Pillow Talk. Kathleen O'Reilly
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Adam slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “Sorry, Vanessa. Just a little late-afternoon fatigue. I’ll call you this evening, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Adam.” Click.
Nope. Vanessa wasn’t it. He’d taken her out once about three months ago, and although she had the right requirements, the core product seemed off in some way.
He knew what he wanted. A sweet young thing who wanted 2.5 kids and a garden out back. Somebody who understood the concept of home and staying firmly planted in one place.
He had wandered around the country for so long, assignment to assignment, the idea of coming home to one woman, one family sounded like his own personal paradise.
The house had been an impulse buy, a two-story Victorian that he painted when he was back in Alabama.
Now he just needed to find someone to share it with.
An SUV pulled in front of him and he slammed on the brakes. The Porsche slid to a halt and Adam swore under his breath.
“Sorry, Ma. I forgot.”
This time the voice in his head didn’t reply.
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