Mad About You

on her waist. He swung open the door of his big delivery truck. "I'm interested in a particular single woman."
    Jasmine's breath left her as she read the seriousness in Ladden's gaze. He towered over her by a good eight inches, and she had never considered herself a small woman. She dropped her gaze to his chest, which turned out to be a mistake, because the sight of his red shirt expanding with each breath sent her imagination running wild.
    Her mind constructed words to explain that what he implied was impossible, to let him down gently—but the phrases were scrambled somewhere between her brain cells and her tongue. Instead, she allowed him to curl his hands around her waist and lift her—as easily as if she were one of those strange butterflies—into the seat of the roomy cab.
    After he closed the door, Jasmine bit her tongue and counted to ten in the darkness. She'd call Trey the minute she arrived home and see if they could meet for dinner tomorrow, or maybe lunch—or even a snack. The driver-side door squeaked open, triggering the overhead light, and Ladden swung up into the seat. He banged the door shut three times before it stuck, then said, "I might ask you the same question." He pumped the gas pedal, then turned over the engine.
    Intent on the calming effect of her counting, Jasmine asked, "What question?"
    "Why haven't you married?"
    She waited until he'd put the truck into gear and they'd lurched forward before she answered. "I've been waiting for the right man, I guess."
    Ladden reached forward to turn on the radio. "And have you found the right man in Governor McDonald?"
    Jasmine listened to the strains of a jazz guitar for several seconds, then said, "He's the most eligible bachelor in the state."
    "So they say. Better buckle up."
    "Are you a bad driver?" she teased, glad to change the topic.
    "The shocks on this old truck have just about had it," he said with a grimace. "The seat belt will keep you from bouncing against the ceiling if we hit a pothole."
    She laughed, relaxing into the soft, upholstered bench seat. The cavernous cab smelled like the lemon air freshener that dangled from one of the knobs on the imposing dashboard. Despite the seemingly endless space between her and Ladden, Jasmine felt the intimacy in sharing a confined space with a man who had so recently made her aware of his interest.
    "I listened to the news for a report about the earthquake today," she said, trying to find safe conversational ground, "but I didn't hear a thing."
    Even in the semidarkness, she sensed his unease. "I guess the damage was confined to a small area," he offered.
    "Were your losses substantial?"
    "Quite a bit of glassware and a few clocks, but I'll survive."
    "Good." She chanced a glance at his dark profile. "I'd hate to lose one of my most reliable resources."
    He swung his gaze toward her. "If 'reliable' is all I can get, I guess I'll take it."
    She laughed lightly, then realized they had come to a complete stop at an intersection and the light glowed green.
    "Where do you live?" he asked, his tone sheepish.
    Jasmine laughed harder. "Near the expressway, on Candlelight Court."
    He whistled. "Nice area."
    "I like it," she said, making a split-second comparison between her upscale condo and the hovel she'd lived in as a child.
    "Do you have nice neighbors?"
    Jasmine frowned into the darkness. Actually, she had no idea. "It's not a very social community—everyone's so busy, I suppose."
    "I've been tempted to move a few times," Ladden said, "but every time I think of the possibility of getting stuck with bad neighbors, I stay put and count my blessings." He smiled at her across the seat. "Mr. and Mrs. Matthews keep their yard looking nice, and the Hanovers are always inviting me over to cook out with them."
    "Sounds homey," she agreed, thinking a murder could be committed in the unit next to hers and she'd never know it. "So, have you decided on a price for the rug?"
    He probed his cheek with his tongue. "I still haven't decided whether to sell it."
    "Just promise me I'll get first crack at it."
    " If I decide to sell the rug, you'll get first crack at it."
    "I'm making headway," she said triumphantly.
    Inclining his head toward the bag she clung to, he said, "By the way, the check you gave me for that copper lamp was way too much. I can't accept it."
    "Just put it on my account," she said quickly, thinking that, after the quake, he could probably use a little cash flow. "Will you be open for business