A Crazy Kind of Love (4 page)

“Amazing. So. You going to tell me what you were looking for in my mailbox?”

“Just checking for any stray cash,” she said, tipping her head back to stare up at him.

“Cash?” He glanced out at the mailbox, then back to her. Dappled shade from the surrounding trees waved across her in lazy sweeps. “Why would I keep money in a mailbox?”

“Didn’t you hear?” she asked, stepping past him and heading for the house. “There’s a mailbox fairy at work in Chandler.”

He watched her go and couldn’t help the fact that his gaze landed on her nicely rounded backside. But he shook himself out of it and followed her. He’d learned a couple of months ago not to give Mike Marconi any time alone in his house.

She was already halfway through the living room when he caught up to her. Her boots clicked musically against the tiles and a slight fall of dust marked her every footstep.

“What are you talking about?”

She turned left into the kitchen, then set down the paper bag onto the black granite counter. Looking at him, she said, “A few months ago, somebody was leaving money in library books in town.”

He frowned. “Why would they do that?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged, then opened the bag and plunged one hand inside. “Anyway, the crowds at the library were getting so bad that old Mrs. Rogan, the
librarian, who at her last birthday was judged to be about a hundred and ten, was going nuts. Chasing people around with her yardstick—and she’s no spring chicken, so she had to keep stopping for breath.”

“A hundred and ten. It’s a wonder she
has
breath.”

“Yeah, well, only the good die young,” Mike quipped. “Mean goes on forever.” She stared into the bag, threw a quick look at Lucas, then started digging around again. “Anyway . . . it got so crowded and ugly over at the library, with people going through books that hadn’t been opened in centuries, that Mrs. Rogan put an ad in the paper, asking whoever was putting money in there to cut it out.”

“Did it work?”

“Yep.” Mike glanced at him. “The money fairy took out an ad the next week, saying there would be no more money left in the library.”

“So Mrs. Rogan was happy.” Lucas leaned back against the refrigerator and folded his arms over his chest. Intrigued, he watched her and waited for the rest of the story.

“Oh yeah. She was happy and everyone else was miserable,” Mike said, forgetting about the contents of the bag for a minute to enjoy herself. “Which just made Mrs. Rogan
more
happy. The woman lives to see people suffer.”

He smiled, too, and told himself he had to get into town to get a look at this librarian. “So how’d the mailboxes come into play?”

“That’s the best part.” Mike braced both hands on the counter behind her, jumped up and plopped onto the counter to sit in a splash of sunshine streaming through
one of the windows overlooking the back deck. Folding her hands between her knees, she locked her ankles and swung them lazily. “A week or so ago, people started finding money—some twenties, but mostly fifties—in with their mail.”

“Everybody?” Lucas asked, his mind clicking along as if picking up clues. This was what he did best. Unlocking mysteries.

“Nope.” She unclasped her hands and pointed an index finger at him. “That’s the interesting part. See . . . the only people who are getting money
now
are the ones who really need it. Like for example, last week, Mr. Parsons. He lives out past Mama Candellano just off the coast road—he got slapped with a tax assessment for a shed he put up behind the house, and bingo!”

“Bingo what?”

“He found the exact amount he needed in his mailbox. Went into town the next day, told everyone who’d stand still long enough to listen, and then paid off his bill.”

“Interesting.” Lucas frowned thoughtfully. So not only was the good fairy generous, he or she obviously had an inside source, telling him or her exactly who needed what, when.

“Oh yeah. But as far as anyone knows, nobody else knew about Mr. Parson’s debt. So how’d the mailbox fairy find out?” Mike jumped off the counter, landing with a solid thump. “
And
, it’s not just big stuff, either.” She glanced at him again as she opened the brown bag and reached one hand in. “Elinor Hyatt’s ten-year-old daughter wanted to take ballet lessons, but Elinor
couldn’t afford it. Told Hayley she’d have to wait till next year. Guess who’s taking ballet lessons?”

“Hayley?”

“You win a year’s supply of Turtle Wax. Got signed up this morning. Apparently, Elinor found the money for the lessons in her mailbox yesterday and Hayley’s all set to be a diva.” She took a small brass object from the bag and grinned at it. “Won’t be hard for her to pull off, either. Hayley’s always pretty much acted like a star. Elinor’s gonna have big trouble with that kid one of these days.”

Lucas was hardly listening. Instead, he watched as Mike snatched a screwdriver out of a kitchen drawer—how’d she know it was in there?—and started taking off one of the kitchen-cabinet pulls. “What’re you doing?”

“Oh,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder. “The ones you have are all wrong. I brought these from home. Bought them about a year ago when I saw them at this little place in the city. And as soon as I remembered ’em, I knew they’d look perfect in here. Figured you’d be out today and I’d surprise you.”

“The latches I have are not wrong,” Lucas said, pushing away from the fridge to walk across the room. He slapped one hand on the cabinet to stop her. “I picked them out myself.”

“I know,” Mike said and patted the hand he’d dropped onto the cabinet before pulling it off. “But really. Could they be more boring?”

“Cabinet handles
are
boring. That’s their function,” he argued.

“Don’t have to be,” she said, and held up the brass
object she’d brought with her, and grinned at it proudly. “Now see,
these
are fun.”

Lucas just stared at her. “A
parrot
? You want me to have
parrots
on my cabinets?”

Mike looked from him to the small, perfectly detailed brass parrot in her hand. She’d found them more than a year ago at an outlet place in San Francisco. She’d bought every one they had and tucked them away, for the house she was planning to build.

For
this
house.

They were whimsical, charming, and just quirky enough to brighten up a kitchen. And she’d been waiting a solid year to see them as they’d been meant to be seen. They were
perfect
. “They’re cute.”

“They’re
stupid
.”

Mike swallowed hard and folded her fingers around the little parrot protectively. “You haven’t seen them up.”

“Don’t want to.”

“You could give them a try.”

“Why would I want parrots in my kitchen?”

A surprising sting of tears rushed to her eyes and Mike thought for one horrifying moment that she might actually
cry
. She
never
cried. Much less here. In front of
him
.

She swallowed back the knot of emotion that was suddenly, completely, filling her throat and reached down deep inside to find her inner indignation. Looking around the sun-washed room, she took note of the cozy nook nestled in front of a bay window, the strategically placed cooking island in the center of the kitchen, the miles of gleaming black granite and the
rich blue tiles beneath their feet. She glanced at the small pass-through fireplace she’d insisted Lucas add on the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room and knew she’d done her part to make this house special.

Which was why, really, she’d brought the parrots here. There was no point in holding on to them for the dream house that was now not going to be built. Besides, she’d bought them for
this
house.

“You know,” she said, sliding her gaze back to the ungrateful geek in front of her. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have a fireplace in here, or a cooking island or the extra counters or cabinets.”

He glared down at her. “None of those things were on the blueprints, remember? They weren’t
supposed
to be here.”

“Yeah, but they look great, don’t they?”

His jaw worked as if he was biting back words trying to spill from his mouth. At last, though, he grudgingly admitted, “Yes. The kitchen is great. Just the way it
is
.”

She looked down at the brass parrot in her hand and thought for one brief shining moment about throwing it at him. But she might nick the brass. Lifting her gaze, she said, “Fine, then. You don’t want the parrots, you can keep your boring, plain cabinet pulls.”

“You’re surrendering?” He sounded amazed.

“Hah!” It cost her, but she put enough emphasis into that laugh that she was pretty sure he believed her. “Marconis never give up. I’m just not going to waste my parrots on a man who can’t appreciate them.”

She tightened up the old cabinet pull, slammed the
door shut, then, still clutching the cold brass parrot, turned around and stomped across the gleaming blue tiles. Grabbing the paper bag she’d left on the counter, she swung around to face him again and winced as she heard the soft
clink
of the parrots crashing against each other. “I’ll see ya. Gotta go meet my sisters.”

He frowned at her but didn’t speak, and Mike figured it was just as well. If he said anything right now, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. She was just so damn mad. She’d planned this house. This life. For herself. All of the little touches that had become a part of the dream she’d built in her head were being wasted on a man who probably wouldn’t even notice them anymore after a while.

She’d put her heart into this house and it wasn’t hers.

She had no place here.

Pain, sharp and sweet, slapped at her and she rocked on her heels with the impact. God, she felt like an idiot.

“Mike, wait.”

She didn’t.

Couldn’t.

In fact, her steps quickened. Everything inside her was clamoring to be gone. To be away from him. She was the dummy here, not the nerd prince. It was
his
house. Didn’t matter how many times she came over. How many changes she made. How many things she tried to fix.

It wasn’t hers.

And it never would be.

“Damn it, wait.” Lucas grabbed her forearm and tugged her to a stop in the middle of the great room.

“Let go,” she warned, giving him a look that would have terrified a lesser man. He didn’t even blink.

“In a minute.”

He blew out a breath, then shoved his free hand through thick brown hair that hung down to his shoulders.
Very
thick, she thought. And a soft honey brown that looked rich and sleek and—oh man, she needed a date. Soon.

If she was starting to hyperventilate over a geek, then obviously she was
not
getting out enough.

“Let me see the parrot,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“Do you have to argue about
everything
?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “I’m Italian.”

He choked out a short laugh. “And I’m Irish. It’s a wonder we
ever
have a conversation without arguing.”

“I don’t think we have.”

“Good point.” He let her go and took a step back. “Can I just see the damn parrot?”

Her arm felt warm where his fingers had been and since she
so
didn’t want to think about
that
, she said, “Fine. Here.”

He took the little parrot and studied it, rubbing his thumb across the cool metal while shaking his head. “Kitchen parrots.”

“Do you have this problem with
all
birds?” she asked. “Or just parrots in particular?”

His gaze lifted and collided with hers. Dark brown eyes locked on her and Mike ridiculously felt as though she couldn’t have looked away even if she’d tried. Which she didn’t.

“I’d like to keep them,” he said, his gaze still holding hers.

“Why?”

“I changed my mind?”

“Why?”

“God. Does there have to be a reason for everything?” he demanded, throwing both hands high.

“You’re the scientist,” Mike said. “You tell me.”

“You’re not an easy woman, are you, Mike Marconi?”

“Just picking up on that?”

His lips twitched briefly. “Can I have the parrots for the kitchen or not?”

She tipped her head to one side and stared at him. The fist of emotion in her throat was looser now, but no less there. Okay, maybe she’d come on a little strong with him about this house, but damn it, it wasn’t easy giving up something you’d been dreaming about for years. And maybe she could have cut him some slack now and then, but that just wasn’t her style.

The question was, why was he being so . . .
nice
? Something was going on here and she wasn’t sure what, exactly. But if he was doing this because he felt sorry for her, because he thought he’d hurt her feelings—which he hadn’t, not really, and even if he had, she’d never admit it to him—then he could just cut it out.

“You don’t have to do me any favors, you know.”

“Why would I do you any favors?” he asked tightly. “You’ve been driving me nuts for two months.”

“True.”

“I just,” he said softly, “
like
the parrots. Okay?”

She curled her fingers into the brown bag and squeezed tight. Her gaze locked with his, he smiled, and something warm and luscious and just a little overpowering slithered through her. Mike took a deep breath and felt the tiled floor beneath her feet shift a little.

Earthquake?

But he wasn’t reacting.

So maybe only
her
world was getting rocked.

Oh boy.

Cash Hunter was making Jo nuts.

“Do you have to stand right there?”

“Where should I stand?” he asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“How about Saturn?”

“Touchy today, aren’t you?”

Not just today. Jo grimaced tightly, spun the measuring tape back into its metallic shell, and kept her gaze fixed on the battered wood floor. Maybe, like the boogeyman, if she ignored him, he’d just go away. Although, she had the distinct impression that boogeymen could take lessons from Cash Hunter. His old “barn” was really no bigger than Grace’s goat shed. And he wanted it turned into a little guesthouse. Sort of a studio-apartment thing with a Murphy bed, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. Sam was right. It would be a good job for them and wouldn’t take much more than six weeks or so, once they got going. Unless of course, Cash insisted on hanging around every damn minute.