Mr Right, Next Door!. Barbara Wallace
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“Mr Templeton,” she called sharply through the door.
“Hold on, hold on; I’m coming.”
About time. Folding her arms across her chest, Sophie prepared to remind Mr Templeton about the existence of other residents and the need to respect their personal solitude.
The door opened.
Good God Almighty. Sophie’s biting lecture died on her tongue. Standing on the other side of the threshold had to be, hands down, the sexiest man she’d ever seen. Not cover model handsome—handsome was far too benign a word—but rugged in a sensual way, with smooth tanned skin and a square-cut jaw. A slightly too long nose kept his face from being overly perfect, yet on him the feature fit. Strong men demanded strong features, and this was definitely a strong man. He had the color of dark honey and eyes that reminded her of caramel candy. Not to mention a chest custom-built for splaying your hands against.
He was also at least a decade younger than her, and holding a sledgehammer—the obvious source of her disturbance. Both realizations quickly brought Sophie back to earth. She lifted her jaw, once again prepared to complain.
“Mr Templeton?” she repeated. Just to be certain.
The caramel eyes made a slow sweep of her from head to toe. “Who wants to know?”
Dear Reader,
Years ago, while on vacation in England, my husband and I took a road trip to the town where my ancestors came from. On the way we passed the ruins of a castle. My husband—spontaneous guy that he is—suggested stopping for a tour. I said no. It was getting dark, and I had my mind set on getting to our destination.
The town we ended up visiting was very pleasant, but I’ve always regretted not taking that detour to the castle. In hindsight, I realise we lost out on a special experience. Here in New England we don’t have castles, ruined or otherwise.
I thought about that castle a lot while writing this book. In many ways Sophie Messina is on a trip of her own. She’s carefully mapped out her life, and refuses to let anything drag her off-course. Enter Grant Templeton, hunky contractor. Suddenly she has to make a decision. Does she throw her plans out of the window? Or does she stay on course and miss out on something really special?
In the end both Sophie and Grant have big decisions to make. Decisions about priorities, decisions about love, and most of all decisions about taking chances. I’d like to imagine that at the end both of them are not only happier, but wiser people. I hope you do too.
This is my fifth book for Mills & Boon® Cherish™, and I’ve loved writing each and every one. I’ve also enjoyed getting to meet many of the line’s fabulous readers. I’d like to meet more. Please drop me a line at [email protected] and say hello.
In the meantime, I hope life brings you all you have planned—and a few terrific detours as well. Don’t miss out on those castles!
Regards,
Barbara Wallace
About the Author
BARBARA WALLACE is a life-long romantic and daydreamer, so it’s not surprising she decided to become a writer at the age of eight. However, it wasn’t until a co-worker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mom. At the urging of her family she finally chucked the day job and pursued writing full time—she couldn’t be happier.
Barbara lives in Massachusetts, with her husband, their teenage son, and two very spoiled, self-centred cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.
Mr Right,
Next Door!
Barbara Wallace
For Pete, my own special contractor.
I can’t imagine life without you.
CHAPTER ONE
HE WAS doing it again.
Since she’d moved in a month ago, Sophie Messina’s neighbor had been banging, buzzing and doing Lord knows what in his upstairs apartment, making it completely impossible for her to concentrate.
Didn’t he realize some people liked quiet on their weekends? That people had work to do?
Breathing out a determined sigh, she redoubled her efforts. Allen Breckinridge, one of her managing directors, had announced yesterday afternoon that he needed this merger model for a meeting on Tuesday, which meant she needed to review and correct the work her junior analyst sent over this morning before passing the figures along. And, since no report could ever be finalized without repeating the process at least four times, she needed to make her notes quickly. A lot of analysts would be tempted to make nitpicky comments, more to emphasize their involvement than anything, but Sophie preferred to work efficiently. Last thing she wanted was the managing directors thinking she was the kink in the bottleneck. Especially since she planned on being a managing director herself someday. Sooner rather than later too if all went according to plan.
Bam!
Oh, for crying out loud, what was he doing up there? Kickboxing holes in the wall? She whipped off her reading glasses and tossed them on the dining room table. This was ridiculous. She must have slipped a half-dozen notes under his door asking him to kindly cease and desist whatever it was he was doing. First politely, and then threatening to bring the issue to the co-op owners association, but he’d ignored all of them. Well, no more. This noise was going to stop. Today.
Smoothing back her sleek blond ponytail, she stepped outside into the building entryway and shivered as her bare feet met the wood flooring. Before being renovated into co-op apartments, the building had been a brownstone mansion. For one reason or another, the architects kept the public areas and her apartment as true to the original decor as possible which was why a large and very ornate crystal chandelier hung in the entranceway. Sophie had to admit, she loved everything about the nineteenth-century fixtures, from the dark wood molding to the sprawling central stairway with its spindled railings and balustrade. They gave the building an Old World kind of feeling, conjuring up words like historic in her head. Words that implied stability. She liked stability.
She liked tranquility, too. A quality that had been distinctly absent the past four weekends. As she climbed the stairs, she swore the banging grew louder with each step. Did he have to do whatever it was he was doing at the loudest possible volume?
This wasn’t how she envisioned her first conversation with a neighbor. Actually, she hadn’t planned on having a conversation at all. One of the reasons she moved to the city two decades ago was because you could go months, years even, without exchanging more than a nod and a hello with the people around you. Not that she was antisocial. She just preferred being able to choose who she socialized with. She had too much she needed to accomplish to waste time frivolously. The only reason she even remotely knew this particular neighbor’s name was because his mailbox was located next to hers, and she’d needed to know who she should address her letters to. G. Templeton. She’d seen the same name on the side of a pickup truck parked outside. Some sort of contractor, she believed.
Was that what he was doing now? Contracting? Memories of half-finished DIY projects and drunken destruction popped into her brain before she could stop them. What the heck? Buying her own place was supposed to distance her from those days, not bring them racing back. At her age she should be over being plagued by the ghosts of the past. Yet no