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?"

Melanie groaned and covered her eyes with her hands, but Chris just smiled. He leaned close to Nana's fire-engine red hair and said, "I think I'm going to charm her out of some more chicken, then see if I can talk her into parting with some cheesecake."

Nana laughed and slapped her knee, sending her knee-high stocking down to her ankle. "Well, good luck, son. Mel hasn't parted with any cheesecake in quite a while. I keep telling her to loosen up a little, but does she listen to me? No. All she does is work, work, work."

She turned to Melanie, who felt as if the fires of hell were burning in her cheeks. "I'd hold onto this one if I were you. He's cute, smart, and he's got a great butt. Needs some new pants, though. I don't care for this fashion of lettin' your drawers hang out of holes in your pants. At least the hole's in the back, otherwise his-"

"Thank you, Nana," Melanie broke in hastily. "Why don't you head back to the kitchen? I'll be right there."