She looked him up and down, then shook her head. "I don't think so. Peter Pan wore green tights." She waggled her eyebrows at him, Groucho style. "I already know you're wearing white boxers."

In spite of himself, Chris felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. He quickly smothered it. Why the hell did he feel like laughing? He was angry. Inconvenienced. Wet. Hungry. His suit was ruined; probably his shoes, too. I'm deranged from lack of food.

"So, are you going to tell me your name?" she asked. "Don't be shy. Believe me, it can't be worse than mine. No matter how hard I try, no one will call me Melanie."

He held out his hand. "Christopher Bishop. Call me Chris."

She shook his hand, and Chris immediately noticed how soft her skin was. And how cute her dimples were. A warm tingle zoomed right through him. Jeez, I'm really losing it. This woman was so completely not his type, it was laughable. He preferred small, curvy, blue-eyed blondes. She was tall, lanky, and dark-eyed. Not to mention a mess.

But there was something about her-he had no idea what-that had all his senses standing at attention. He shook his head. Obviously the final stages of malnutrition were setting in.

Her look turned serious. "I'm really sorry I blocked you in. And about your pants." She reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a card. "If you send the repair bill to me, I'll be happy to pay it."

He took the wet card and studied her closely. Now that home was again fifteen minutes away, his annoyance ebbed somewhat. The rain had dwindled down to a mere drizzle. "I doubt they can be repaired, but thanks anyway." He leaned closer and sniffed. "I saw you on the elevator. You smell like fried chicken."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Wow. Words I've always longed to hear."

He laughed. "I meant, I smelled you in the elevator and…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Somehow that doesn't sound right, either."

"That's okay. I smelled you in the elevator, too. You're wearing my favorite men's cologne. It smells much better than chicken."

"Not if you're starving, it doesn't," he said. Almost as if he'd planned it, his stomach let out a loud growl.

"Well, Christopher-call-me-Chris Bishop, you sound hungry, and I happen to have two hundred bucks' worth of Pampered Palate food in my car. Could I interest you in a meal? As a way of saying thanks?" She smiled at him. "We make the best fried chicken in Atlanta."

Since he was ready to eat the windshield wipers off the Mercedes, he didn't even consider refusing her offer. "Sounds good."

She handed him the umbrella and leaned into the car, once again affording him a heart-stopping view of her long legs. She straightened and handed him two boxed dinners. "Here you go. Enjoy."

"Thanks."

"Least I can do. Well, I'd better let you get home to your dinner." She slid into the Dodge and waved to him. He nodded in return and walked to his car.

Melanie clicked her seat belt into place and pushed her wet hair behind her ears, trying not to watch him as he climbed into the Mercedes. Whooooeee. Christopher Bishop was, for lack of a better word, a complete hunk.

He was gorgeous when he frowned, but when he'd smiled at her, he was downright devastating. Dry, he was beautiful. But wet he was stupendous. Looking at him, with his dress shirt molded to his muscular arms and chest and his hair combed back by his hands, she got a clear image of what he must look like coming out of the shower. She thanked God she wasn't a cartoon character-her eyes would have bugged out two feet and her tongue would have rolled out onto the ground.

Well, she'd never see him again. Good thing, too. Any guy who looked that good and smelled that good was a hazard to her mental health. She knew firsthand that men who looked like Christopher Bishop couldn't be trusted. Brokenhearted women probably littered the sidewalks around his house. Yup, he had girl in every port written all over him. She exhaled loudly. Been there. Done that. Never again.

She put the Dodge in gear and pulled forward, driving to the end of the curved driveway. The moment her foot touched the brake, the car stalled.

"Oh, no. Not again."

Melanie turned the key. Growl, growl, silence. She turned it again. Growl, silence. One more turn. Silence. She looked around her. At least she wasn't completely blocking the driveway. Cars could get around her. She was just contemplating the wisdom of screaming and pulling out her hair when a horn tooted. She looked out her window and saw the Mercedes pull up next to her.

She felt around on the seat for the knob to open the window. Finding it, she jammed it back on and rolled down the window. Christopher Bishop looked at her from the driver's seat of his car.

"What's wrong?" he called.

"I stalled out."

"There must be something more wrong than the battery," he said, frowning. "Probably faulty spark plugs, or a wet distributor cap."

"Oh." Faulty spark plugs. And her thingamabob was wet. Swell.

"I'd try drying it off for you, but there's not much point as long as it's still drizzling."

Melanie muttered a mild oath. Now what? It would seem a call to Nana was in order. She rolled up the window, opened the door, and slid out. No point bothering with the umbrella. The rain was now nothing more than an annoying drip-drip, and she was soaked anyway. And barefoot. It seemed this day was just getting worse by the minute.

She'd only taken two steps when she heard Chris yell, "Where are you going?"

She turned. He stood next to his car, munching on a chicken leg. "I'm going to call someone to pick me up."

He hesitated a second, then said, "I could drop you off… but I warn you, it's gonna cost you some more food." He took another bite and grinned. "It's great chicken, by the way."

Melanie considered his offer. Nana would have to close up shop to rescue her. Besides, her grandmother shouldn't drive-she was a hazard on the road. That was why Melanie had made the deliveries tonight-she'd been elected by default.

Christopher Bishop seemed like a decent guy. He certainly wasn't hard to look at, he smelled great, and he hadn't made any untoward gestures when she'd been sprawled across his lap. Besides, she had pepper spray in her glove compartment. She'd bring it with her. One false move and the guy would be toast. Pepper toast.

"How much more food?" she asked, walking back toward the Dodge.

"How much ya got?"

She laughed. "Okay, Christopher. I'll trade you a ride to the Pampered Palate for two more chicken dinners. It's just a few miles down the road. On Peachtree."

"Deal. Let's go."

While he transferred the heavy box from the Dodge to the Mercedes, Melanie grabbed her purse and stuck the pepper spray inside. Hey, a girl could never be too careful.

She slid into the soft leather passenger seat of the luxurious Mercedes and sighed. A Billy Joel tune flowed from the CD player. "Nice car. It still smells new."

"I only bought it two months ago," he said, easing his way into the Friday-night traffic. "A present to myself for making partner."

"You're a lawyer?" she asked, praying he wasn't from Slickert, Cashman, and Rich.

"No. Accountant."

"Ah. And you work in that office building?"

"Yup. Twenty-fifth floor."

She cocked her head toward the CD player. "You a Billy Joel fan?"

"Everybody from New York is a Billy Joel fan."

She stared at his profile. "You're from New York?"

"That's not a crime, you know."

"Of course it isn't. I'm originally from the Big Apple myself."

"I thought I detected a bit of an accent. What part of New York?"

" Long Island. You?"

" Westchester." He looked over and smiled at her. "Seems like everybody in Atlanta is from somewhere else. What brought you down south?"

"I couldn't afford New York. Atlanta 's a happenin' place, the weather's great, and it's affordable. So here I am." She tapped her bare foot to the music. "Have you lived here long?"

"Since high school. My dad was transferred during my sophomore year."

She winced in sympathy. "That must have been tough."

"At the time, I thought it was the end of the world." He shot her a sheepish grin. "I think I set a world record for complaining."

"Considering the way you carried on about being blocked in, I'm not surprised to hear it," Melanie teased.

"Very funny. So, how long have you worked for the Pampered Palate?"

"Ever since it opened six months ago." She hummed along to "Uptown Girl" for several seconds, then added, "Actually, I own it."

His brows shot up. "You own the Pampered Palate?"

"Yes. Well, me and the bank. That fried chicken is our best-selling item. It's Nana's secret recipe and she guards it with her life."

"Nana?"

"My Grandma Sylvia. I've always called her Nana. We live together and she helps out in the kitchen."

"Do you usually make your own deliveries?"

Melanie shook her head. "My delivery man called in sick at the last minute. Nana offered to step in, but as much as I love her, she's a menace on the road. Sort of a cross between Mario Andretti and Mr. Magoo. Anyway, we offer free delivery on orders over a hundred dollars. That's mostly corporate accounts."

She slanted him a sidelong look. "Our motto is, 'If it's not delivered on time, it's on us.' That's why I double-parked." She jerked her head toward the backseat. "I had five minutes to get that box of food upstairs or I was out two hundred bucks."

"Why do you still have it?"

"The customers had some sort of emergency. They called and canceled the order, but I'd already left."

"Who was it for?"

"Slickert, Cashman, and Rich, Attorneys at Law. Thirtieth floor. I wonder what happened."

"Walter Rich was rushed to the hospital," Chris said.

"Oh, no! Is he okay?"

"I think so. He slipped and fell. His leg is broken and he might have cracked a few ribs. The ambulance came around seven."

"How awful. Which hospital was he taken to?"

" Piedmont, I think."

"I'll have to call and find out how he is," Melanie said. "He's such a nice man, and one of my best customers. He looks just like-"

"Santa Claus without the beard," Chris finished for her. "My firm audits them. Walter's a great guy."

Chris maneuvered the Mercedes into the small parking lot adjacent to the Pampered Palate. "Here we are. I'll help you with the box."

Melanie held the door for him and they walked into the small front room of the brightly lit store. No one was there behind the glossy dark green granite counter, decorated with a vase of cheerful flowers and a stack of takeout menus. The gleaming parquet floor lent the small space a cozy feel, while the cream-colored walls gave it a dignified air. No tables. The Pampered Palate was strictly takeout.

When she saw him looking around, Melanie said, "I know it's small, but I'm hoping to expand. I want to buy a delivery truck and do private catering on the weekends, then eventually expand into a full restaurant."

"Ambitious goals," he said, nodding, "but if your food is any indication of your talents, I'm sure you'll succeed."

"Thanks." She set her purse on the counter. "I really appreciate the ride. It was very nice of you, especially considering the inconvenience I caused you."

"What are you going to do about your car?"

Melanie shrugged. "I'm not sure. The only person I know who knows anything about cars is my delivery man, and he's sick."

"You can't leave it parked in that driveway the whole weekend. It'll get towed."

Towed. She hadn't thought of that. Just what she needed-another expense. "I'll think of something," she said.

He set the box down on the counter, and Melanie smothered a laugh. The rip in his pants was a good six inches across. A patch of white boxers stuck out, complete with a smear of barbecue sauce. She smiled and pulled out two dinners.

"Hey, Melanie!" Nana's scratchy voice reached them. The energetic woman who walked in from the kitchen was a cross between Julia Child and Richard Simmons. She stared at Chris. "Jiminy Cricket. Who's the babe magnet?"

Melanie coughed to cover up a laugh. "Nana, this is Christopher Bishop. I had some car trouble and he gave me a ride."

"Sylvia Gibson," Nana said, sticking out a flour-encrusted hand.

Chris shook her hand and said, "You make the best fried chicken in Atlanta, ma'am."

Nana blushed and patted her short, frizzy, bright red hair. "Call me Nana. So, you after my granddaughter or what?"

"Nana!"

"She's a great cook and she's single," her grandmother continued, unrepentant. "Drives a piece of crap for a car, but she won't give it up. She's stubborn but good-hearted, and loves kids and pets." She peered at him over her bifocals. "What do you think?"