Monkey Wrench by Nancy Martin

“Muffins,” Susannah said. “No doubt my grandmother made them so you and I could have a romantic breakfast together. Let me go shut off the oven and we can take that tour—”
    â€œNo, let me take care of the muffins.” Joe put a restraining hand on Susannah’s arm. “You go get your other shoe.”
    He wasn’t just take-charge, he was helpful, too. “Thanks,” she said, once again glad to have someone like Joe around when she needed it.
    Susannah dashed upstairs and found her shoe under the bed, where she’d thrown it when she’d heard Joe’s truck. She pulled it onto her foot and began lacing it.
    But she stopped, laces frozen in her hands. From downstairs in the kitchen, she heard Joe start to hum. And in a few moments, as she brushed her hair and began winding it onto the top of her head, she heard him start to sing.
    And, boy, could he sing! Not just the pop-tunes-in-the-shower repertoire, but real singing, like great opera baritones Susannah had heard on the radio. Joe’s voice rose from the kitchen and rumbled in the rafters. Susannah stopped fidgeting with her hair and stood very still, listening, transfixed.
    How could a man’s voice sound so poignant? So emotional? So wonderful?
    â€œStop thinking like a star-struck teenager,” Susannah lecturedherself. “He may be helpful, and he may sing like Placido Domingo, but he’s not your type at all.”
    No, Susannah Atkins only dated intellectuals. Or hard-driven executives. Or a combination of both. Most of the time, she dated Roger Selby, and he was a far cry from Joe Santori. Roger was very attractive—he kept fit on the racquetball court and was notoriously vigilant about his diet—but as Susannah fixed her hair, she found herself thinking that Roger was...well, kind of effete compared to Joe. Roger was witty and intelligent and a good conversationalist. But Joe seemed like a man’s man, capable of talking sports or sweeping a woman off her feet if he wanted to.
    He’s not going to sweep me, of course, she said silently to her reflection.
    Susannah was not the sweepable sort. She was a very levelheaded woman who knew what she wanted out of life. And the likes of Joe Santori did not fit into her plans at all.
    With that thought held firmly in her mind, Susannah calmly descended the stairs, fully dressed, combed and in control.
    She followed the heavenly scent of muffins to the kitchen. Rose Atkins’s kitchen was mostly pink and as frilly as a Victorian lady’s boudoir. Lace curtains were tied back from the windows by lengths of pink velvet ribbon. The round table was adorned by a pink tatted tablecloth, and a pot of poinsettias stood cheerily in the center. Small framed watercolors of assorted pink flowers hung on the walls, and the labels on the Mason jars that lined the shelves on one wall were pink and inscribed with Rose Atkins’s name and the preserving date.
    Big, rawboned Joe Santori looked very out of place.
    â€œI couldn’t resist,” said Joe when Susannah arrived in the kitchen. “The best thing to drink with fresh muffins is the famous Santori Sizzler, guaranteed to make you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m just whipping up a couple now.”
    He had taken off his parka and was moving around the kitchen in his flannel shirt and jeans, making himself completely at home with the refrigerator and the blender. He hadpulled the muffin tray from the oven and prepared a basket with a fresh white napkin, now brimming with gently steaming muffins. Bemused by his efficiency, Susannah replied, “My tail is fine the way it is.”
    â€œI quite agree,” he retorted, making a show of pouring a frothy pink drink from the blender into two tall glasses. “But this will put a little more shine in your eyes, Miss Suzie. Here. Try it.”
    He thrust the icy glass into Susannah’s hand and lifted his own drink for a toast.