Blame It on Cupid. Jennifer Greene

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Blame It on Cupid - Jennifer  Greene


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the Sam Hill anybody cleaned that sucker. A fireman’s ladder? Maybe someone sprayed Windex from a helicopter? Maybe someone rented climbing gear and belayed down from the chimney?

      “No, no, I was listening, Dad!” Swiftly she concentrated back on the conversation. “It’s still two hours before five, so I’m hoping to connect with the lawyer today, get the house key. I only wish I could get her out of that place tonight, but at least this way, I’ll have tonight to get some things done—like turning on the heat, bringing in some food, opening the place up and like that. But first thing tomorrow, with any luck…sure, Dad. Of course, I’ll call you as soon as I know more…the house? Oh yeah, you’d love the house.”

      As she clicked off the phone, she thought wryly that her dad would most certainly love the place. She was the only one suffering from “suburb allergy.”

      Her sisters teased that she was maturity-challenged, but they were all older, had all bought into the myth about adulthood being synonymous with mortgages and appliance ownership.

      She’d just shoved the cell phone back in her purse when she heard a truck door slam from the next driveway.

      After the last unsettling moments, she appreciated the distraction. Especially a distraction as riveting as this one. It was just a guy—but definitely a long, lanky hunk of a guy, arresting enough to put some kaboom back in her tired pulse.

      He peeled out of a black pickup and immediately hiked around to the rear. Undoubtedly hustling because of the spitting sleet, he cracked down the tailgate and started hefting some long wooden boards. She didn’t think he’d noticed her until he suddenly called out, “You must be lost.”

      It wasn’t the time, the moment, or the guy to murmur the old Campbell’s soup refrain—M’m! M’m! Good!— but she did think it. Just for a minute. Heaven knew, she had no time for silliness right now, but one good long look wasn’t hurting anything. He was so definitely adorable. Dark hair, worn a little roguish-long, dusted with snow. Dark eyes that glistened. A long angular face with a scrape of high cheekbones, a distinctly French nose, a chin carved out of granite. The thin mouth was the only soft thing about him, but she’d bet the ranch those lips knew how to kiss.

      Maybe she didn’t own a ranch, but she happened to be extremely skilled in certain areas. Just because a woman wasn’t rabid about settling down didn’t mean she hadn’t tested out her share of the male population, particularly in the kissing department.

      “No, honestly, I’m not lost,” she assured him. “But I did just come a long way to find the place. You knew Charlie Ross?”

      “Yup. Neighbors for years.” He motioned with his head. “The house is locked up.”

      She watched him unload several more boards—all gorgeous-looking wood. She didn’t know birch from beech, but she could see he was treating the boards as if they were precious cargo. “I know,” she said. “About the house being locked up, I mean. I just drove here from Minnesota…”

      “Uh-huh.” He carted two boards at a time to the inside of his garage, then came back for more.

      She realized he was hardly inviting more conversation—nor did she have time for chitchat. But a nextdoor neighbor was a potential ally. And certainly, someone who had to know Charlie and his daughter, so she offered, “I’ve never been here before. In fact, the last time I saw Charlie, he was still living in Minneapolis, years ago. I had no idea he’d died until the lawyer contacted me. I’m here about Charlene—”

      “Yeah?”

      “I have to get the house key from the lawyer. And I guess there’s a whole host of complicated issues to settle besides that. But with any luck, I’m really hoping to have Charlene back in her own home by tomorrow.”

      She definitely caught his attention then. In fact, he suddenly stopped dead. “What? You’re the guardian?”

      Okay, maybe his tone was a little insulting, as if the possibility of her being a guardian was as remote as the sky falling in, but Merry made allowances. He was probably cranky from carrying the weight of all those boards. And she’d been hard-core driving, which meant she wore no makeup and her hair hadn’t seen a brush in hours, not to mention that her red flowered slippers lacked a certain cachet. Cripes, she generally got more male attention than she wanted when she dressed up—but undoubtedly to this guy, she looked young. At least compared to him. Living in this neighborhood, he was undoubtedly on the married-with-kids side of the fence.

      Not that he was decrepit. Merry had guy-shopped long enough to recognize real diamonds from the faux. He wasn’t just cute. He was sexy the way only men with some experience-lines could look. He was past the spoiled-boy stage, past the how-was-it-for-you tedium in the morning. More into the I-Know-How-To-Please-A-Woman era. Close to forty, for sure.

      Still, he was definitely off her radar. Not because of his age, but because of the married thing.

      She still hoped he’d like her, though. Having a friend next door would be a huge help, so quickly and warmly she produced her biggest smile—the smile that had been known to attract male favor since she was, oh, three and a half.

      For a good two seconds, it seemed to work on him, too. Between the shiny sleet, the gloomy afternoon and the distance across the driveway, she couldn’t see his expression all that clearly…but he definitely stared back at her intensely for those few moments.

      And that was about all the time Merry had to mess around. “I won’t bug you any longer—I can see you’re busy, and I’m in a real hurry as well. But I’m Merry. Merry Olson. So when you see lights turn on in the house later, you’ll know it’s me.”

      “Jack Mackinnon here.” Swiftly he added, “Merry…you have actually met Charlene before, right?”

      He sounded more incredulous than critical, but Merry didn’t figure it was the time or place to get into it. “Not yet,” she said cheerfully, and then waved as she climbed back in her car.

      The look of him lingered in her mind—but so did his expression.

      He wouldn’t be the first to call her crazy for taking off cross-country to take on an eleven-year-old girl she’d never even met. Hell’s bells, even she admitted it was crazy.

      But crazy didn’t mean it was wrong.

      Merry had long, devastating memories from the year she was eleven—so the little girl’s age had hugely, hopelessly touched her. The second factor was the poor kid had lost her dad on Christmas Eve—how impossibly devastating was that? On top of which, there were no relatives who could step in. Charlene was far beyond the usual adoptable age, and in an overcrowded fostercare system, the child was absolutely alone, had no one in her corner.

      The way Merry saw it, one of the giant advantages to living footloose and fancy free was exactly an issue like this—she had the flexibility to take off and choose a different life path whenever she wanted to. No, she didn’t know the child. No, she didn’t have a clue if there were any special problems, but when push came down to shove—which it had—what did anything like that matter? How could she possible leave a lonely, griefstricken eleven-year-old girl when she had the power to do something about it?

      And that was her plan. First, to just open her arms and love the kid. And then, to give her a Christmas—in her own home—to make up for the one she’d just lost. After that, well, she’d figure out what the child needed and wanted. There was no way to cross those bridges until they came to them. Together.

      Right now, though, driving demanded all her concentration. Lee Oxford—Charlie’s estate lawyer—had an Arlington address. The problem was that maps and Merry didn’t get along. And that she was already tired. And that Arlington and D.C. traffic was like a prehistoric reality play about the survival of the fittest.

      Nobody wanted to play nice. Minneapolis rush hour was no cupcake, but either the drivers in this neck of the woods all had political agendas or were sociopath-wannabes.

      She also had to pop into a gas station—not


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