Anything But Flowers, book 3: Sugar & Spice Bakery

By Linda Carroll-Bradd

Single mother Farah Mayhew has her life under control--barely. When her car breaks down, she's forced to accept help from a Texas charmer. She likes things done her way, but garage owner Gil Fremont has his own ideas about everything. Divorcée Farah Mayhew is determined to make her own way, but will she relinquish control when Gil Fremont races to the rescue and sweeps into her life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inked Figments
• Release date: May 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781940546148

Linda Carroll-Bradd

As a young girl, Linda was often found lying on her bed reading about fascinating characters having exciting adventures in places far away and in other time periods. In later years, she read and then started writing romances and achieved her first publication--a confession story. Married with four adult children and two granddaughters, Linda now writes heartwarming contemporary and historical stories with a touch of humor from her home in the southern California mountains Please visit Linda Carroll-Bradd on her Website. Follow her on Facebook and Twitter. Visit and follow her Amazon Author Page and BookBub page. Please sign up for her Newsletter to stay informed of upcoming releases and special offers.

Book preview

Chapter One

The sun beat down, sending shimmering ripples across the two-lane Texas road and the green fields, soon to be decorated in bluish-purple by bluebonnets. The newspapers would be flooded with photos of kids and pets surrounded by the Texas state flower. Today, temperatures soared to an unusual level for early February. Frowning at the trickle of perspiration forming at her temples, Farah took her focus from the highway ahead and glanced behind her into the back of the compact station wagon. Were the bundles of fresh flowers she’d just bought at the San Antonio wholesale market wilting? Not wanting to lose a single bloom, she flipped on the air conditioner.

The engine accepted the added strain, slowing for a moment or two, and then emitted a loud pfrrip sound before shuddering. After steering onto the shoulder, Farah looked down at the brightly-lit instrument panel and groaned. Why today? Why with four hundred dollars’ worth of flowers inside? Fighting the knot growing in her stomach, she dug into her purse for her cell phone and road service membership card. The air inside the vehicle grew stifling, so she climbed out and looked for a spot away of the direct sunlight.

After listening to several rounds of assurances that her call was important, Farah connected with a dispatcher who wanted her exact location. I’m on the rural route that heads north about five miles outside of San Antonio. No, I don’t know the name of the last road I crossed. Sorry, but I wasn’t expecting a pop quiz. Unbelievable. She listened again then shook her head, pacing in the shade of a billboard a few feet below the road shoulder. I can’t see a house, let alone any numbers on a house. Don’t be snippy. I’m the one who needs help. I’ve been driving the old Johnson highway off the interstate for about twelve minutes. Does that help any?

The sound of a semi-truck gearing down to make the curve reached her ears, and she moved from the shade and climbed the grassy embankment, waving both arms. Hey! Before she got close enough for the driver to see her, she watched the semi drive past. Rats! A truck driver could tell me exactly where I am. I need to be towed to Dorado. Outside of your district? What do I do now? Frustrated at bureaucracies and their rules, she took a deep breath and waited for the call to be transferred to the right office.

A new voice asked for her membership number, and the process started over again. As soon as she heard the wait time was an hour, she sighed. Be sure the truck has air conditioning, and the driver is willing to use it. My precious babies are wilting out here.

Thirty-five minutes later, she saw a pick-up truck barreling south on the highway. Squinting against the mid-morning sun, she spotted the hoist of a wrecker. Her rescuer had arrived. An image of a brave knight on a white charger galloping through an open field of waving grass passed through her mind. Farah shook her head, worrying that weird, spacey thoughts were the first symptom of dehydration. Waving both hands above her head, she flagged down the truck.

The driver guided the silver pick-up through the dirt and weeds of the highway median strip and parked in front of her car.

Farah opened the wagon’s back hatch and scooped up an armload of flowers. Hearing the crunch of approaching boots, she yelled, Is your air conditioning on?

Yes, ma’am.

The deep rasp in his voice made her toes curl, and she sucked in a quick breath. Oh my. Good, put these inside. Treat them gently. I’ll be right behind you with another load. She turned and held out the paper-wrapped flowers.

The man bent at the waist and cupped a hand above his eyes, peering into the side windows of her wagon.

What are you doing?

Straightening, he canted his head and squinted, his face scrunched into a scowl. Where are the kids? Dispatch said you had children with you out here in the heat.

She stiffened. Please don’t claim I’m not the right person you’re looking for. A second meaning to those words flashed in her mind, but she shoved it away. I’m alone in the car. No kids are here.

Really?

A confused frown replaced the scowl, which didn’t take away a single thing from his rugged good looks. Tall, well-muscled, with dark brown hair and a couple of days’ growth of beard stubble. Too far away to see his eye color but she wished for crystal blue. That was her favorite look for a man—dark hair and blue eyes.

Dispatch classified this call as top priority because some hysterical woman—shaking his head, he lifted a stiff hand, palm outward—their words, not mine. Um, a woman who didn’t even know which road she was on was yelling that her ‘precious babies were wilting’.

Guilty on that account. She cringed. Again, a second interpretation of her words existed. What a problem she was having with her mouth today. I did use those words, but I meant my flower stock. Shrugging, she jiggled the bundles in her hands and offered an apologetic smile.

The hunk turned, settling both hands on narrow hips. You saying I risked a speeding ticket in two counties, not to mention several townships—all for the sake of a load of flowers?

The guy was totally right. Farah held her breath. She wouldn’t blame him if he were mad. Calm hadn’t been her emotional state when she’d placed the call. The fact the dispatcher misunderstood her intent was a huge possibility.

He threw back his head and laughed from deep in his throat. That’s a new one on me. Let me take those. The man lifted a bundle of carnations and another of roses from her arms and sauntered toward the truck, broad shoulders shaking with laughter as he walked.

After tearing her gaze from his long-legged Texas swagger, she filled her arms with paper-wrapped flower bundles and hurried after him. Well, how about that? A man with a sense of humor was hard to find, and so very welcome in a crisis.

Damage to this load would really hurt her financially. Until a bigger clientele was established, her flower-arranging business ran on a slim profit margin. The loss of any orders would blow her budget for the month...maybe the entire Valentine’s season.

After a few minutes in the cool truck cab, the flowers looked perkier. Hurrying back to the wagon, she grabbed her personal belongings and punched the automatic door lock. Although I’ll be within sight of the vehicle the whole drive. She stood back and watched as the man from Precision Performance Garage and Towing hooked up her twelve-year-old car.

A motor whined as the chains tightened, and the front end of her car rose off the ground. Farah climbed into the truck cab and leaned toward the vent, flapping the neckline of her T-shirt to take advantage of the cool flowing air. A blissful sigh escaped from her slackened lips.

A minute later, the man hoisted himself into the cab and ran both hands through his wavy hair. Whoo-ee, I’d forgotten how changeable Texas weather could be.

"You’d forgotten? Meaning you’ve moved back to this area?" Although a recent resident of Dorado herself, she’d not had much choice in the move. Her father’s fatal heart attack meant her mother needed her support. Three years divorced and treading water in a job she hated, she’d relocated to Texas. Trying not to be obvious, she studied the guy’s face. She didn’t know what tipped her off, but this confident man had the look of someone who’d lived in a big city. Maybe several big cities.

Yeah, last month. He grabbed a clipboard from the space between the seats and then flipped up the lid on a small cooler. One-handed, he pulled out two frosty bottles of water and offered her one.

Oh, thanks. Well, that’s thoughtful. She dropped her gaze to the name on his shirt. Gil. She unscrewed the top and gulped down the refreshing water. From where? She loved to travel and was curious about other parts of the United States.

Lots of places, mostly the Carolinas, Georgia, and Kentucky.

Sounded like a lot of travel to a person who’d only had four addresses...ever. Your job took you to all those places?

Yep. At least, it used to. He stiffened and focused on the clipboard leaning on the top of the steering wheel. You have your road service card?

She extended it across the space, and their fingers touched in the exchange. His were rough, with nicks and cuts, like hers. She’d always liked a guy who worked with his hands. Something solid and dependable about a man like that. Interesting insight, since her ex-husband had been white-collar.

With pen poised above the clipboard, Gil shot her a sideways glance from under his dark eyebrows. Where in Dorado do you want your vehicle towed?

Green—that’s what color his eyes are. Might be my new favorite look. To cover her silly distraction, she tapped a finger to her lips. I don’t know. The mechanic my mom used in the past sold his business recently. I haven’t needed service since moving here last year.

Who was that? He leaned a shoulder against the window.

She scooted so her back rested against the door and met his gaze. Joe Larson. I don’t know anything about the guy who bought his garage. Usually I talk with neighbors when someone new opens a business, you know...to get their opinions. But I’ve been so busy that.... She fluttered her hand in the air. Of course, two hours ago my car was running fine, and I had no need to check the reputation of a new garage. Glancing sideways, she took a breath and mumbled, I guess I’m babbling. That’s normal for being inside a truck cab with a stranger, right? Especially when the guy is so handsome.

Rolling his upper body, he turned toward the door to display the embroidery on his denim shirt and pointed the pen at his back. Larson’s is now Precision Performance Garage. New owner, new name.

Don’t mind my ogling. She gazed at the play of toned muscles under the company logo as the fabric pulled tight across his broad shoulders. Oh, I didn’t know. Does your boss hire competent mechanics?

Hard for me to judge that. He shrugged and again faced the windshield. So far, he hasn’t mentioned any complaints about my work.

You’re a mechanic, too? Pure instinct told her this man was competent at whatever he did. Go ahead and tow it to your shop. Do you have experience working on foreign cars?

Tinkered with a few. After handing back her card, he put the truck in gear and glanced over his left shoulder. Now that the ‘precious babies’ are safe, how about I hold to the posted speed limit?

She studied his face, gauging if he held any resentment over this situation. None existed, and that attitude was so different from how her ex would have acted. This man had a nice strong profile, jaw in balance with a wide mouth, tapered nose, and smooth forehead.

Once more, he checked the mirrors then turned toward her and gave a wink.

This guy had an even temper, one of the traits she most admired in a man. Then she realized that in her concern for the flowers, she’d forgotten to ask his name. And close to an hour’s drive lay ahead. You’ll have to excuse my manners. My name is Farah—

Mayhew. He finished with a grin that flashed a dimple in his right cheek. I just wrote all the information on my invoice.

Oh, right. Brilliant, girl. I didn’t get your name.

Fremont. Gil Fremont.

Thanks for helping with the flowers. His last name tugged at a memory from many years ago. Hey, one summer I spent several weeks with an aunt who lived in Dorado. I think there was a Remy Fremont in my swimming lessons at the city pool. Any relation?

Younger brother.

Huh, small world.

Yep.

Three words in five miles—that’s his contribution to the conversation? To keep from obsessing about the flower orders yet to be handled, she searched for a new topic. Did he continue with swimming?

A shoulder lifted in a shrug, and he grinned. As much as any kid does who takes lessons to learn.

Uh-oh, a charmer. The kind that spun you dizzy and then deserted you. She glanced through the window at the passing fields with the occasional small herd of cows or goats, or the rich brown rows of harrowed dirt. So different