Love, Luck, and Little Green Men: A Contemporary Romance

by Diane Kelly

  LOVE, LUCK, and LITTLE GREEN MEN

  By Diane Kelly

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Big thanks to my wonderful group of writer friends - Angela Cavener, Celya Bowers, Angela Hicks, Sherrel Lee, and Trinity Blake. What would I do without you?

  “Prepare to laugh your assets off.”

  — Jana DeLeon, author of the Ghost-in-Law mysteries

  “Keep your eye on Diane Kelly—her writing is tight, smart and laugh-out-loud funny.”

  —Kristan Higgins, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

  “A hilarious, sexy, heart-pounding ride, that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Tara Holloway is the IRS’s answer to Stephanie Plum—smart, sassy, and so much fun. Kelly’s debut has definitely earned her a spot on my keeper shelf!”

  —New York Times bestselling author and three-time Rita nominee Gemma Halliday

  “Quirky, sexy, and downright fabulous. Zany characters you can’t help but love, and a plot that will knock your socks off. This is the most fun I’ve had reading in forever!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Christie Craig

  CHAPTER ONE

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14TH

  MIXED BOUQUETS, MIXED MESSAGES

  Another Valentine’s Day and here I was again.

  Lonely.

  Loveless.

  Lover-less.

  Yep, I’m unlucky in love. Unlucky in just about everything else, too. Life tried, and time again, to kick my ass. But, you know what? Life could piss off.

  I, Erin Flaherty, would not go down without a fight.

  ***

  For the third time in as many months, I sat at the counter of my shoe repair shop screwing a new tap on the heel of a men’s size thirteen tap shoe. Part of me wanted to scold my son for abusing his dance shoes, but another part knew the broken tap was a sign of his passion for dance. With his enormous feet, athletic style, and unbridled enthusiasm, Riley could stomp a stage into splinters. Heck, I’d broken a tap or two myself over the years. Might as well cut the kid some slack.

  My shop wasn’t much to brag about, just a small foyer and stockroom with walls painted a soft sage green and dark wood floors that, judging from the multitude of scars, were likely original. Two wooden chairs flanked the front door. Not that I was ever so busy customers needed a place to sit while they waited their turn, but best to be prepared just in case, right? A brass coat tree nestled in one corner, an oval standing mirror in the other. The white Formica countertop supported an outdated but functional cash register and one of the world’s last remaining black-and-white portable TV’s. A full-color map of County Cork, Ireland and a poster of Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral, a County Cork historical landmark, graced the walls, giving the shop a touch of Irish kitsch.

  The bells hanging from the front door tinkled and a blast of brisk winter wind blew into my shop, carrying a sweet, flowery scent with it. I looked up to see an enormous bouquet of long-stem roses, six red and six yellow, making its way inside. My heart performed a pirouette in my chest and I emitted an involuntary squeal. “Flowers? For me?”

  Dumb question, really. I was the only one in the shop. But you can’t blame me for being surprised. The last time anyone had given me flowers was when Riley’s father had shown up in the delivery room with a tiny bouquet of carnations and an even tinier engagement ring. That was fourteen years—and what seemed like a lifetime—ago. I’d kept the flowers but refused the ring. The right choice, obviously, given the look of relief on Matthew’s face when I’d handed the small velvet-covered box back to him. But who could blame him? Like me, he’d been only nineteen, much too young to deal with a new baby and a wife, though not too young to knock me up, the knucklehead.

  He’d promised to pull out.

  Never trust a guy with a hard on.

  Of course it takes two to tango, and I’ve accepted my share of the blame. Or should I say credit? When I think of my son, of what a clever and caring kid he’s turned out to be, it’s impossible to consider him as a mistake.

  The roses made their way toward me, bringing their lovely smell along with them, coming to rest on the countertop next to the cash register. Their courier stepped aside to reveal himself. I knew the face in an instant. Strong-jawed, with the ruddy complexion of a man who’d spent a decade toiling at the dockyards of Dublin. Dark hair worn closely cropped in a no-fuss style. Intelligent, soulful eyes under thick brows. The roguish smile that revealed an upper bicuspid chipped in a life-changing moment the tooth would never let him forget.

  Brendan.

  “Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, Erin.”

  Would I ever tire of that deep Irish brogue?

  A sense of warmth flowed through me and a smile spread across my face. “Back at ya’, Bren.”

  Brendan was “Black Irish,” dark-haired and darker-skinned than the majority of the fair and freckled Irish population. Legend had it they were the progeny of naïve Irish lasses taken into the arms of Spanish sailors shipwrecked long ago on the Emerald Isle. God help me, I’d often wondered what it might be like to be taken into Brendan’s strong arms.

  Shame I’d never get a chance to find out.

  He was dressed in his usual casual style. Blue-and-white striped cotton shirt, un-tucked, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, along with worn blue jeans and brown ankle-high work boots. Despite the frosty weather, he wore no jacket, still acclimated to the colder Irish climate even after living in Texas all these years. Brendan was only average height, but appeared manly, formidable even, given his stocky frame, and he still towered over me. Heck, fifth-graders towered over me.

  I set the tap shoe on the counter, tossed the screwdriver into the plastic bin on the shelf under the cash register, and stood to admire the arrangement. Dainty baby’s breath and lush greenery filled out the bouquet, which rested in an adorable vase shaped like a vintage women’s lace-up boot.

  “Brendan, they’re . . .” Unexpected? Surprising? Confusing? I decided to go with “Perfect.”

  And they were. Full, open, at their prime. Yellow, signifying friendship. Appropriate given that Brendan and I were close friends, had been for years now. And red, signifying . . . love?

  No. That’s certainly not what Brendan could have meant by choosing red roses. After all, he couldn’t love me. Not in that way. No way. No how. It wasn’t allowed.

  But what if it were? I reached out to touch a velvety red petal and pricked my finger on a thorn, the sting bringing me instantly back to reality. Why waste time thinking about something that would never—could never—be?

  “Ouch.” Instinctively, I put the nicked finger to my mouth. Brendan’s gaze followed, flickering from my lips to my eyes, then back again. Heat flooded me again, this time hotter, more intense, more concentrated. But this feeling, this heat, was nothing more than embarrassment, right? Sure. After all, what else could it be?

  Arf! Arf! Blarney, my son’s Irish Setter mix, rolled off his plaid doggie bed in the corner and made his way over to Brendan with his tail wagging. Taking his eyes from me, Brendan crouched down and scratched Blarney behind the ears with both hands. “How ye be feelin’, boy?”

  Blarney responded by wagging his tail harder and licking Brendan from chin to forehead.

  Brendan chuckled and wiped the doggie slobber from his face with the back of his hand. “I’ll take that as ‘fine.’”

  Blarney looked up with his sweet brown eyes, today looking nothing like the crazed beast who’d sunk his fangs into Riley last Thursday. Although I’d suspected someth
ing was wrong with the dog, noticed he’d lost weight and seemed disoriented at times, I’d hoped it would pass, just a temporary bug. Riley had noticed Blarney’s lack of interest in food, too, and had bought his pet an expensive T-bone with his own money, cooking the steak himself on the stove, flipping it in the pan until it was just right. He’d cut the meat into bite-sized pieces and had been trying to hand feed it to Blarney when the dog snarled and snapped, clamping down on Riley’s hand. The puncture wound was deep, but thankfully needed no stitches. As much as the bite must have hurt, it was clear from the look in Riley’s eyes his heartbreak was far worse. How could the dog he loved turn on him?

  Brendan gave Blarney one last scratch and stood, turning to me. “Sure ye don’t want me to go with ye to the vet? It would be no bother.”

  No, I wasn’t sure. But as much as I needed Brendan, the sinners at Saint Anthony’s needed him more. Confession was scheduled each Monday afternoon. If Brendan canceled today, the congregants would have to bear their sins a week longer or carry them down the road to unload them on Father McMann at Saint Elizabeth’s. Besides, Brendan had already accompanied me to Blarney’s appointment last Friday. I shouldn’t ask more of him.

  I shook my head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure the doctor will tell me the CAT scan came back fine.”

  At the last appointment, Dr. Delgado had performed a physical exam and run the usual blood work, but found nothing wrong with Blarney. She’d suggested a CT scan to rule out other possibilities. I could ill afford the two-hundred and fifty dollars the procedure cost, but how could I refuse? Blarney wasn’t just my son’s pet, he was Riley’s best buddy, the brother he’d never had. Brendan had presented Riley with the wriggling pup as a gift for his seventh birthday. Now fourteen, Riley hardly remembered his life before the goofy orange dog bounded into it and began chewing up shoes almost as fast as Riley could outgrow them.

  Brendan cocked his head. “Still on for dinner?”

  “Counting on it.”

  “Great. There’s a recipe in the arch-diocese cookbook I’ve wanted to try. Communion wafer casserole.”

  Leave it to Brendan to wrench a laugh out of me despite my worries. I stepped around the counter and gave him a playful punch in the arm, noting his firm bicep didn’t yield to my touch. “You’re full of it.”

  He reached out a hand and tugged gently at that rebellious red curl next to my right cheek, the one that refused to stay tucked behind my ear. He released it and let it spring back into place. “Boing.”

  “Hey. No making fun of my hair.” I crossed my arms over my chest in mock indignation. Truth be told, I liked it when Brendan touched me, enjoyed sharing a sense of intimacy with him. He could tug my curls all he wanted.

  He turned to go, calling back over his shoulder. “See ye at seven.”

  I could hardly wait.

  As Brendan walked to the door, I eased one of the red roses from the bouquet and held it to my face, breathing in its beautiful scent. Strange, though. My nose detected a spicy smell, too, like patchouli or an old man’s pipe. Probably nothing more than the residual smell of incense on Brendan’s clothes. I lifted my head and the scent grew stronger. Wait. Was the unusual smell coming from my storeroom?

  “Jakers!” Brendan stood in the open doorway of my shop, looking up at the sky. He waved me over. “Come ‘ere, Erin. You’ve got to see this!”

  I slid the rose back into the vase and rushed to his side. From the doorway I looked up. “Holy smokes.” My mouth gaped in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Over our heads, against a dull backdrop of gray winter sky, arched the most brilliant rainbow I’d ever seen. Not only were the colors vivid and intense, but the spectrum was incredibly wide, filling the sky as if the rainbow were mere inches above our heads, reaching down toward us.

  I stepped outside onto the sidewalk, Brendan and Blarney following me. We made our way out in front of the shop and turned back to look at the roof. A puff of steam streamed from my mouth as I emitted a bewildered and elongated, “Whoa.”

  The rainbow narrowed and grew fainter as it descended toward the building. The colors faded away just a few feet above my shop.

  We were at the end of the rainbow.

  I turned to Brendan, hoping he could explain what we were seeing, but the look of amazement on his face as he stared upwards told me he was as mystified as I was. Rainbows were supposed to be far off things, high in the sky. They weren’t supposed to float in the air mere feet from the ground. And didn’t a rainbow require, well, rain? It hadn’t rained in days.

  Not a drop. It wasn’t even misty. What’s more, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, not a ray in sight. Without the requisite moisture and sunshine, how on earth could there be a rainbow in the sky?

  I whispered, as if speaking out loud would break the rainbow spell. “How can this be?”

  Brendan slowly shook his head before turning his wide-eyed gaze on me. “If I didn’t know better, Erin, I’d say it’s magic.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE DOG DILEMMA

  Blarney nearly dislocated my shoulder as he dragged me across the parking lot of the Eastside Veterinary Clinic, making a beeline for the CAT CROSSING sign near the entrance. Surely a dog this energetic couldn’t be suffering from any serious ailment. I’d worried all weekend for nothing. Right?

  “Slow down, boy!” It was no use. I had forty pounds on the insistent beast, but with four on the floor he had much better traction and was testing the limits of the nylon leash connecting the two of us.

  His tags jingled and his tail wagged happily as he stopped to check the messages left on the post by Dr. Delgado’s other patients. As I waited, I looked up at the sky, searching vainly for another glimpse of the extraordinary rainbow that had faded away before our eyes as Brendan and I stared up at it earlier. No luck. The rainbow seemed to be gone for good, a one-time fluke, a mere moment of magic in my otherwise routine, humdrum life.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and stamped my feet to fight off the chill. This was the coldest Valentine’s Day in Fort Worth in years. Too bad I didn’t have a warm, sexy man to snuggle up with later tonight. I had Brendan, of course. He was warm. He was a man. And, Lord knows, he was sexy. But Brendan . . . well, Brendan didn’t count. He was off limits.

  A gust of wind blew past, carrying a rustle of dry leaves with it. Blarney lifted his head and intently sniffed the air. After a few sniffs, his head snapped to the left. Ruff! He must’ve scented a squirrel. Or maybe an errant hamburger wrapper. You never knew with this crazy dog. He lunged and strained at the leash, bounding across the grass toward a row of evergreen bushes, yanking me after him.

  “What is it, boy?” I nearly tripped over him when he skidded to a stop in front of a garden gnome.

  The gnome was decked out in bright green knickers, a green vest, and black buckled shoes, his face sporting a neatly trimmed red beard. He stood over three feet high, oddly large for a garden gnome. His green top hat was unusual, too. Didn’t garden gnomes normally wear pointy-tipped hats? The little man’s smile seemed strained, his stance awkward, as if he’d been about to skitter behind the bushes but had frozen in place. The gnome held a pipe in his outstretched hand.

  Funny thing. I could have sworn I smelled the spicy scent of pipe tobacco wafting on the breeze, the same scent I’d smelled earlier in my shop. I shook my head to shake away the wacky thought. I’d always had an active, often silly, imagination. My dad—or, as we Irish say, my da—claimed the relentless red ringlets hanging down my back sprang from twisted thoughts inside my head. Maybe Da was right.

  Blarney cocked his head, looking first at the gnome, then up at me. Arurr?

  I wasn’t fluent in dog, but Blarney’s tone made it clear he had some questions about the little green man. I patted Blarney’s head. “He’s not real, boy. He’s just a statue.” An incredibly lifelike statue, though. I could see why Blarney was confused.

  The gnome hadn’t been here three days a
go when Brendan and I had brought Blarney in for testing. Surely we would’ve noticed him. The staff must’ve put the little man out over the weekend. I stepped toward the gnome to take a closer look, noting his clothes were made of actual fabric. He must be one of those yard decorations with interchangeable outfits for each holiday. But why had Dr. Delgado’s staff already dressed him in Saint Patrick’s Day green rather than Valentine’s red? The romantic holiday wasn’t over yet. Of course for single people like me it had never even started. At least I’d received flowers this year. Too bad they were only from a friend.

  Blarney sniffed the gnome, starting with the hat and working his way down to the tiny green knee pants before lifting his leg.

  I jerked on the leash. “Blarney! No!”

  Too late. Blarney managed to sprinkle the gnome’s tiny black shoes before I could drag him away.

  “Bloody hell!”

  What?

  I looked around, my eyes seeking the source of the voice. It seemed to have come from the gnome, but surely my mind was playing tricks on me again. No matter how real the little man looked, a statue couldn’t talk.

  In the parking lot to my right, a man struggled to pull a Rottweiler out of his pickup, the bulky dog cowering and whimpering on the seat, no doubt remembering his last fecal test, the indignity of a plastic stick inserted into his behind. It must have been the man who’d sworn. But “bloody hell?” That wasn’t the type of curse you normally heard in north Texas. “Bullshit,” maybe, or “horseshit.” Or often just plain old “shit.” We’re not the most creative cursers.

  I checked my watch. 4:30. Now it was my turn to drag Blarney. “Come on, boy. Don’t want to be late.”

  ***

  I pulled open the glass door of the red brick clinic and Blarney trotted into the foyer, his nails clicking on the gray tile floor. He stopped to introduce himself to a schnauzer wearing a lampshade collar around his neck. The poor dog tried to sniff Blarney back, but didn’t have much luck with the plastic funnel in his way.