Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins
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and trot off to kill someone, the way Clive Owen did in The Bourne Identity. I’ll bet Ian had some cool scar somewhere … yes, actually, there it was, up near his eye. Knife fight, I’d bet hard cash.
I’d also bet he knew how to kiss. Guys who looked like that could kiss, ladies. Or so my romance novels told me. Hard kissing. Kisses that started hard, anyway, then went soft and long and the woman would be pulled against his unyielding chest, his arms like bands of steel, me all soft and melting, him hard and hot …
Blerk! I was staring. And he was looking back. His eyebrow raised in an unmistakable Do you mind, lady? kind of look.
Blushing, I turned back to the clerk and fumbled in my purse for my wallet. I had a purgative to buy. “I’m in a little bit of a hurry,” I whispered.
“No problem!” she cooed, ringing up the shampoo. “Are you looking for anything special today?” she asked Ian.
“Do you have any glucosamine in one-thousand-milligram tablets?” he asked.
“You know, I might!” she answered.
“For dogs?” I asked.
He cut those blue eyes back to me. “Yes.” Then he dropped his gaze to my purchases—crap, I’d moved!—and I hurled my body in front of the counter.
“I give glucosamine to Bowie,” I said, my voice a little too loud. “Every day. Dr. Kumar recommended it, even though he’s young. Bowie, that is. Bowie’s young. He’s three. Dr. Kumar … he’s what? Middle-aged? Retired, of course. His boys are out of college, anyway, so he must be … sixty? Fifty-five? Have you met the boys? They’re great.”
Ian didn’t answer. I didn’t blame him. There was something about Ian McFarland that made me blather on like an idiot. Yes, there was definitely a pattern emerging here. Closing my eyes briefly, I smiled at him and managed to shut up. Behind me, the happiest woman in the world rang up my purchases.
“That will be $97.46,” she said.
“Holy Lord,” I exclaimed. “Wow!”
“I know,” she said, grinning like a monkey. “It’s the Cleanse ‘n—”
“Doesn’t matter!” I blurted. “It’s worth it! Because it’s all organic! So worth it.” I handed her my credit card. One hundred bucks? Christ! “I can’t wait to try the shampoo,” I said in a more normal tone, hoping to throw her off the scent of Dr. Duncan and his miracle cure.
“It’s so wonderful,” the clerk said, tucking her limp hair behind her ears. “I use it, too.”
I tried not to flinch. “Great.”
“Here you go!” she said, handing my bag over like she was giving me the Nobel. “Make it a supermagical day!”
“I … okay!” I said. “Thank you.”
Clutching the bag to my chest, I walked past Ian. “Have a supermagical day, Ian,” I whispered, unable to help myself.
“I always do,” he murmured.
That stopped me in my tracks. I glanced behind me. Ian wasn’t smiling, not exactly. His mouth was in its usual straight line, but his eyes … those blue, blue eyes … and there it was again, that hot and darting thing in my stomach.
The whole way home, I thought of that almost-smile. And I have to admit, it was a pleasant distraction.
DR. DUNCAN WAS A GENIUS, I acknowledged as I surveyed myself in the mirror the next afternoon. I’d have to write him (as Hester G. from Vermont, to punish my sister for not helping). And I hadn’t even had to sleep on my bathroom floor! Not that that would’ve been much of a hardship. My bathroom was a thing of beauty, which was rather strange, since Noah had built this place, and a luxurious bathroom wasn’t something I’d have imagined him caring about. But I had a beautiful pedestal sink, a shower area made from those big bricks of thick glass and, the pièce de résistance, a huge Jacuzzi tub that I never used but often meant to. Noah’s own bathroom was much more utilitarian. Maybe he knew he’d need a grandchild to live with him someday, and this had been his bribe. Whatever the motivation, I was grateful. Getting ready was always a pleasure in here.
Especially now that my food baby, while not completely gone, had definitely shrunk. I wasn’t sure how it happened, since the expected GI distress never occurred (God bless you, Dr. Duncan!), but I looked pretty smokin’, if I did say so myself. Curvalicious, even. More like fertile J-Lo than stringy Lindsay Lohan, and thank God for that. Take that, Muriel! If I was the equivalent of, oh, let’s say a really good hamburger, juicy, comforting and delicious, Muriel was a rawhide shoelace. Mark had once told me (in Santa Fe) that he liked a woman who was, well, womanly.
I gave the biking shorts a tug, smiled at my reflection, and went out into my bedroom, where Freddie was waiting for me. In my chair!
“Get out of that chair!” I barked. “Fred! Come on! Out, you bad dog!”
“Why? I’m a grown-up. I won’t spill anything,” my brother grumbled, though he obeyed.
“First of all, you’re not a grown-up. Second of all, that chair is special, as you well know.” I bustled over to it. Poor chair, having to support my dopey if lovable brother. “I’m saving it.”
“For what?” Fred asked, flopping on my bed.
“For my happily-ever-after,” I said.
“That’s really pathetic,” he offered.
“I know,” I agreed. But that chair was for my future, and until I got there, I wasn’t about to squander it on the likes of my semi-clean brother. “But you still can’t sit there. That’s the rule, I’m the boss of you, the end. You ready to go?”
“Yes, yes. Tragic, really, that you have no friends and have to bring me as your date.”
“Don’t forget Bowie.” At the sound of his name, Bowie snapped to his feet and began jumping so his front feet left the ground. “Yes, Bowie, we’re going for a walk! Yes, we are!” I turned to my brother. “And I do have friends. It’s just Seamus had a soccer game, so Annie couldn’t come, and Dave wouldn’t come because he and Damien broke up.” Dave was not only Annie’s brother, but also Damien’s boyfriend. The two men kept their relationship sparky through serial breakups and glorious reunions.
“Well, if you want people to like you, you picked the right sibling. I won’t lecture anyone on ovarian torsion, after all. And then there’s my good looks, natural charm and athletic prowess.”
“No ego problems here,” I said, giving him a fond cuff to the head.
“It’s hard to complain when you’re me,” he acknowledged. It was true. He was a good-looking puppy, Freddie was, the image of our dad and, according to Noah’s picture, Uncle Remy.
We clattered down the stairs. “Bye, Noah,” I called into the workshop. The table saw was running, so I waved to make sure he knew I was leaving.
“Where are you going?” he asked, turning off the saw.
“I have that work hike thingie to do. Dinner’s in the oven, okay?”
“What did you make me?” he asked, scowling. Dear cuddly Grampy didn’t like eating alone.
“Veggie lasagna.” His scowl grew deeper. “You’ll like it,” I assured him. “I used lots of cheese. We have to run, Noah. Fred, say goodbye to your grandfather.”
“Bye, Grampy,” Fred said, smiling.
“Bye, jackass,” Noah said amiably. “Keep an eye on your sister, and don’t forget you’re supposed to help me tomorrow, you lazy good-for-nothin’.”
At five o’clock, right on time, we pulled into the small parking lot at the base of Mount Chenutney. Mark trotted over as we got out, and Bowie yipped in excitement, then