Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 86

But Charlene wasn't the type to gamble on uncertainty. She prepared for life. She contemplated it. She studied it with the various how-to books that lined her monstrous bookshelf. She planned it down to the last detail so that there were no surprises.

No excitement.

Charlene forced aside the last thought and turned her attention to the apple pie the waitress slid in front of her.

She didn't need excitement.

What she needed was a way to show the women of Romeo that it wasn't about the way they looked or dressed or what they cooked up in their kitchen that made them attractive to the opposite s.e.x. A woman didn't have to turn herself into a flirtatious, outrageous diva like Lolly Langtree to attract a man. All she really had to do was be herself and let her personality s.h.i.+ne through.

She needed to prove that to the women of Romeo. But even more, she needed to prove it to herself.

"Are you all right?" Stewart asked her again. "Because I've been talking and I don't think you've heard a word I've said."

Charlene forced a smile. "I really am tired." And rattled.

"Cancel your afternoon appointments and go home early," Stewart suggested. He smiled. "Doctor's orders."

She nodded.

Maybe after a good night's rest she wouldn't be thinking such ridiculous thoughts. Like how her coveted theory might be completely and totally off-base and her life's work useless.

Or worse, how she'd wasted so many years waiting for the perfect match to come along and give her the happily ever after she'd always dreamed about, only to find herself just this side of thirty and still very much alone.

Or how much she really needed a taste of Mason's chocolate cake.

And how much she really, really needed a taste of him.

3.

"DADBLAME IT, Lurline! I told you to buy the high-fiber bran flakes."

The familiar male voice carried through the house to greet Mason when he opened the front door of the sprawling ranch house that sat in the heart of the Iron Horse.

He'd spent the better part of the day since he'd returned from town inspecting the north pasture. There were fences to be repaired, cattle to be rounded up and a host of other ch.o.r.es that had fallen by the wayside since his granddad had pa.s.sed on a few months ago.

Josh had been seeing to things since the funeral while Mason finished up his last project as head of McGraw Ranch Management. But in the past few weeks, Josh had been preoccupied with Holly Farraday. Not to mention, Josh had never been much of a rancher at heart. As a teenager, he'd been more content under the hood of an old clunker than on the back of a horse. While he'd spent his free time back in high school learning how to fly a crop duster and had gone on to become a pilot and operate his own charter service out Arizona, he'd never lost his pa.s.sion for cars. Now that he'd found the woman, he'd decided to sell his business, stay in Romeo and open up his own auto shop.

Mason was glad that his brother had finally made peace with his past-Josh had nursed a world of hurt over their father's infidelities-and so he wasn't the least bit angry that Josh had let things slide a little at the ranch.

"All bran flakes are high in fiber. That's what bran is," a female voice countered, pulling Mason from his thoughts. A voice that belonged to his great-aunt Lurline.

Lurline and her husband Eustess had moved in six years ago when Mason's grandfather had first been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Since all three grandsons were off making their own way in the world and they were the only living relatives within a spit and a throw, Lurline had said it was their duty to look after Romeo in his time of need.

He'd pa.s.sed away eight months ago, but Mason and his brothers had insisted that the older couple stay on at the house. Lurline and Eustess were just a few birthdays shy of ninety. Lurline's memory wasn't what it used to be and Eustess suffered from severe arthritis. Their own kids had grown up and moved away, and they found themselves the ones in need of family now.

And Mason was in need of an extra strength Tylenol.

"There ain't a thing on this here box that says anything about these flakes being high in fiber. I want the ones in the light blue box that say it right there on the front."

"That's just fancy packaging to make folks think that they're getting something extra so they'll fork over a good fifty cents more for something that ain't worth more than two dollars in the first place."

Make that two Tylenol.

After an hour at the Fat Cow Diner, Mason had had a headache the size of the Grand Canyon. So big, in fact, that even an afternoon out in the pasture, with the sun beating down on him and the horse steady and strong beneath him, hadn't been able to ease the blasted throbbing. Lolly had wanted more than a walk down memory lane. She'd wanted a ride, so to speak, and Mason's refusal hadn't set too well with her. Not that she would be put off. That was one thing about Lolly and all the women like her. They were persistent.

The thing was, Mason didn't feel nearly as hot and bothered over Lolly as he was over a certain relations.h.i.+p therapist. And so all the persistence in the world wasn't going to change his mind.

Not this time.

Because at this point in his life, Mason McGraw wanted more than a roll in the hay.

He wanted forever.

"I want the cereal in the blue box," Eustess insisted while Mason contemplated opening the door and heading back out to the barn.

That's what he'd been doing for the past week. In between watching Josh mooning over Holly and listening to Eustess and Lurline arguing over everything, the only peace and quiet Mason had found was out in the pasture. Branding calves, rounding up strays or riding fence.

But Josh had declared his love and he was now at Holly's place working out the details of their future together. And probably working out, period.

Which meant it was just Eustess and Lurline standing between Mason and a good night's sleep.

He walked down the hallway toward the kitchen and the voices.

"Really, Eustess." His aunt Lurline was a tiny woman with curly white hair and gla.s.ses. She wore the same type of flower print dress she'd worn when Mason and his brothers had begged for chocolate chunk cookies and milk every Sunday after supper. This particular one was orange with black daisy shapes. "You're acting like a child."

"I'm actin' like a man who's wife refuses to do what she's told." Eustess was a foot taller than his wife, but thanks to his arthritis, he stooped so much that they almost seemed the same height. He wore overalls over a long-sleeved yellow s.h.i.+rt that b.u.t.toned up to his neck. His bald head glittered in the kitchen light.

"Nice night." Mason walked over to the stove and picked up a piece of his great-aunt's fried chicken.

"Good evening, dear," Lurline said, pausing to smile at Mason before she turned a murderous stare on her husband of sixty-something years. "First off, Eustess Luther Eugene Ketchum, you don't tell me a cotton pickin' thing." She wagged a finger at him. "You ask. And then, if I'm feeling my usual generous nature, I'll do it. If I'm not, you can darned tootin' go to the store and get your own overpriced cereal." Her attention s.h.i.+fted back to Mason and her smile returned. "There's gravy to go with that, dear."

"Mighty good gravy, too," Eustess added, clapping Mason on the shoulder before he eyeballed his wife. "That's the trouble with you. You're too d.a.m.ned tight with a penny, just like your mother."

"My mother was frugal. There's a big difference. And if you want to point fingers, you need to point one at your own mother. Why, that woman was the most bossy female I've ever met."

"Your mother was a gossiping busybody," Eustess countered.

"This chicken is out of this world," Mason said, eager to distract Lurline. But the dig at her mother had obviously pushed her over the edge.

"Well," she huffed, "your mother was a know-it-all. Too bad somebody drop-kicked the apple when it fell from the tree."

Eustess' gaze narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you ain't got the sense G.o.d gave a goose. Why, there are regular folks the world over who would give their right eye for that there box of bran cereal."

"No need. They're more than welcome to mine 'cause it ain't gonna do me a lick of good. I swear you're trying to kill me."

"If I was, believe you me, I would think of something a heck of a lot more painful."

"Ain't nothing more painful than stopped up plumbing. 'Cept maybe seeing you in that there orange dress."

"Why, you old geezer..."

"I think I'll just finish this upstairs," Mason said as he headed for the hallway. The arguing continued as if Mason hadn't said a word. The voices followed him clear across the house to the large bedroom he'd occupied as a kid.

He'd played high school football and he'd been good at it, but he hadn't loved it. Not like his baby brother, Rance, who'd gone on to play pro ball for the Dallas Cowboys until a knee injury had knocked his career out from under him.

Mason's pa.s.sion had been rodeo.

Trophies for everything from calf-roping to bronc busting lined the walls. Dozens of buckles lined another shelf. His favorite la.s.so hung from one of the bedposts. His first saddle draped over the back of a chair.

It had been during his rodeo days right after high school that he'd realized the real ingredient to a lasting marriage.

Tucker Pierce had been the best bull rider on the circuit back then and a good ten years older than Mason. He'd been a country boy from the Texas Hill Country with a sharp Southern tw.a.n.g and a degree from the school of hard knocks. He'd been married to Linda, a Harvard-educated lawyer who'd come from old money. They'd been about as opposite as black and white, and yet they'd been the happiest couple he'd ever seen. Linda never missed a rodeo. Every Friday she would leave her fancy practice in Houston where they'd bought a house, and drive to whatever hole-in-the-wall town was hosting that week's ride. And after the rodeo, they would disappear into Tucker's RV and not come up for air until the next morning.

Mason had gone to the Pro Bull Riding Finals in Las Vegas a few years back and he'd run into them. They'd still been all smiles. Still happy. And going on twenty years of marriage.

Mason had once asked Tucker their secret and his friend had simply smiled and said, "It's called good, old-fas.h.i.+oned l.u.s.t, buddy. We just can't keep our hands off each other."

Physical attraction.

That's what drew two people together. What kept them together. Mason's parents had had similar personalities and a s.h.i.+tload of things in common, but they hadn't had even the tiniest bit of physical attraction. And so their marriage had been a failure from the start. A farce.

It made sense, and it also made him that much more determined to do things differently in his own life.

Mason hung his hat on a peg near the door, sat down on the edge of the twin bed and pulled off his boots. While the room seemed smaller than he remembered, the house itself actually seemed bigger.

Then again, the last time he had been home had been for his grandfather's funeral.

There had been people everywhere then, filling up every nook and cranny. The same way they'd done when Mason's father had pa.s.sed away after wrapping his GTO around an telephone pole. Mason had been thirteen and his father's death had come less than twenty-four hours after his mother had died in the hospital from an infection a.s.sociated with a miscarriage.

His father had been running from his grief in that car, trying to outrun his pain.

But Mason had lived with his pain. He'd lived with the loneliness and the longing for a real home and a real family.

No more.

He was through dreaming about home. He was here now and he was staying. As for a real family...He intended to do something about that soon, starting with finding a woman. The woman. The one who turned him on and fired his blood, one who filled him with a l.u.s.t so intense that he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off of her, just like Tucker had said.

"...I'd never married you in the first place. My momma warned me..." Lurline's voice carried through the open doorway.

Mason kicked the door closed and emptied his pockets out onto the dresser. His fingers paused on the crinkled business card and an idea struck.

He smiled.

While he, personally, didn't need any relations.h.i.+p therapy-he knew from seeing his parents' dysfunctional marriage that it took an intense physical attraction to make a relations.h.i.+p really work-he knew a couple who could definitely use Charlene's help. He was going to have a h.e.l.l of a time getting any sleep with Eustess and Lurline at each other's throats.

They needed Charlene.

And Mason needed a good excuse to see her again because he had a hunch, and a hard-on, that told him she just might be the woman he was looking for.

"IT'S ABOUT TIME you showed up." Marge Winch.e.l.l met Charlene at the door early the next morning.

Marge had been her father's secretary over at Romeo Savings & Loan since its grand opening in 1962, right up until he'd packed his bags, left his wife and job, to everyone's shock, and moved to Pennsylvania.

She'd stayed on at the savings & loan as secretary to the man who'd replaced her father, up until her favorite boss' daughter had graduated college and opened up her own practice. She'd been with Charlene ever since.

Marge's frosted hair was teased in the same beehive hairdo she'd sported at the bank's ribbon-cutting ceremony, a picture of which still sat on the corner of her desk. Bright pink lipstick matched the nail polish on her two-inch acrylic nails. Silver-framed cat's eye gla.s.ses perched low on her nose. She wore a white b.u.t.ton-up blouse and a full pink skirt belted with a three inch black leather belt. Several pink plastic bracelets dangled from one bony wrist. She smelled of Aqua Net and Emeraude and the three Camels she allotted herself per day.

"Here's your coffee." Marge handed Charlene a steaming mug. "And your messages." The old woman shoved a stack into Charlene's other hand. "And the lecture notes that you wanted me to type up." The woman handed over a manilla folder which Charlene cradled in her arms. "And the chart for the nine o'clock patient."

"But we don't have a nine o'clock."

"We do now. The Patricks were waiting when I pulled into the parking lot. They said they needed to speak with you right away. They're in your office. Now, here's the morning mail, including a flyer for that seminar you wanted to register for last year, Getting in Touch With Your Inner Self." She set the colorful brochure on the growing stack. "The latest issue of Psychology Today, another advertis.e.m.e.nt for another seminar, Getting in Touch With Your Spouse's Inner Self, a few pieces of junk including coupons for the new bakery opening up over by the courthouse, the new Science Digest, a Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue."

"But I don't-"

"Wait a second." Marge s.n.a.t.c.hed the catalogue back. "That's mine." She rifled through her stack. "Mine." She pulled out the Venus Swimwear Summer Sales Bonanza. "Mine." The latest issue of Cosmo. "And mine." She also took another catalogue for the new Xandria collection of s.e.x toys. Then she made a face. "Definitely yours." She handed over the Abercrombie & Fitch. "You'd better hurry." She rounded Charlene and gave her a little push toward her office door. "The Patricks have been waiting for twenty minutes and it's been quiet the entire time."

"Really?" Charlene smiled. "The therapy must be working."

"That or they've bludgeoned each other to death." Marge deposited the leftovers on the corner of her desk. "I knew that coffee table book Stewart gave you for Christmas, How to Can Your Own Vegetables, would come in handy some day."

Charlene frowned. "It's signed by the author and it was thoughtful. You know how much I love how-to books."

"How to Ride 'Em Like a Rodeo Queen. Now that's thoughtful, and darned useful. Forget decorating the coffee table. There's no man in his right mind who wouldn't want his woman to wear down the pages memorizing every cotton pickin' word of that."

Charlene eyeballed her secretary. "There's no such book."

"There sure enough is, and if Stewart had half a brain he would have bought it for you. Something's wrong with that boy, I'm telling you. No man in his right mind buys a woman a book about canning."

"He does if they're friends, which we are." For now.

"That's my point. No healthy, red-blooded American man, at least the ones I know, would be happy being friends with a woman unless he b.u.t.ters his bread on the wrong side. Are you sure he's not gay?"

"Yes." Sort of. She'd actually wondered the same thing for a while. But then she'd personally witnessed him salivate a time or two while watching a particularly attractive female contestant on Jeopardy, so she'd dismissed the notion. "He wants to talk about us when he gets back from his convention." There. Let Marge digest that tidbit of information.

"Is that so?"

"It most definitely is." Charlene smiled. "I think he's going to step things up and ask me to be his girlfriend."

"It's about time. Good friends." Marge snorted. "Why, that's the silliest thing I've ever heard. You wouldn't catch me wasting my time with a man who just wanted to be my friend."