Love Letters, Inc. (4 page)

Back to business, Rosie!

"Do you think we could leave the subject of my hair and talk about your problem now?" She fervently wished he'd quit staring at her. Those green eyes of his were doing the most outrageous things to her nervous system, which was none too reliable in the first place.

He continued to stare until she waved a hand in front of his face. "Mr. Summerton? Kent. Are you okay?"

"Huh?" He gave her a vacant look. "Oh... yeah, the letters."

Rosie tapped her index finger against her chin and waited for him to dredge up what wits he had. How sad. For a guy so good to look at, he had a regrettably short attention span.

He leaned forward then, rested his elbows on his knees, and riveted his smoky jade gaze to hers. "Tell me your plan, Rosie. I can't wait to hear it."

Chapter 3

Kent couldn't take his eyes off her. Rosie O'Hanlon was the glowingest woman he'd ever met. It was as though he were looking into a prism; a brilliant tumble of red hair, bright lively blue eyes framed with auburn lashes, and the whitest, smoothest skin he'd ever seen, spattered with golden freckles. Add to that she had on green jeans and a sweater—he briefly closed his eyes against the glare—in a pink strong enough to cure blindness. Then there were the oversize glasses, sort of a marine blue, that she kept pushing up a nose that looked too delicate to even hold the things. One arm on the glasses had a piece of wire holding it to the frame. He glanced at her feet. Checkered black and white socks—no shoes.

He blinked and forced his gaze back to her face. Was that a mole on her cheek, just below her right eye, or was it an enlarged freckle?

"...not sure it will work, of course. But we can give it a try. What do you think?"

He tore his brain from the mole/freckle question and caught her puzzled gaze. He had no idea what she was saying.

"Could I have a glass of water, please?" If he'd been wearing a tie he'd have loosened it. He wasn't just warm, he was stunned by his over-the-top reaction to a woman who probably kept a stash of Mickey Mouse hats in her closet. Freckles. He'd never cared for freckles. Now he couldn't help wondering how much body surface they actually covered.

Yeah, he was warm all right.

She gave him a thoughtful look, then let out a breath. "Sure. Just a minute." She got up from the sofa and headed through a door he assumed led to the kitchen.

Kent leaned back against the big soft chair, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was tense. Overtired. That was it. And too damn long without a woman. He must be, if he was susceptible to Rosie O'Hanlon. A woman in a foolish business who wore checkered socks and broken glasses. What the hell was the matter with him?

She came back and handed him a tall glass of water with ice and a twist of lemon. "Are you all right?" She eyed him warily before going back to perch on the edge of the sofa.

"Fine. Sorry. I'm not usually so scattered."

She stared at him a second, then stood as if she'd made a decision. "I think you need to eat. I'm going to make us lunch," she announced. "You sit there and relax. It won't take me a minute."

"No, thanks. I'd better go." He started to get up. He didn't need lunch, or more time with this woman. He needed to leave. He only wished he'd been listening when she'd told him her idea about stopping the letters. Irritated with himself, he decided he'd call her later, say he wanted to go over it. She'd repeat what she'd told him and that would be that.

"Sit!" she ordered, peering at him through her ridiculous glasses. "It's almost twelve-thirty. You have to eat. I have to eat. We'll eat together."

Font groaned from the doorway and whomped his tail on the hardwood floor. "Yes, and you too, Font," she added.

"Look," Kent protested. "You don't have to do this."

"I know." She gave him a direct look and a sunny smile that hit his chest like a medicine ball. "I want to. And I'm predicting if you don't eat now, you'll skip lunch entirely. Right?"

He nodded. "It's been known to happen."

"I'll bet." She shook her head as if she disapproved, then headed toward the doorway she'd used to get the water. When she was through it, she popped her braced head back out. "You're in luck, Summerton, my cooking is even better than my love letters."

When she was gone, Kent sank back into the chair, his gaze on the empty doorway. A line from one of her letters jumped to mind. "I'm hot, so fiercely hot! And I need you. Deep. In the moist place only you can know. Only you can have. Only you—"

Don't even think about it, Summerton. She's not your type. Not even close.
He liked organization, ambition, focus. Unless he guessed wrong, that didn't describe O'Hanlon. He hoisted his flattened resolve upright. He'd eat lunch and get out of here. That'd be the end of it.

A cold nose nuzzled his hand, then lifted his hand from the arm of the chair; the nose was Font's. Kent smiled and stroked the huge dog's bristly gray head. "It's a good thing I didn't bring Lacy, big guy. She'd have been a goner."
And one of us is enough for one day,
he added to himself.

Rosie was back, standing in the doorway, wiping her hands with a tea towel. "Lunch is ready. Is eating at the kitchen table okay?"

"That'll be fine." He pushed himself out of the chair and followed her into the kitchen. For the first time he took a good look around the house.

From the outside, the place had looked like an old, turn-of-the-century farmhouse, complete with peeling paint, gabled windows, and wide, uneven stairs leading to a wraparound porch. Inside, it was painted and papered into a cheerful home. Kent half expected to see a dozen kids stream in the front door and demand milk and cookies. But she had said Miss, meaning there was no Mister O'Hanlon kicking around. Okay, so he was glad. Didn't mean a damn thing. Font followed him into the big kitchen.

"Sit over there," she instructed breezily, pointing to a chair at a round oak table in the kitchen's alcove. He took the seat and Font collapsed at his feet. Kent reached down to rub under his ear and was rewarded with a groan that said, "I'm yours for life."

"I wouldn't want you to take that personally," Rosie said, gesturing toward the dog. "Old Font is a world-class con artist. He'll expect nothing less than half your lunch in exchange for letting you scratch his ear." She ladled tomato soup into his bowl.

"Then I think he and Lacy would get along just fine."

Rosie put a plate heaped with sandwiches in the middle of the table and sat down. She looked across at him and grinned before picking up her spoon and starting on her soup. "So, you really do have a dog? An Irish wolfhound?" She shook her head, the neck brace automatically including her shoulders.

"That seems to amaze you. Why?"

She laughed softly, but looked at him carefully before she went on. "I guess you look too neat, too organized, to have a mangy beast like that—" she gestured toward Font again "—clutter up your place."

He tasted the soup. Delicious. Definitely not out of a can. "And you're not?"

"Look around. Clutter is my life."

He glanced around the kitchen. In one corner a half dozen shelves groaned under a load of cookbooks. The island in the center of the kitchen looked as though a team of chefs was about to prepare a presidential banquet, and in the corner, by the big brick fireplace, a chair and carpet were buried under a library's supply of magazines and newspapers. She was right. His place was neater.

By the time his gaze got back to her, she was munching her sandwich and studying him, her eyes bright with curiosity. When he made no comment on her kitchen, she said, "I'm guessing your life is more, uh, organized. You've probably got one of those Mensa level smart phones that talk to you to remind you of your appointments."

"As a matter of fact, I do. Why?"

She slapped a hand on the table. "I knew it!"

She was looking at him as if his pants were belted under his armpits and his hair was oiled. "I take it there's something wrong with that?"

"Not wrong exactly. It's just what I expected."

"Expected?"

"From talking to you on the phone. I figured you'd be a man of ambition and definite plans. The kind of man who knew exactly where he was going to be in five years."

What she said was true, but he didn't admit it. After all, the lady hadn't made it sound like a compliment. "You got all that from one phone call?"

"Uh—huh." She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed quietly.

"And you don't approve?" He wished he could bite back the question. He didn't give a damn if she approved or not.

She put down her sandwich, put her elbows on the table, and laced her fingers together. Across this bridge, she gazed at him, her expression sober, introspective. "It's not a question of approval. There's a part of me that envies you your ability to—" she glanced away briefly "—prioritize things. Get and keep control of life's messy threads. My accountant says that's exactly what I should be doing, but I'm not very good at it."

"You
have an accountant?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"About as much as my having a dog surprised you."

She laughed at that, and it rang like a bell somewhere near his heart. Kent didn't know you could hear bells when you were sinking into quicksand. "What else does your accountant think you should do?"

"For one thing, she thinks I should deep-six
Cyrano, Inc."

"I'll second that."

She ignored him. "She also thinks I should sell this place. According to her, I'm mortgage poor."

Kent looked around, this time more assessingly. "Probably not a bad idea. It would bring top dollar in today's market."

She was still smiling when she said, "You and Jonesy would like each other."

"Jonesy?"

"Roberta Jones. My accountant." Her expression brightened. "Maybe you'd like to meet her."

Kent stared at her. "Have I got this right? You met me less than an hour ago, and you're trying to fix me up with your accountant?"

"You'd like each other," she repeated, her face earnest. "Jonesy admires ambitious men with goals. She says that's the only kind of partner a smart woman should consider. She says in today's economy a blending of two careers makes more sense than a blending of hearts."

He'd had enough. He was teed off. Here he was swimming upstream in a river of testosterone, and the cause of it was suggesting he go out with her accountant! "I think I can arrange my own social life, Miss O'Hanlon."

"Oops." She wrinkled her nose and looked contrite. "Sorry. Of course you can." She stood. "More soup?"

"No. Thanks." He tossed his napkin on the table and rose to go. "I think I'll leave before you call the marriage broker. I appreciate the lunch."

She walked him to the door, Font ambling along behind them. Once there, she pushed her glasses up her nose and gazed up at him, her hand on the doorknob. The sunlight streamed through the side window, illuminating her sweater to neon.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you, or anything," she said. "I hope you know that."

"You didn't." One look through the mended glasses to her bright, somewhat worried blue eyes and his irritation dissolved. He couldn't help himself, he touched her cheek, drawing his index finger along her jawline. Her skin was dangerously soft. His touch seemed to disconcert her, but the neck brace made it awkward for her to pull away. He broke the connection reluctantly. "Thanks for lunch, Rosie."

She smiled then. "I guess you can't be too mad if I'm Rosie again."

"I guess not," he said, and meant it.

He was opening his car door when he heard her call from the porch, "What about the letters? You didn't tell me what you thought about my idea. Shall I do it or not?"

The letters.
Damn! He didn't have a clue what her idea was. But then again...

He smiled and turned. "I'll think about it and give you a call. Don't do anything until you hear from me. Okay?"

"Okay," she yelled back.

* * *

Rosie watched him go, waving once as he left her property and headed down the main road.

She stayed on the porch a long time, first standing, then easing herself into the big rocker near the door. Font flopped down beside her.

Her thoughts went here, there, and everywhere. It was as though she'd opened her door and a gale had blown through. Damn those eyes of his. She always was a sucker for green eyes.

"Too bad," she said to Font, rubbing his ear. She leaned her head back. "Yup,
really
too bad."

Summerton wasn't her man, and that was unfortunate. Because if he were, it would put her ahead of schedule, and that would be terrific, because she wasn't getting any younger. She sighed. Why couldn't she have opened her door to the ideal man instead of an over-worked, overtired corporate robot? She recognized the tension, the frayed edges. Summerton was programmed, hard-wired to a demanding job that barely left him time to eat. She swallowed her disappointment.

Jonesy would definitely have the hots for him. She pulled her lower lip under her teeth, wondering why she'd suggested they meet. A defensive gesture, she decided. After her last disastrous relationship with a set-the-world-on-fire type, she'd sworn off them for good. The mystery was that she always attracted them. That they also attracted her, she chose to ignore.