Romance on Mountain View Road (6 page)

She'd been talking about Danny Popkee, on whom she had a crush, asking Jonathan for advice on how to get his attention. That had been torture. Jonathan hadn't wanted Lissa to get Danny's attention. She already had a boy's attention. His.

“I dunno,” he'd mumbled. “Either he likes you or he doesn't.”

“Well, that's no help. What would you do if you wanted someone to like you?”

Walk her home from school, help her with her math and hope I can get up enough nerve to ask her to the eighth-grade dance.
He'd shrugged. “Just be nice.” That was never hard for Lissa. She was nice to everyone. “Like you always are,” he'd added.

“Aw, Jonathan, you're so sweet,” she'd said, making him blush. “I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my best friend.”

He was her best friend, but she had a crush on Danny. She'd decided to bake Danny some cookies and that was all it took. They went to the eighth-grade dance together.

But she'd made cookies for Jonathan, too—to thank him for all his good advice.

In fact, she'd made cookies for Jonathan a lot, always trying out new recipes. Baking became one of her favorite ways to express her creativity. And to do something nice for her high school pals.

“What do you think of these?” she'd asked, setting a plate of cookies in front of him. He'd come over to her house to help her with algebra, a subject that was threatening to ruin her sophomore year. “They're called kitchen sink cookies.”

“Kitchen sink cookies?”

“Yeah, 'cause you put everything but the kitchen sink in them. They have oatmeal and raisins and butterscotch chips and chocolate chips.”

Sounded great. He'd taken one off the plate and bitten into it. In spite of all that good stuff they weren't very sweet. This wasn't one of her better efforts, but he didn't want to tell her that.

There she'd sat, looking at him expectantly. “Not bad,” he'd managed.

He hadn't mastered his poker face yet and she'd known immediately that something was off. She frowned and chose a cookie from the plate, took a bite. “Eeew.”

“Well, they're not your best. But they're okay.” He'd valiantly taken another bite.

She'd set hers back on the plate, then took his out of his hand and put it back, too. “You're an awful liar. They're terrible. I refuse to let you eat another bite. I must have forgotten the sugar. How could I do that?”

“Thinking about something else?” he'd suggested. More like
someone
else. Lissa was always falling madly in love—with everyone but him.

He'd watched her take the plate to the garbage can and dump the ruined goodies in. “You know, those weren't totally bad,” he'd said.

“Yes, they were.” She'd sat down at the kitchen table and smiled at him. “You're a super friend. But you have terrible taste.”

Not in women.

He should have said that out loud. Why didn't he? Why hadn't he ever said anything?

Of course, deep down he knew the answer. He'd been afraid of how she'd react. He'd chosen to keep his mouth shut then and during the years that followed in order to avoid the agony of rejection.

Still, all those years of cowardice had produced their own brand of suffering. He was tired of suffering.

He and Lissa had been best friends when they were kids. They could be best friends again, maybe even more than that if he turned himself into the kind of man a woman like Lissa would notice.

He only had a ghost of a chance.

But he believed in ghosts. So tomorrow he'd read about the Viscount Vampire and the Cursed Cowboy. Then he was going to go online (where no one would see what he was buying) and buy a bunch more romance novels. He had a lot of research to do.

Chapter Four

M
other's Day dinner at the Gerard residence with Jonathan's sister in charge was a culinary adventure. To say that the meal didn't measure up to the fancy table setting and fresh flowers would have been an understatement. The roast was done well enough to qualify as jerky and the asparagus was scorched. The cake...well, it wasn't cake, at least not like any Jonathan had tasted—since the last time he ate Juliet's cake. Wasn't cake supposed to be...taller? And, whoa, what was that bitter taste?

Juliet made a face, too. “I shouldn't have added the baking powder at the last minute,” she said.

“It does need to be sifted in, sweetie,” her mother said gently.

“But I'd forgotten it. And I knew I had to add it.”

“But since you did add it, the cake should have risen better,” Mom said, playing culinary detective. Even Columbo couldn't solve the mystery of why Juliet's kitchen creations never turned out, so Jonathan didn't know why Mom was trying.

“Then Cecily called about book group and I forgot the eggs.” Juliet sighed. “I hoped the baking powder would be enough.”

“The baked potatoes weren't so bad,” said her husband, Neil. “Anyway, it's hard to screw those up.”

Was that a compliment? Jonathan wasn't sure. That was often the case when he listened to his brother-in-law talking to his sister. “She made the effort and that's what counts.” And even if the spuds were a little underdone you hardly noticed after smothering them with sour cream and butter.

“I'm not complaining,” Neil said. “My girl's got other talents.”

From the way he was looking at Juliet, Jonathan could guess what they were. He held up a hand. “You don't have to tell us.” There were some things a guy didn't want to think about his sister doing.

“It was a lovely dinner, dear,” said their mother.

“No, it wasn't.” Juliet frowned at the frosted yuck on her plate. “I'm sorry, Mom. I wanted this day to be special.”

“It is.” Mom swept her gaze around the table. “I'm with all of you and that makes it perfect. But if you want to top it off...”

“I'll go get ice cream,” Neil offered.

“Oh, I wasn't thinking of anything to eat. I was thinking of—”

“Farkle,” Jonathan and Juliet finished with her. Their family had played a lot of games when Jonathan was growing up, and his mother still loved to beat him at Words With Friends. He'd gotten Farkle for her last Christmas and it had become a new favorite.

“I just happen to have it in my purse,” Mom said with a grin.

Jonathan wouldn't have been surprised to hear she had the entire population of Luxembourg in there, too. How much stuff women could fit in their purses amazed him.

“Dice,” Neil said, rubbing his hands together. “That's a game even I can get into.”

Unlike their family, Neil wasn't much of a game player, unless it involved a football and a good dose of aggression. He was a big, well-muscled guy, who used those muscles working in the Sweet Dreams warehouse. Today Jonathan couldn't help thinking (with only a tinge of jealousy) that his brother-in-law could pose for a cover on one of Juliet's books.

Neil's looks—that was what had hooked her in the first place. Jonathan wasn't sure what kept her hooked, although she seemed happy enough with her choice. Other than going dancing at the Red Barn, their favorite honky tonk, they didn't appear to have much in common. Juliet loved to read. About the only thing Neil read was the sports page. When it came to movies, she liked chick flicks and Neil preferred action movies. He was big on eating, she was bad at cooking. Family was everything to her. His family was dysfunctional and he'd moved as far away from them as possible. And he never seemed that excited to see hers.

Although maybe Jonathan was imagining that, because he always felt a little uncomfortable around Neil, rather like a mule standing next to a Thoroughbred racehorse.

Mom had taken the can of dice out of her purse and Jonathan pulled his mind away from thoughts of mules and horses. But later that evening, when he got back home, he found himself revisiting the subject. Some men just seemed to be born babe magnets. Others...

Well, Chica loved him.

She rushed out her dog door to greet him the minute he pulled up back at the house. “Did you miss me, girl?” he asked.

Chica woofed and wagged her tail.
Yes.

“I bet you're ready for some fetch, huh?” He grabbed her tennis ball from the porch and threw it for her and she raced after it. Dogs were so easy to please. If only it was as easy to please a woman.

After a rousing game of fetch they went inside the house, and that was when Jonathan discovered his loss. Chica had developed a taste for romance and had devoured two of his library book sale paperbacks.

“Aw, Chica,” he said in disgust as he surveyed the mess of mangled books and shredded paper on the couch and the living room floor. He picked up what was left of one cover and saw that the Viscount Vampire now bore canine teeth marks all over his face and neck. He'd survived better than the cowboy. All Jonathan could find of him was his Stetson.

He shook the fragment at Chica. “What is this?”

Her tail curled between her legs and her head hung. She turned, slinking off toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, you should be ashamed. Bad dog!” She had a dog door and a huge yard to play in. She didn't need to swipe his books and eat them. “Why did you do that?” he demanded. She didn't make a habit of eating his books. But then, he didn't make a habit of leaving them lying around on the couch. And, he had to admit, these had smelled a little musty. Maybe Chica had mistaken them for something dead.

Well, they were as good as dead now, he thought.

He picked up part of a page and read.

“Armande, I have never met a man like you,” breathed the contessa.

“And you never will. I will satisfy your every desire. Forever,” he whispered as he gently lifted her hair, exposing her lovely white neck.

Desire and a lovely white neck—that was all he was going to see of the contessa and Armande. Jonathan retrieved the waste can from under the kitchen sink and got to work.

Chica watched as he cleaned up the mess.

“Yeah, you did this. Those were research, you know,” he informed her.

She whined.

He relented. “Okay, you're forgiven. Come here.”

She came, her tail wagging hopefully.

He knelt and pulled her against him and rubbed her head. “I guess those books just looked too good to resist, huh?”

She licked his face.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, you're sorry. I'll find 'em online and download them on to my e-reader. But no more eating my books, okay?”

Chica barked.
Okay.

Once the mess was cleaned up, he'd spend some time on the island of Crete, with a suave tycoon and a beautiful businesswoman. He'd snitched
The Undercover Tycoon
from Juliet. He'd spotted it lying on top of a pile of books on the stairs and, unable to stop himself, had pinched it and smuggled it out in the pocket of his windbreaker. She'd happily have lent it to him if he asked, but no
way
was he asking to borrow one of Juliet's romance novels. He'd never have heard the end of it, especially from Neil. He'd managed to get it out of the house undetected and he'd get it back in the same way. Nobody would be the wiser.

“No eating this one,” he told Chica, showing it to her. “It's not ours.”

She yawned and settled down next to him on the couch.

This story had a contemporary setting, and it didn't take long for him to get involved in the plot. Although the hero and heroine were hot for each other, something was standing in the way of their love—the business. Her family used to own it but now she only ran it. And the tycoon wanted to sell it out from under her.

As Jonathan read, he made notes on his iPad, treating the novel as if it were a college textbook, the same as he'd done with the other book he'd read. This particular hero seemed to have an overabundance of testosterone. He was strong and forceful, and while he and the heroine clashed—a lot—she seemed to appreciate that forcefulness. So, women wanted a man who was forceful, a take-charge kind of guy.

Jonathan added that attribute to the list he'd started. Forceful, take-charge. He could be forceful. Maybe.

* * *

Adam returned from his Alaskan adventure late Sunday night to make a shocking discovery. His key didn't work in the lock. He wasn't dreaming and he wasn't drunk. This was the right house. His house. But his key didn't work. Even finding the lock had been a pain since his wife hadn't left the porch light on. What the hell?

He rang the doorbell.

No one came.

He rang again.

Still no one.

Chelsea's car was there. What was going on? “Chels,” he called. “Chelsea?”

Finally the entry hall light went on and he saw the shadow of a slim body on the other side of the frosted glass panel. She must have fallen asleep.

That in itself was odd. She always waited up for him.

Now she was at the door but it didn't open. And the porch light stayed off, leaving him standing there in the dark.

Her voice drifted out to him, muffled and distant. “Go away, Adam.”

What?
“Let me in. My key won't work.”

“It won't work because I had the locks changed,” said the voice.

Maybe he was dreaming, after all. Or she was joking. “Okay, babe, you've had your laugh. Now open up.”

Instead of opening the door, she turned off the entry light and disappeared. “Chels!” He banged on the door. “This isn't funny anymore. Open up.”

One neighbor was two wooded lots away and whoever had purchased the house next door hadn't moved in yet. Still, he caught himself checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He felt like a fool standing there, demanding entrance into his own house. Changing the locks, that wasn't even legal. But what was he going to do, call the cops? He'd wind up sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.

This was nuts. He took out his cell phone and dialed her.

“What?” she answered.

What, indeed? Who was this snappish woman?

“Do you mind telling me what's going on?” he asked.

An upstairs light went on and a window opened. Their bedroom. For a moment he saw her face, framed by the bedroom light. Chelsea had long, chestnut hair, big hazel eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. The lips weren't smiling.

She held a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a pink ribbon. He recognized that box. And now she was going to... Oh, no. That was breakable. “Don't—” he began.

Too late. She dropped it. The box landed with a crunch. So much for the candy dish the clerk at Mountain Treasures had convinced him to buy.

His wife had lost her mind. “What are you
doing?
”

A moment later, something else came fluttering down, like a poorly designed paper airplane—the card that went with the box.

“All right,” he said into the cell phone. “What was that all about?”

“Guess.”

“You didn't want to give my mom anything for her birthday?”

Wrong guess. The call ended and the bedroom window slammed shut.

He called her again. “I don't get it.”

“Does the number seven mean anything to you?”

Seven, seven. Crap! Their anniversary. Their anniversary was this weekend and he'd forgotten. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah, that's what you're in,” she said. “It was bad enough you just had to stay up in Alaska and fish, but not to send flowers, not even call...”

“I called.” That was feeble. He'd left a message on voice mail telling her what time he'd be in. No mention of their anniversary.

Because he'd forgotten. Forgotten! What was wrong with his brain? A twenty-pound salmon, that was what. He felt sick.

“And then I found the package and thought you'd left it as a surprise.” Her voice was wobbly now, a sure sign that she was crying. “And what was it? Your mother's birthday present. And her birthday isn't until next week. And I already bought something because you never remember!”

He wouldn't have remembered this year, either, except he'd been talking to his mom on his cell a few days ago and she'd dropped a hint when he happened to be downtown, walking past a shop. More than a hint. She'd come right out and said, “Your wife is not your personal secretary, Adam, and you should be able to remember your own mother's birthday.”

Yeah, and he should've been able to remember his own anniversary, but he hadn't. He'd stuck his mom's present in the closet and forgotten about it. Just like he'd forgotten another important date. “I knew it was coming up,” he said. No lie. He'd planned to remember. Lame.

“This is the last straw. I'm tired of you taking me for granted. You do it all the time.”

“I do not,” he insisted, both to her and himself.

“Oh, yes, you do. And this isn't the first time you've messed up.”

All right, so he'd accidentally gotten tickets to a Mariners game on the day of their anniversary the year before last. And she'd never have known he'd screwed up if his brother Greg hadn't called from Seattle asking what time they were meeting at the stadium. He'd done penance and gotten her diamond earrings. A whole carat, for God's sake. He'd even taken her to the game and they'd ended up having a great evening.

And last year he'd remembered. She hadn't needed to remind him the week before. Why did women keep score like that? They kept track of every screw-up and then threw it in your face. In the middle of the night.

“Oh, come on, babe. Cut me some slack. Let's talk about this.” She always wanted to talk.

Not tonight. She ended the call and the bedroom light switched off.