Seeking Single Male

“Oh, that’s rich—you calling someone an oddball.”

Lana pulled a face, then reached behind her to retrieve the magazine that lay discarded on a table. “I let Annette talk me into placing an ad, so maybe I’ll hear something before Christmas, although it’s a lousy time of the year to be looking for a roommate.”

Alex leaned forward when Lana pointed out her ad:

Lexington, KY: SF seeking roommate, F or GM, nonsmoker, preferably sane and willing to share kitchen duties.

“GM?” her friend asked.

“Gay male,” Lana said matter-of-factly. “I don’t want some straight guy getting the wrong idea about the sleeping arrangements.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alex teased, tapping her finger on the singles ads on the next page. “Maybe you should’ve placed a combination ad and killed two birds with one stone.”

“Oh, please. Don’t start.”

“You were the one hounding me to get a man before I met Jack.”

“That was before I bought the coffee shop. Now I don’t have time for scratch-off lottery tickets, much less a man.”

“Are the ads national?”

“Yep.”

“Well, you should be able to find a roommate over the entire country,” Alex agreed, grinning over the brim of her cup.

Lana frowned. “Are you saying that I’m too picky?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, do you blame me, after living with that witch for so long?”

Alex blew onto the surface of her drink. “I’m just wondering how much of the animosity for your former roommate had to do with the fact that she went out with the only man you ever cared about.”

Ignoring the flash of pain that the memory of Bill Friar conjured up, Lana wagged her finger. “Thought I cared about. Bill Friar is a low-life cheat who was threatened by a woman smarter than he is.” She’d trusted him, the cad. Lately she’d been pondering whether the problem was that she was too trusting of the people she cared about, or perversely drawn to untrustworthy people—excluding Alex, of course.

“Lana, you’re smarter than anyone I know. Maybe you should start accepting invitations to those Mensa meetings to find a date.”

“What? Holy hallucinogen, Alex, you know the only reason I maintain my membership in that uppity organization is for the insurance.”

“Afraid of hooking up with a thinking man?”

She frowned at her friend. “No. I’d love to find a man with a big brain. But most eggheads are just that—eggheads. No life, no passion. Now, finding a man with a big brain and a big—”

The phone rang, cutting off her tirade, and spurring Alex’s laughter. Lana sprang for the receiver. “Best Cuppa Joe, this is Lana. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and a Cheery Kwanza.”

“Lana, this is Marshall Ballou.”

Of Ballou’s Antique Clothing Boutique at the end of the block. “Hey, Marsh. What’s up?”

“I just picked up my mail. Did you know there’s a rezoning meeting this Friday?”

Black dread ballooned in her stomach—so the rumor was true. “I hadn’t heard yet, but of course I’ll be there.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, hon, because I was just talking to Vic and Paige and Maxie, and we’d like for you to be our spokeswoman.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Me?”

“What do you say?”

“I say you must be desperate.”

“Quite the contrary, my dear, you’re perfect. And we need you. The company that owns the property thinks they can railroad this rezoning plan through because it’s our busy season and we won’t notice.”

Lana swallowed to force down the bad taste in her mouth. When she’d gone headfirst into debt to buy the coffee shop, she’d bought a virtual landmark. Everyone in Lexington knew there was a coffee shop at 145 Hunt Street. Parking was decent, the atmosphere was good. She’d never be able to build this kind of traffic at a new location—not enough to pay back her loans. “S-sure, Marsh, whatever I can do.”

“Great. Call me after closing tonight. Gotta run.”

Lana returned the receiver gingerly, telling herself not to panic. Yet.

“Bad news?” Alex asked.

“Potentially. There’s a council meeting Friday night to introduce a rezoning plan for the blocks between here and Hyde. The local shop owners want me to be their mouthpiece.”

“Good choice, since some of the council members already know who you are.”

“Yeah, from protest rallies.” She dropped into the chair. “I so do not need this right now. Besides, without the landlord’s support, I don’t believe it’ll do much good.”

“So get the landlord’s support.”

“We’ve tried, but the property is in the hands of so many holding companies, we haven’t even been able to reach a real live person.”

“I can have Daddy talk to his friend on the council and at least make them aware of the way the merchants have been ignored.”

Her friend had offered help many times before—usually financial—but this was the first time Lana was desperate enough to take advantage of the clout the Tremont name commanded in the city. She touched Alex’s hand and nodded. “Thanks. I know all of the shop owners will be grateful.”

“Consider it done. If there’s going to be a fight, at least it’ll be a fair fight.”

Lana puffed out her cheeks in a weary sigh. “So much for sleeping the rest of the week.”

“Don’t worry—you’ll knock ’em dead.” Alex stood and lifted her mug, but her obviously forced smile did not put Lana at ease. “I’d better get back to work. Thanks for the coffee.” She walked to the door, then turned back with a little frown. “Cheery Kwanza?”

Lana shrugged.

Alex laughed. “Keep me posted on the roommate search.”

Lana relinquished a smile as she watched the woman she’d known since junior high leave the shop with a sexy bounce to her step. Alex, it seemed, had nabbed the last gorgeous, independent, thinking man walking the face of the earth, or at least walking in the vicinity of the Bluegrass. Lana was happy for her friend, and sad for the rest of the female population, primarily herself. In times like these, it would have been nice to have a big, dependable shoulder to lean on. But since she’d bought the shop, she no longer had time to entertain her fantasies about a stranger arriving to sweep her off her feet. Now she’d settle for someone willing to sweep the floor.

With great effort, she pushed the upcoming council meeting from her mind while she tidied up the tables and plugged in the lights of the four Christmas trees on the stage. The liquid bubble lights on the smallest tree cheered her immensely. She loved this time of year—people were in a generous spirit during the holidays, if at no other time. It served a little glimpse into how things were supposed to be.

She worked around a college-age couple reading from a shared book and holding hands. A pang of envy cut through her chest. Young love was so sweet, so powerful. But she looked at the young woman and willed her to remain her own person, to follow her own interests, to make her own way. Not to marry out of sheer infatuation, then someday wake up dissatisfied with the life she’d built around another person’s needs and wants.

Like her mother. The divorce had taken all of thirty days—and Lana hadn’t even known until she’d dropped by her parents’ apartment during a college class break and found her old room stacked with moving boxes. Janet now lived in Florida, selling tour packages and dating men that were wrong for her. Lana’s father had bought a secondhand RV and hit the road with a chick named Mia. She hadn’t seen him in years. The sordid clichés had broken Lana’s heart. She’d thrown herself into her studies, determined to make something of herself that had nothing to do with a man.

About that time she had discovered The Best Cuppa Joe as a hangout. Old Mr. Haffner had given her grief about not liking coffee—but kept tea bags beneath the counter just for her. She loved the artsy feel of the place, the way musicians and poets and would-be philosophers gathered to try to solve the world’s problems. Who would’ve thought that she would someday own the place?

She knocked over a mug and chastised herself for wasting precious time before the lunch rush. Picking up her pace, she carried table scraps to the back door and fed the two stray cats that magically appeared each morning. The day-old pastries went into a box to be delivered to a soup kitchen a few blocks away. Sorting the trash between serving customers took a while, with each recyclable going into its proper bin. When the morning chores were finished, Lana straightened the magazine she and Alex had been reading and decided to check the voice mailbox for the ad she’d placed. Juggling the receiver, she punched buttons while reaching for a pad of paper.

Eight calls—five men and three women. For one reason or another, none of them sounded exactly right. Then, remembering what Alex had said about her being too choosy, Lana replayed the messages and jotted down names, then just numbers when the pen threatened to run out of ink. Okay, so one of the women had a voice so annoying Lana struck her from the list, but she did return the rest of the calls, inviting the applicants to stop by the coffee shop for a chat as soon as possible—the first to make the grade would sign the lease.

She hung up the phone and turned to the mirror that ran along one wall to adjust her Santa hat. Her unruly pale hair stuck out from under it, hair that she’d finally whacked off in deference to the widow’s peak and wavy texture. Her father had once said she was a hairbreadth from being albino, but instead of pinkish eyes, hers were violet. People thought she wore contact lenses, and when she told them different, they dubbed her eyes “spooky.”

Funny thing, but when a person looked different, their behavior sometimes rose to the occasion. Even as a child, she’d stepped to the beat of a different drummer. Friends were hard to come by, doubly so since she was teased for living in a low-income apartment tenement. Teachers dismissed her as an oddity. A fluke pop quiz by a school administrator had led to IQ testing in the seventh grade. It was amazing how a “159” changed her in the eyes of her instructors. She was moved into private school on a scholarship, where she’d met Alexandria Tremont, heiress to a local department store chain. Their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different, and their friendship couldn’t have been more strong.

The warbling of the blue jay from the Birds of North America clock dragged her from her nostalgic musings. Ten o’clock—the lunch rush would start in an hour, and without Annette, it would be nuts. Thank goodness Wesley, a bespectacled college student, arrived a few minutes early.

But by eleven, customers were standing at the counter three-and four-deep. Lana deftly doled out coffee and bagels and biscotti until she was sure her arms would fall off. The rezoning meeting nagged at the back of her mind, although she tried to concentrate on each customer.

She glanced toward the door to gauge how long the rush would last, and did a double take when a seriously good-looking man walked in—tall, dark hair, wide features, great tie. On the heels of her initial assessment, disappointment set in. Such an interesting face for a working stiff. And holy houndstooth, hadn’t she met enough shallow yuppie guys on her old job?

Yet she couldn’t pull away her gaze, and to her surprise, the man stared back with such intensity that she wondered if she knew him from somewhere. He wasn’t a regular customer, she was sure. In fact, he seemed more interested in her than in the menu. A second later, Lana laughed at herself—the man was probably there about the ad. When he claimed an empty booth without ordering, she was almost certain. It made perfect sense—all the best-looking specimens were gay. Although from the permanent wrinkle in his brow, this man appeared to be gay and depressed at the same time.

Oh well, if the man could cook and didn’t steal, she’d be content. And just because he was gay didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the scenery. The crowd thinned in thirty minutes, and the man still loitered in the booth, occasionally glancing her way. Jeez, he might smile once in a while. When Wesley signaled he could handle the orders, Lana wiped her hands on her red apron and approached the man.

Upon closer inspection, the man was even better looking than she’d thought. His dark hair was closely shorn, his black eyebrows thick and expressive. His brown eyes were framed with heavy lashes and his skin glowed with health. Unusually affected, Lana overcompensated with a broad grin. “Hi! Would you happen to be here about the ad in Attitudes?”

He studied her for so long that she started to feel foolish. Then the man gave her a conservative smile and nodded his well-shaped head. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

3

GREG STARED at the unusual-looking woman, tamping down his surprise. He had assumed that most women who placed singles ads were…desperate, shy or even homely. This woman appeared to be none of those things—the fuzzy Santa hat notwithstanding. In fact, her beauty slammed into him like a sucker punch. The white-blond hair that framed her perky face, and those violet-colored eyes—well, surely she was wearing contact lenses, but the color suited her enormously. His initial thought was that a woman this beautiful wouldn’t be sincerely interested in Will, no matter how sweet his temperament.

A purely selfish reaction, he conceded a split second later. Because while he’d never denied his brother anything, he had to admit he wouldn’t mind spending time with this woman himself.

“You must be Coffee Girl,” he said stupidly, standing.

Her laugh was musical. “Well, my friends call me Lana. Lana Martina.”

He luxuriated in her voice—smooth and full-bodied, like heavily creamed coffee. His vision tilted slightly, and he felt off balance. Suddenly remembering his manners, he extended his hand. “Greg Healey.” Her handshake was firm and surprisingly strong.

“Nice to meet you, Greg. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Only because his swallowing reflex was behaving strangely.

She gestured for him to sit, and they claimed opposite sides of the booth. Lana Martina was lean and long-limbed, and moved like a dancer. She also seemed completely at ease, so much so that he wondered how long she’d been placing singles ads. In his mind, he filled in the blanks: She worked a minimum-wage job at a coffee shop, and was hoping to snag a vulnerable, wealthy man. Like Will.

“Have you had a lot of responses to your ad?” he asked, at a loss for protocol.

“Several,” she admitted, then smiled. “But you’re the first person I’ve met face-to-face, so you’ll have the best shot.”

He blinked. First come, first served?

She looked around, then dipped her chin conspiratorially. “Look, this is a little awkward, but I have to ask—do you meet all the, um…requirements?”

“Requirements?” Those eyes of hers were mesmerizing, and so incredibly large. With a start he realized she was referring to the items in her ad—being a horse lover and someone who appreciates good cooking. Well, he wasn’t a horseman like Will, but he could hold his own at the dinner table. “Uh, sure. And I make a pretty mean omelette myself.” Had he said that?

She pursed her mouth as if impressed. “So, Greg, when were you looking to make a move?”

The woman was nothing if not to the point. Wiping his palms on his slacks, he said, “Well, I thought I might find out a little more about you first, like…where you live.”

She laughed, nodding. “Sorry, I was getting a little ahead of myself. My apartment is on Wisteria, walking distance from here.”

“I’m familiar with this area.” He should be—he and Art had discussed it in depth yesterday afternoon. In fact, the hazing of this building and the one next door were critical to their plans. Coffee Girl would be out of a job—but those were the breaks.

“Listen,” she said. “I can step out for a moment. Why don’t we go over to my apartment right now?”

Her words obliterated all real-estate-related thoughts. “Right now?”

She shrugged. “Sure. You seem like a nice guy.”

He wasn’t a nice guy—everyone said so. But his neglected sex stirred. He could be a nice guy for an hour or so.

“That is, if you like me,” she added.

So…while he was cooped up in his corner office, this kind of stuff was going on all over the city. Men and women hooking up through singles ads for hot rendezvouses. Greg tingled with naiveté. No wonder he felt as if life were passing him by. He swallowed hard. “Wh-what’s not to like?”

Her smile lit up the room. “Great. Give me a sec to grab my coat and purse.”

The mention of her purse rang a bell. He needed to know if this was a business transaction. “Um, speaking of money…”

She dismissed his worry with a flip of her wrist. “If you like it, we’ll talk about money later.”

Greg’s stomach and mind churned with indecision as she walked away. She removed her red apron, revealing a stunning silhouette. Seeking single male for good times. His collar felt moist. He ran his hand over his mouth. He’d never done anything remotely like this in his thirty-five years.

But when Lana turned her smile in his direction, Greg discarded rational thought. Why not? Why the hell not? He’d spent his life looking after his brother, his family’s business—satisfying external obligations. Because he had no desire for a messy emotional relationship, his physical needs had gone unfulfilled. And here was Lady Luck, standing before him in a snug Christmas sweater. He was going for it, damn it. Merry Christmas to me.

She rejoined him, now hatless and pulling on a black-and-white spotted, fake fur coat more befitting of a ten-year-old. But he supposed most women with her, er, hobby were a tad on the flamboyant side.

“Are you ready?” she asked, hooking her arm through his in a familiar way that both startled and pleased him.

Greg’s thoughts turned to the pocket in his wallet where he kept protection. If memory served, he had two condoms stashed there. Male satisfaction swelled in his chest. “I’m ready.”

LANA SLID HER GAZE sideways at the handsome man walking next to her. The day was definitely looking up. The first person to respond to her ad seemed like a pretty cool guy, even if he was a little stiff. Greg Healey was certainly one of the most masculine gay men she’d ever met. She was a tall woman, and he was a full head taller. His profile was strong, his shoulders wide, his stride assertive. A bizarre thrill raced through her at his proximity, causing Lana to chastise herself. She wasn’t the type of woman who would try to “convert” a gay man, but if she found out that he was intelligent on top of looking good, she was going to be supremely irritated.

Meanwhile, she liked him. There was something…undiscovered about him. In fact, she’d bet her tea bag that he was very recently out of the closet.

“So, Greg, what do you do for a living?” she asked, a few steps down the block.

“I’m an attorney,” he said. From the tone of his voice, he wasn’t in love with his job. Little wonder, if he didn’t make enough money to afford his own apartment. When he glanced at his watch, she said, “Don’t worry—this shouldn’t take long, so you can get right back to work.”

He coughed, and Lana hoped he didn’t have any kind of weird allergies, such as to rubber. Choosing between this guy and Harry, her blow-up doll, would be tough. “Any hobbies?”

“Hmm?” He looked as if she’d spoken in a foreign language.

“Hobbies?” she repeated with a laugh. “If we’re going to be spending so much time together, I’d just like to know if you have any strange pastimes.”

“I have a telescope,” he said, then his cheeks reddened. “I mean, I used to enjoy astronomy.”

Ah, a Science Club guy—how sweet. “Used to?”

“My job is rather demanding. I don’t have a lot of free time.”

“I can relate. What else should I know about you?”

He shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

Lana laughed. “Well, do you sleepwalk?”

At last he cracked a smile, an extraordinary smile that transformed his grave features. “No, I don’t sleepwalk.”

“Good, because I live on the third floor.”

He suddenly looked uncertain, and his step slowed.

She winked. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

He ran his hand over his dark hair. The movement revealed the barest glints of silver. Suddenly he stopped, and a bemused expression came over his face. “Listen, um, Lana, this is pretty new to me.”

Poor guy, he was still wrestling with coming out. “Don’t worry,” she said, laying a comforting hand on his arm. “I’ll help you as much as I can. I want us to be friends, you know.”

In fact, until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she missed having someone with whom she could share little things. Oh sure, Alex lived just down the hall—but Jack was there now, too, and they were building a home on Versailles Road, where the rich of Lexington migrated to live among endangered horse farms. She sensed an uncommon connection with Greg and hoped he would feel comfortable with her, too.

He shook his head. “But the money—”

“Hey, I’m fairly flexible. My rent is due on the first of the month, so as long as you pay me the day before, we’re square.”

He pursed his mouth. “Exactly how much money are we talking about?”

Ah—he was broke. A man who lived above his means, by the looks of his suit, and who probably hated the thought of having to share an apartment. Well, at least the man had good taste in clothing, even if he erred a bit on the Republican side. She smiled. “Four hundred a month.”

He studied her, as if sizing up what kind of a roommate she’d make. “In return for?”

She gestured ahead of them to an ivy-covered brick structure. “There’s my building up ahead. Why don’t I just show you?”

More studying—Greg Healey was a studier. Suddenly, she very much wanted the chance to get to know him better. Say yes, she urged him silently.

His chest rose as he inhaled deeply, then he lifted his hands in a gesture of submission. “Okay, let’s go.”

GREG’S HEART POUNDED as he climbed the stairs behind Lana. He suspected, however, that his elevated pulse had more to do with the side-to-side motion of Lana’s curvy behind than the exertion of ascending two flights of stairs.

“The elevator works most of the time,” she offered over her shoulder. “But to be honest, it’s so slow, I always take the stairs, anyway.”

She talked as if he’d be spending a lot of time in the building, Greg noted. He had to admit he admired the woman’s chutzpah. He followed her mutely through the door at the top of the stairs, into a corridor, then wound around two corners before stopping behind her in front of number thirty-six.

“This is it,” she said, swinging open the wooden door.

As Greg stood rooted at the threshold, a tiny voice he recognized as his conscience whispered, Don’t do it. This woman is complicated. Greg’s nerve endings danced with indecision. He could still turn back. He should turn back.

But when she beamed a glorious smile his way, her eyes flashing an invitation, anticipation waxed over caution. A powerful surge of attraction hardened his sex. At this moment, he would have followed this beauty into a pit of tar. His feet must have moved, because suddenly he was standing in an eccentric, if slightly bare, loft. He barely took his eyes off Lana, whose sexual appeal now bordered on hazardous. His body strained for fulfillment. Greg wet his lips, feeling like a teenager in his haste to touch her.

“This is the living room,” she said, practically bouncing on the heels of her thick-soled pink tennis shoes.

The “living room” was defined by a large red area rug in the shape of an apple. In contrast, the couch facing them was yellow; the chair, an oversize beanbag chair in University-of-Kentucky-blue. An enormous live Christmas tree stood against the wall, its branches bowed from the dozens of ornaments and dangling crystals. The scent of fresh evergreen stirred his senses even more. Sitting on a wooden stool was a small antique television sporting a rabbit-ear antenna contraption that extended into the air at least four feet.