up with more stimulating conversation. A nagging feeling pulled at her middle. What kind of women did Blake usually go out with? She imagined the model type— thin, beautiful, someone with manicured nails and well traveled. Claire was far from that. Capitola was the only place she'd been outside of L.A.

  "Blake, tell me about your family," Claire opened the conversation after the waiter took their order.

  "My parents own a coffee shop in Boulder, Colorado— where I grew up. And my sister Candy is married with twin boys."

  "Does she live in Colorado?"

  "Yes. She wanted to stay close to my parents." Blake dug into his suit coat pocket, pulled out his wallet, and revealed a picture of two little boys with dark brown hair and blue eyes, like their uncle.

  "They're adorable. Don't you miss them?" Claire took a closer look at the picture and then handed Blake his wallet.

  "I do. But I see them every year at Christmas, sometimes more often when I get the urge to drive out there."

  "What brought you to California?" Claire liked the way the conversation was going—easy, light, and comfortable.

  Blake shifted in his seat. "My fiancé."

  Claire's eyes widened. She felt as if she'd been socked in the gut. Fiancé? She didn't have a right to be so jealous. Blake wasn't her boyfriend. And yet . . .

  The waiter appeared with two large plates of ravioli. "Enjoy. I'll be by to check on you shortly."

  Claire stared at her plate. Each ravioli square was perfectly striped and covered with a white cream sauce. She picked up her fork and sliced one in half.

  Blake reached for Claire's hand. "Shall we pray?"

  Claire winced. Another reminder that they weren't meant for each other. Blake's relationship with God was so much closer than hers would ever be. She couldn't remember to thank Him for a meal—even a fancy one from a beautiful restaurant.

  "Heavenly Father, thank you for this food. Thank you for Claire's company. Guide our conversation and help it to be glorifying to you. In your name, Amen."

  Instead of a gentle squeeze, he held on.

  "Claire. I wanted to explain—"

  She pulled her hand free. "We should eat. Our food will get cold." She wasn't ready to hear about the other woman in his life. One that she was sure was better suited to him than she. Picking up her fork, she stabbed a ravioli and shoved it in her mouth.

  Blake leaned forward in his chair. "She broke it off three years ago. I haven't seen her since. I stayed in California because of my job . . . and the nice weather. Of course, I enjoy the beach, too." He fumbled over his words.

  There was more to the story, Claire was sure of it. Did Blake's ex-fiancé know something about him she didn't? Her mother was blind to men, and so was Haley. Would she be that way too? They ate most of their meal in silence.

  Claire decided to keep the conversation light—and safe, avoiding what was on her mind. "I've lived in California all my life. Colorado sounds adventurous with the mountains and all."

  "It's a beautiful place." Blake nodded between bites. "Housing is less expensive, too."

  "Then, why not move back?" And save me from falling for you.

  "Because, I have a house and a great job." He shrugged his shoulders. "That reminds me, I need a woman's opinion. Can you help me pick out new cabinets and hardware?"

  Claire's cheeks flushed. He was asking her opinion—as if they were an item . . . dating . . . or married. A feeling of panic engulfed her—like the other day with the attempted kiss. She took a forkful of ravioli—to distract herself from the rising fear––then nearly choked trying to swallow it. She reached for her glass and took a long sip, then looked directly into Blake's eyes. She had to know.

  "Why did your fiancé break off your wedding?"

  26

  The question hung in the air like a lead-weighted balloon.

  "How long did you date your fiancé before you proposed?" Claire blurted out. "And did you ask her to help you pick out furniture?" She straightened her spoon next to her plate, her voice escalating. "And why did you move to California? Doesn't the woman usually follow the man?"

  Blake stared at her with his mouth hanging open. "Claire . . . Claire, slow down." He reached out his hand to touch hers.

  She slithered hers back and dropped it into her lap. "Oh, no you don't. You're not going to charm me with your good looks and gentle touches. I don't want any part of dating someone who acts like he cares about me without getting to know the real me."

  "What are you talking about?" Blake leaned back in his chair.

  "You're right when you said I was nervous. I've never been to a restaurant like this, and probably never will again." She swiped at her mouth with her napkin. "I'm more of a pizza and burger type girl. I hardly wear makeup, and I've only straightened my hair once before—at my mother's funeral so no one would recognize me. I can count on one hand how many times I've been on a date in the last five years and you're the only one who's attempted to kiss me. Speaking of kisses . . . I don't take them lightly, so if you were planning on trying it again tonight, you might as well forget it unless you want—"


  "Another shove?"

  "I was going to say . . . oh, it doesn't matter. Blake, I'm not ready. I'm not ready to date, to kiss, or to pick out kitchen cabinets."

  "Okay, Claire. You've made your point." He lifted his hand to get the waiter's attention. "I'm not asking you to marry me, only to help me pick out a cabinet or two. And the kiss—well, I'm not going to apologize for that."

  Claire's hand shot up to her mouth.

  "And to answer your question." Blake covered his plate with his napkin. "My fiancé left me for another man. Her childhood sweetheart."

  Claire's heart twisted. Oh.

  "I'm over it, but it took a long time."

  Claire laid her hand on the table. She reached over and touched Blake's fingertips. He didn't budge. "I'm sorry. That must have hurt you deeply."

  Their waiter returned with the bill and placed it on the table. "Whenever you're ready."

  Blake reached into his suit coat pocket, pulled out his wallet, and produced a credit card. "We're ready now."

  A lump formed in Claire's throat. She had misjudged him. He wasn't like her father. Or Mark. And now she had probably ruined her chances with him.

  "I'll take you home." Blake stood after the transaction was complete, came to her side of the table, and helped her up.

  "If you don't mind, I'd like to visit the ladies' room."

  "I'll be right here." Blake touched her elbow, then recoiled.

  With unsteady feet, she walked to the back of the restaurant. This is not going well.

  Claire entered the ladies' room, locked the door behind her, and stared at herself in the mirror. How would she face Blake after going off like that? He was obviously taken aback and couldn't wait to drive her home. Was it better this way? She washed her hands, dabbed a paper towel into cold water, then patted the back of her neck. She couldn't go home yet. Nancy, Vivian, and Geraldine would ask questions. Better stall for time. She reached into her purse and applied a fresh coat of lipstick and popped a mint in her mouth.

  She left the ladies' room holding her head high as she joined Blake. Does he have to take my breath away? A sigh escaped her lips.

  They walked out into the cool night air, with stars above and the smell of the ocean coming at them full force. It was romantic, the perfect evening for—

  "How about a walk?" Claire filled her musings with a question.

  Blake glanced down at her feet. "Are you sure? In those heels?" He led her to his truck.

  "We can park around the corner at the beach. I can walk barefoot." Claire's eyes pleaded. "It's too early to go home. Nancy rented three Meg Ryan movies."

  Blake opened her door. "Okay, as long as we've got one thing straight."

  Hope swelled within her. "What's that?" Claire situated herself in the seat.

  "I'm going to treat you like a lady, no matter what." Blake leaned down. "And I won't kiss you again until you say so." He shut her door and walked around the back of the truck.

  She wanted to kiss him—now. Claire's palms grew moist. Why were her emotions all over the place? Friendship. Isn't that what her mother recommended?

  "The beach it is. I have a blanket in the back in case your legs get cold." He turned the truck around. "We don't have to walk if we find a good spot to park. The view is beautiful on a clear night."

  Blake pulled into a parking space overlooking Capitola Beach. He was right. The view was breathtaking. The moon cast a romantic glow on the ocean, the waves lapping on the shore. Claire could see the lights from Santa Cruz on her right and the smoke stacks of Moss Landing on her left. She must be crazy. How could she think of bolting when she not only had one of the kindest and most patient men sitting next to her, but also gorgeous views on both sides? But she did think about bolting—because she was afraid.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. All the men in her life had treated her mother or sister with disrespect, and her experience was limited, to say the least. Her mom's boyfriends had never hurt her physically, but once they realized she and her sister were part of the package, they'd take off. Then there was Mark. He milked her out of her tip money and made sure she knew he was doing her a favor by letting her live with him and Haley.

  Blake cracked the window open. A slight breeze wafted through. Claire remained perfectly still and quiet, for fear of ruining the moment. He reached over and grabbed the blanket from the backseat. "You look cold." He gently laid it across her lap. "I don't know what you've been through. I hope someday you'll tell me. But for now, you can lean on my shoulder and listen to the waves."

  A comfortable silence filled the truck. What was he—a mind reader? How did he know her thoughts had drifted to the past? As she scooted over and rested her head on his shoulder, a knock startled her.

  "Blake, is that you?" Two brunettes stood on the other side of the door. "Where've you been? We haven't seen much of you lately."

  Blake glanced at Claire and shrugged. Was that irritation in his eyes? He lowered his window. "Claire, this is Amber and Kristy. Amber is a police officer in my division, and Kristy is her friend." His voice definitely held a hint of frustration.

  Claire felt like melting into the seat. Was this her competition? She forced a smile. "Hello."

  Kristy pouted. "What do you mean I'm Amber's friend? We used to be friends, remember?"

  "Ladies, I'd like you to meet Claire James." Blake grabbed her hand and held it possessively against his chest.

  "Say, why don't you two join us?" Amber leaned against the truck and winked. "We're meeting several off-duty officers at Mr. Toots. We'd have a great time."

  Claire nudged Blake's shoulder. "I'm not feeling so well. Why don't you bring me home and then join your friends?"

  "That's an excellent idea." Kristy rested her arms on the window frame. "We can hang out another time, Connie." Her earrings dangled near her shoulders.

  "Claire. Her name is Claire," Blake shot back. "Ladies, tonight's not a good one." He started the engine. "See you at work, Amber."

  "I'm looking forward to it." Amber smiled, revealing straight white teeth.

  Blake shifted the truck in reverse and backed out. He rolled up his window and took off down the street and out of sight of the two voluptuous women.

  Perfect. They were perfect for him with their manicured nails and dyed hair. Claire tucked her hands under the blanket. "Amber seems nice—"

  "I don't mix business with pleasure," Blake cut in. "Plus, she's not my type." He glanced in Claire's direction. "I'm sorry you're not well. I was looking forward to our walk." He pulled up to her house. All the lights were on. She didn't feel like talking with anyone—especially the three women inside. They'd want to hear every detail of her date.

  "Mind if we hang out a while at your place?" The moment the question slipped off her tongue she wanted to take it back. "No, what I mean—"

  "Yes, I mind." He answered a little too quickly.

  Her cheeks heated. What must Blake think of her?

  He placed his arm across the back of the seat. "Honestly, I don't think we should be alone." Blake's eyes lowered to her mouth. "I might do something I'll regret. We better say good night."

  27

  Sunday afternoon Michael sat on a rock, allowing the sun to warm his body. He had to admit New Brighton State Park's setting was tranquil with its beautiful Monterey cypress, oak, eucalyptus trees, and wild berry vines. People came from all over the world to visit the ninety-three-acre park and take in the spectacular view of the Monterey Bay. But Michael was anything but peaceful. He didn't want to be there waiting for Martin and Debbie to show up. He'd rather be on his couch watching football.

  Michael glanced at his mother and Claire, who stood near the fence overlooking the towering bluffs high above the Pacific Ocean. Sandy was busy setting the picnic table. She hummed as she worked, probably enjoying the thought of getting old friends together.

  The crunch of tires caught his attention. A blue Toyota Sienna pulled up next to his BMW. Debbie was behin
d the wheel while Martin sat next to her in the passenger's seat. The time had come. Michael cracked his knuckles and pushed himself to standing.

  "They're here." Sandy dropped silverware on the table and rushed to the van.

  Debbie stepped out and greeted Sandy with a hug.

  "You made it. What can I help you with?" Sandy's voice sounded eager.

  "Can you grab the food from the back while I get Martin settled?"

  "Sure."

  Michael walked up to the front of the van. "Anything I can do?" He forced a smile.

  Debbie walked around and pressed a remote. The sliding door opened and a ramp appeared. "I can get Martin out if you'd like to help Sandy with the food."

  "Hey, Martin." Michael nodded. He didn't want to make the situation any more awkward than it was.

  Martin passed him a look. Michael remembered that look from when they were teenagers. Martin had used it to challenge him in a game of basketball, dare him to ask out a girl, or as he did today—make him face his mistakes. With one glance, Martin said all he needed to say.

  The look reminded Michael of the message Martin left on his cell phone earlier that morning. "Today's the day to make things right—that's if you have the courage." Martin's slow speech came through loud and clear.

  It's complicated. Didn't his high school friend understand that?

  Michael stared at the floorboard where Martin's wheelchair was held in place. "When did you buy the van?"

  "Just last week. It's going to make a world of difference. I'll be able to take Martin out more. Won't I, honey?" She rubbed his arm.

  Michael respected Debbie. She was a bright spot in Martin's otherwise seemingly dark world.

  Sandy approached, carrying an aluminum-foiled covered bowl and a plastic-wrapped plate of fruit. "Michael, can you grab the cooler?"

  "Certainly." He walked to the back of the van and drew in a deep breath. Every time he saw Martin in that wheelchair, he felt sad and helpless. Why did God allow this to happen? He wiped his brow and watched as Debbie maneuvered the wheelchair. God had a plan and was in control, right? His shoulders sagged. People make their own choices. And the drunk who hit Martin's car had a choice whether or not to get behind the wheel. Martin was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Michael's stomach churned. If he hadn't asked Martin to meet him that night, his friend wouldn't be in a wheelchair today. Michael hoisted the cooler out of the back of the van and slammed the rear hatch.