She licked her lips, not returning his smile.
But then she reached for his hands and put them on her waist. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Now that you have your hands on me, what are you going to do about it?”
Sean stood there for a heartbeat—or five—to absorb the moment. To understand that it was really happening. That she, well, if she hadn’t forgiven him, was willing to try to.
“Sean? I’m waiting.” Those amber eyes had twinkles in them.
He dropped to one knee. Totally unplanned and completely unprepared. No ring, no idea what he was going to say, but this just felt right. “I’m going to ask you to marry me. To be in my life forever. To wake up with me in a huge king-sized bed every morning surrounded by dogs, to help me muck out alpaca poo, catch wayward parrots and dancing poodles, and make babies so we can make this mausoleum a home.”
She was crying by the time he finished, but these tears he could deal with.
“I’m sorry, Livvy. For not telling you the truth. But you have to know, you have to believe that I didn’t use you. Every time we were together, every touch, every look, every kiss . . . They were all real. All about us. The estate didn’t come into play.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out how the hell I could make it work out for both of us this whole time, but, in the end, I couldn’t. Because I couldn’t take what was yours from you.”
“I know.”
“No matter what happened between us, I couldn’t deny you your birthright.”
“I know.”
“I—you know? You believe me?”
She finally smiled and oh what it did to the inside of the barn. It was is if the sun rose and the animals sang and the heavens rained down happiness—
He was spouting poetry again.
“I love you, Livvy. In your co-op, leaky-roofed farmhouse or here, it doesn’t matter. I love you. And your Noah’s ark.”
She tugged on his hair. “Good because they love you, too. And . . .” She licked her lips. “So do I.”
“Thank you, Jesus.” He swept her up in a kiss that gave him the chance to pour only a tiny bit of his feelings into it. The rest would take years. At least fifty or sixty.
When they finally broke apart, she yanked his hair, this time a little harder than a tug. “You know, I keep trying to get you to remember that the name is Livvy. L-i-v-v-y C-a-r-o-l-l-a.”
He tugged hers right back—right into him for another kiss. “No, it’s not,” he said when they came up for air a second time. “It’s L-i-v-v-y M-a-n-l-e-y.”
“Well, it will be.”
“Damn straight. Just as soon as I can find a justice of the peace. I hope you don’t want a big wedding.”
“Who would I invite? You’re all the family I have.”
He kissed her nose. “No, I’m not. You have all of them.” He nodded his head to the menagerie behind him.
“They can’t come to the wedding, silly.”
“So let’s bring the wedding to them. What do you say about getting married right here. With your family looking on?”
She threw her arms around him. “I say that you’re the craziest sonofabitch I’ve ever met.”
He pulled back. “Sonofabitch?”
“Consider it a term of endearment. After all, with Orwell around, you’re going to be hearing it for a very long time.”
“Then you better get used to hearing Jesus.”
“I won’t mind. Because every time you kiss me, it’s divine.”
Guys’ Night . . . Plus Three
EIGHTEEN months later
“Call.”
“Read ’em and weep, guys.” Cooper Wexford fanned out his three aces on the poker table in what used to be the French provincial main salon of the Martinson estate, but was now the game room at the Hideaway Hills Bed & Breakfast. “Better luck next time.” He scraped the chips toward him.
“Hang on.” Kerry set down his margarita and picked up his cards. He tossed them onto the table. “Full house.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Sonofabitch!”
“Orwell, hush.” Livvy tapped the bars of his cage as she passed by it with her signature organic salsa and homemade chips. “Sorry, guys,” she said, placing the snacks on the edge of the table. “Play on.”
“Thanks, Livvy,” said Cooper, scooping a generous portion. “Eat up, boys. It’s on me.”
Livvy rolled her eyes. The salsa was a house staple and didn’t cost the guests anything extra. And Cooper, their landscape contractor, knew it.
“You having some, babe?” Sean slipped his arm around the small of her back.
“Can’t. It doesn’t agree with them.” She rubbed her belly.
“Couple more weeks, then you can.”
“A couple more weeks and I’ll be breastfeeding and I really won’t want spicy food then.”
“Come on!” said Bryan. “No talking about my sister-in-law’s . . . Well, that. It’s game night. Sheesh.”
“I’m out,” said Drake Fletcher, tossing his two pair onto the table. The author was a regular every six months, when he’d hole himself up for the week of his book’s deadline to pull a marathon writing session and finish it.
Livvy had never seen him in the game room, so she could only imagine he’d finished early. Pity he’d come out only to lose.
She recognized that look on her husband’s face. Sean might have a good poker face to the rest of them, but she knew him. Knew that face intimately and all his moods. Most of his thoughts, too, since they worked together every day and slept together every night.
She rubbed her belly, testament to the success of that venture. Three more weeks and the twins would arrive.
“Whatcha got, Bry?” Sean tapped the edges of his cards on the felt.
Bryan rolled his eyes. “More than enough to beat you bozos.” He tossed out four twos.
“You do realize tonight’s the third Saturday of the month.”
“Aw, shit.” Cooper sat back and swiped a hand across his mouth.
Kerry choked on his margarita. “Sher is going to kill me.”
Bryan just turned green. A certain mint shade of green.
“What? What’s going on?” Drake looked around the table.
Sean couldn’t stop smiling. “The third Saturday of every third month is Maid Night.”
“Made night?”
“As in m-a-i-d,” said Cooper before he gunned his beer.
“Loser has to do maid service here for a week,” said Kerry.
Sean just grinned as he laid down his straight. “Looks like you’re it, Drake. I’ll have my sister fit you for a uniform. Welcome to Manley Maids.”
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT MANLEY MAIDS NOVEL
What a Woman Needs
COMING IN JUNE 2014 FROM BERKLEY SENSATION
Guys’ Night . . . Plus One
HE’D lost.
Bryan Manley stared at the cards on the table in front of him.
Straight flush. Jack high.
It beat his full house. It beat Liam’s four queens and Sean’s nine-high straight flush.
He’d lost.
To his sister.
The one who’d never played poker.
And she’d not only beaten him, but all three of them. Mary-Alice Catherine Manley had beaten the Manley men at their own game.
And now they were going to have to play hers.
Bryan cleared his throat, disgust burning the back of it. He, leading man, paparazzi fodder, starlet heartbreaker, and People magazine’s Next Biggest Thing, was going to be someone’s maid.
“I believe, dear brothers, you all need to be fitted for Manley Maids uniforms,” Mac said as if it weren’t the death knell for Bryan’s image.
“I’m not wearing an apron.” The words were out of his mouth before he’d even thought that far, but it just proved his instincts were right on. Every director he’d ever worked with had said so, and Bryan was damned glad for it right now.
An apron. Christ. The tabloids were going to have a field day with this.
Interestingly, none of the brothers tried to talk Mac out of this ridiculous pay-up. They’d made their bets and lost fair and square.
But, Jesus. A maid.
“When do you want us to start, Mac?” Liam was the first to recover—if that’s what it could be called. Bryan just felt sick.
“Whenever you can. I’ve got the business.”
If Bryan didn’t know Mac better, he’d swear she was trying not to laugh. But that wouldn’t be like Mac; she’d always idolized the three of them. Called them her knights in shining armor. Or football pads on occasion. But never this. Never an . . . an apron.
He’d swear it was a joke, but Mac had bet the only thing that could come anywhere close to what he and his brothers had bet: four weeks of cleaning service if she lost, four weeks of indentured servitude if she won. She wouldn’t risk her business for a joke.
“I’ve got the time now. I’ll get started first thing Monday.” Sean stacked the poker chips. Meticulously, which was the only indication of Sean’s emotions. He was pissed. At himself, probably. They’d gone against their instincts, all of them, and had let her play when she couldn’t afford the stakes.
The fact that they were the ones paying was immaterial. They’d been protecting Mac, their baby sister, for pretty much all of her life, since their parents had died and Gran had taken them in. They should have stuck to their “no girls” rule for this game, but she’d wanted in so bad and they’d all always been pushovers for her.
And now she was going to be their boss.
A maid. God.
The one plus was it looked like Gran’s cleaning lessons were going to pay off. Their grandmother had had her hands full with four young kids, and he and his brothers, especially, had been pretty rowdy and messy.
He never would’ve thought he’d be grateful for those lessons. Hell, he even had Monica, his own maid from Mac’s company, to keep his condo in shape just so he wouldn’t have to dust off those cleaning lessons.
“Hey, can I do my place?” Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, though the PETA people would probably take issue with that saying.
Mac frowned at him. “You’d put Monica out of a job to weasel out of the bet? Really?”
When she put it like that . . .
“I’m not weaseling out of anything.” That’s all he’d need the tabloids to pick up on. “You can count me in for Monday, too. I’ve got some time between projects and was looking for something to do anyhow.” He’d hoped it would’ve had something to do with a certain actress, a beach, and a couple of Heinekens, but that wasn’t going to happen. At least he was out of the public eye for a while; maybe he could pull this off without anyone getting wind of it.
Yeah, and Gran was going to up and leave her new place for the mansion he’d been wanting to buy her, too.
Chapter One
BETH Hamilton tripped over a big, yellow, hard-as-all-get-out toy truck, banged her shin on the coffee table, slipped on a page of shiny stickers, and landed butt-first in a basket of dirty laundry.
Again.
It’d be hysterical if it weren’t so common.
She was constantly tripping over things. Constantly swerving to avoid an incoming wet dog or the twins chasing each other with lightsabers, only to end up on her butt anyway.
The sad part was, she had enough padding there that the falls didn’t do a lot of damage to her body—not like the extra padding did to her self-esteem.
But then, what widowed mother of five could afford self-esteem? Especially when one of the five had attained teenager status, another was fast approaching, and the twins came up with daily nicknames for her from their favorite sci-fi movies—Princess Leia not being among them. No, she got stuck with names like Frodo, Chewy, and the ever-popular Voldemort. At least they hadn’t gone for Barney. Yet.
Thank God for Maggie. The five-year-old still thought Mom could do anything.
If only she could.
The clock on the mantel chimed ten. Great. The cleaning service was going to be here any second and her house looked like a tornado had hit it. Tornado Hamilton. It came through on a daily basis. Sometimes twice just for kicks.
“Jason, did you finish straightening up your room?” She picked the toy off the hardwood floor, wincing at the nick the rotor blades made. They’d probably done the same thing to her shin.
“Uh-huh.” Jason muttered from somewhere beneath the mop of hair he called cool, but which she called a bowl cut. If she’d given him that hairstyle as a toddler, she’d never hear the end of it whenever she pulled out baby pictures, yet he’d actually wanted her to pay someone to do that to him. Teenagers.
“Your laundry is put away and the bed made?” Yes, she knew it was silly to clean up before the cleaning service arrived, but if the woman got a look at her house now, she’d either take off or double her fee. Maybe even triple it.
“Uh-huh.”
Odds were Jason’s uh-huh should be nuh-uh, but Beth had too much to do down here to run up the stairs to check out his story.
And Jason knew it, too.
Beth sighed. It’d been two years since Mike’s death, and while the kids had seemed to sprout right before her eyes, every day of those two years seemed to last longer than their allotted twenty-four hours.
What she wouldn’t give for Prince Charming to ring her doorbell.
BRYAN ran his finger under the collar of the golf shirt and adjusted his hold on the bucket of cleaning products while he seriously contemplated not ringing the doorbell of Mrs. Beth Hamilton’s home.
He was a freaking maid. A maid!
He checked over his shoulder. No one had seen him yet, unless the tabloids had sent out a slew of covert reporters—and the likelihood of that was on par with those alien abduction stories they wrote about. No, those people were like dogs with a bone and they traveled in packs. He’d never miss them.
Still, he tapped the rim of the baseball cap down another half inch. Not technically part of the Manley Maids mint green polyester nightmare of a uniform, but he didn’t care. His face and build were recognizable enough; he needed some protection from prying eyes—
Like the ones staring at him from behind the sheer curtain on the sidelight beside the door.
Snagged.
Taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders, Bryan bit the bullet and rang the bell.
Instantly a chorus of barks, shrieks, and a couple of “Expelliarmus!”es erupted, followed by a nasty crash and some muttered cursing.
Then she opened the door.
For a moment, Bryan just stared.
Then his PR training kicked in and he ramped up the Charmer smile that was not only his signature look, but one that came naturally around beautiful women.
And she was stunning. From her artfully messy, wavy brown hair, to the curves just hinted at beneath the open neckline of the mis-buttoned blouse, to the yoga pants that hugged shapely legs that went on forever, the woman was almost as tall as he was and built like a woman should be, rounded in all the right places with just enough to hold on to for the ride of a lifetime.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a bad gig after all.
Then the kids hit the scene, heads popping out behind her like some dance number in a musical.
And they didn’t stop popping. Three. Four. Five. She had her own basketball team.
Bryan reined in the smile. He didn’t hit on married women, and he didn’t hit on moms.
He especially didn’t hit on married moms.
Of five.
�
��Who are you?” Kid number two, or maybe three, said.
“Honestly, Kelsey, that’s no way to greet someone.” The woman rolled her gorgeous coffee-colored eyes as she flicked her finger under the girl’s chin, then she wiped away her annoyed look and smiled at him.
This time his Charmer smile appeared of its own volition. Bryan couldn’t help it. When she smiled, she was beyond stunning, and it made him glad he was a man—but annoyed that she was married.
And a mom.
Of five.
“Can I help you?”
Let me count the ways. Bryan caught himself before he started spouting sonnets. “I’m here to clean your toilet.”
Way to go, idiot. Brilliant opening line.
“I beg your pardon?”
She could beg for whatever she wanted, and he’d give her every single thing.
Bryan cleared his throat. “I’m a Manley Maid.”
The shaggy teenager snorted before he walked away, the picture of utter teenage disinterest.
Bryan rephrased his intro. “I mean, I’m Bryan. I work for Manley Maids. You hired us to clean for you?”
“You’re the maid?” The little girl tugging on her mom’s shirttails had no idea she was in danger of popping Mom’s button and giving Bry a glimpse of something that, in any other circumstance, he’d be thrilled to see. And Bryan wasn’t about to educate the kid.
But she was married.
And a mom.
Of five.
The other teenager lost interest and the younger two—twins from the look of them—took their crooked wands back into the den, leaving him and Mrs. Beth Hamilton alone with a preschooler.
Where was Mr. Beth Hamilton?
Bryan put his game face on. He’d dated dozens of beautiful women. Had slept with a lot of them. Beautiful women were a dime a dozen in his world.
What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) Page 32