“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
The damning words just sort of popped out, and Megan couldn’t regret saying them.
Greg asked, “And is that such a bad thing?”
“No.” She traced the handle of her mug with a finger. “Yes. Oh, I don’t know.”
He chuckled. “Well, at least that’s one thing you’re sure about.”
“You think this is funny?” she chided. “Because it’s not—not in the least.”
“I know.” His voice was soft and low. Intimate. Tender. “I’ve been thinking….”
She had to swallow before she could speak. “About?”
“You.”
Dear Reader,
Don’t you just love it when the nice girl finishes first? I do.
Take Megan Schumacher, She’s about the nicest woman on Danbury Way. All the women of the neighborhood like Megan. Everyone trusts her. They tell her their secrets. They cry on her shoulder when things go wrong.
But the real truth is, Megan, like most of the women of Danbury Way, has a few secrets of her own. Like that crush she had on sweet Carly Alderson’s ex, Greg Banning. Now, there’s a secret that will never be revealed. Because Greg’s a total hunk and would never in a million years be interested in nondescript Megan.
Or would he? Mwahaha.
Welcome to Danbury Way, where everybody knows everybody’s business—and talks about it. A lot.
Best always,
Christine Rimmer
CHRISTINE RIMMER
THE RELUCTANT CINDERELLA
Books by Christine Rimmer
Silhouette Special Edition
†The Marriage Agreement #1412
†The Marriage Conspiracy #1423
**His Executive Sweetheart #1485
**Mercury Rising #1496
**Scrooge and the Single Girl #1509
††The Reluctant Princess #1537
††Prince and Future…Dad? #1556
††The Marriage Medallion #1567
§Fifty Ways To Say…I’m Pregnant #1615
§Marrying Molly #1639
Stranded with the Groom #1657
§Lori’s Little Secret #1683
§The Bravo Family Way #1741
The Reluctant Cinderella #1765
Silhouette Books
Fortune’s Children
Wife Wanted
*The Taming of Billy Jones
†The Bravo Billionaire
Montana Mavericks: Big Sky Brides “Suzanna”
Lone Star Country Club
Stroke of Fortune
Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes “Reinventing Mary”
CHRISTINE RIMMER
came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma. Visit Christine at her new home on the Web at www.christinerimmer.com.
For my fellow authors on this project.
As always, it was a joy working with you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
“Aunt Megan, I really, really need to go,” Olivia whispered anxiously.
Bent over to child level as she dumped the dishwasher detergent in the tray, Megan Schumacher snapped the tray shut, straightened to push the start button and shoved the door into lock position. Inside, the whooshing started. She edged the box of detergent onto the crowded kitchen counter and turned to look fondly down at her niece.
“Powder room.” Megan pointed the way. “Quick.”
Blond curls bounced as the little sweetie shook her head. “Someone’s in there.” She wrinkled her button nose in childish disgust. “Being sick. And there’s someone upstairs in our bathroom, too.” She meant the bathroom she shared with her brothers, Anthony and Michael. “Crying.”
Great. “What about your mom’s bathr—”
Olivia cut her off with a snort of wounded frustration. “Anthony’s in there. He yelled at me to go away.”
Anthony, the oldest of Megan’s sister’s kids, was nine. He’d developed a bit of an attitude lately. If he wasn’t silent and sulky, he was ordering everyone to leave him alone.
Olivia rolled her blue eyes. “Aunt Megan. Come on. I need to use your bathroom.”
“Well, sure. Why didn’t you just say so?”
Olivia let out a pained sigh. “Is it open?”
“You bet. Need help?”
The little girl drew herself up and spoke with great dignity. “Thank you. No. After all, I am seven.” Then she whirled and took off for the kitchen door that led to the breezeway and the backyard entrance to Megan’s apartment over the garage.
“She’s a cutie, that one.” Marti Vincente, who lived next door, pulled a tray of stuffed miniature portobello mushrooms from the oven. The neighbors took turns hosting the annual Danbury Way early summer block party, but Marti and her husband always provided most of the food. The stuffed mushrooms looked as delicious as everything else Marti and Ed had brought over to Angela’s bright kitchen that day.
Slim, stylish and attractive, Marti worked full-time at the restaurant she and Ed owned. She was up close and personal with all that wonderful food on a daily basis—and she couldn’t weigh more than one-ten. How fair was that?
Megan looked down at her own baggy orange T-shirt and frayed jeans. Beneath the comfortable old clothes, she was no Marti Vincente. And she probably never would be.
“Mushroom?” Marti offered. “I’ve got some that are slightly cooled right here….”
Megan needed no more urging. She popped one of the delicious morsels into her mouth and groaned in delight. “Incredible.” Through the window over the sink, she could see the neighbors gathered in groups under the shade of the patio cover, chatting and laughing, sipping iced drinks and chowing down on the Vincentes’ delicious finger food.
Angela was out there, too, weaving in and out among her guests, carrying a trayful of Vincente delicacies. Since her sister was busy, that left Megan to check on Olivia’s story of sickness and sobbing in the bathrooms. Resigned, Megan swallowed the last of that to-die-for mushroom, thanked Marti and headed off down the back hall.
She found Rebecca Peters hovering by the door to the powder room.
Rebecca was subletting the house on the other side of the Vincentes. She wore a skinny, strappy sundress in her trademark black, with the usual four-inch designer heels to match. Rebecca was so not the suburban type. No one in the neighborhood could understand why she’d moved to Rosewood, which was an hour-and-a-half train ride north of New York City and about as suburban as any town could get.
Her worried frown had Megan asking, “What’s up?”
Rebecca’s frown deepened. “I think Molly’s in there….”
Molly owned the house at 7 Danbury Way. Happ
ily single, she put most of her energy into her mega-successful consulting firm.
“Is she sick?” Megan asked softly.
Rebecca nodded and pitched her voice to a confidential level. “She was fine. We were chatting out on the patio. And then she got this strange, green look and…” Rebecca shook her sleek brown head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know…”
Megan took charge, moving in close, tapping lightly on the door, asking gently, “Molly? Molly, are you all right?”
Several seconds passed before she answered, “Fine.” Her voice was bright and cheerful—too much so. “Be right out.” She practically sang the words. A moment later, the door swung inward and Molly emerged on a suspicious cloud of minty-fresh scent: breath spray. No doubt about it. “Hey.” Molly fluffed her long, curly hair and smiled a wide, forced smile. “Great party, huh? Megan, I don’t know how that sister of yours does it. Single with three kids and a full-time job. But the house looks fabulous and the party is…perfect.” She patted Megan’s arm. “I’m sure it helps to have you here to pitch in.”
Before Megan could reply, Rebecca tried again. “Molly, are you certain you’re—”
Molly didn’t even let her finish. “Whew. I need some of that lemonade Angela’s been passing around. How ’bout you?”
Rebecca got the message: whatever had been going on behind the powder room door, Molly had no intention of discussing it. “Uh. Well, alrighty. Sounds great. Megan?”
Megan still had to make sure the crier upstairs in the kids’ bathroom was all right. And check on Anthony. “You guys go ahead.”
So the two women turned and left her just as Zooey Finnegan, the gorgeous model-slim, auburn-haired nanny who looked after widower Jack Lever’s kids, came through the arch from the family room. “Terrific party,” she said with a warm smile as she slipped into the empty powder room and softly shut the door.
Megan made for the stairs. Halfway up, she ran into Anthony, who came barreling down paying zero attention to where he was going.
“Whoa, there, cowboy.” Megan laughed, catching him by the arms and righting him before he fell against the stair rail.
“Sorry, Aunt Megan,” he muttered, looking down.
“No prob.” She waited until he slanted her a glance before softly chiding, “Olivia says you yelled at her.”
He let out a snort. “Well. I was in the bathroom. She kept knocking. What’d she expect?”
“She didn’t expect yelling,” Megan said quietly. “Yelling is not a good thing.”
“Okay, okay.” He stuck out his lower lip, but he did mutter, “I’m sorry.”
“Tell that to your sister.”
He was staring at his shoes again. “Awright, I will. Can I go now? Please?”
She released him. “Remember. No running on the—”
He’d already zipped around her and was headed down—fast, but no longer at a run. He called over his shoulder, “Okay, okay. I won’t. I promise.”
Megan stared after him for a second or two, smiling a doting auntie’s smile. Anthony was a good kid. He’d get past this sulky phase—soon, she hoped.
And there was still the crier in the kids’ bath to see about.
In the upstairs hall, the door to the bathroom was shut. Megan stood in front of it and wondered what she should do next. She couldn’t hear any crying coming from in there. Maybe she should just—
Wait. There: a sob. A stifled one, but still. A definite sob.
So, okay. Maybe a little further investigation was required. She waited—and yep. There it was again: another sob, followed by a distinct sniffle and a tiny, choked-off wail. Olivia had got it right. Someone was in there crying.
When you cried in the bathroom at a block party, well, you should get sympathy. Someone should come and lend a shoulder to cry on.
That would be Megan. On Danbury Way, where she’d lived for three years now, Megan was considered a person everybody could trust: nonthreatening, patient and understanding. All the women liked her. They could tell her anything and she’d never betray their secrets.
Sometimes the role of confidante got a little old, especially lately, when so much had changed in her life outside the neighborhood. But then again, somebody had to “be there” for everyone else. And Megan was used to it. She’d been fitting in, getting along and listening to everybody else’s problems, since she was seven and a half years old.
Discreetly, she tapped on the bathroom door.
Silence.
After a thirty-second interval, she tapped again.
More silence.
Finally, she spoke. “It’s Megan. Are you…all right in there?”
Another silence. Then a sniffle. And finally, hopefully, a woman murmured, “Megan?” More sniffling. “Is it really…” A sob. A tiny hiccup, then, “…you?” Even with all the sniffling, Megan recognized that soft Texas drawl. It was Carly Alderson.
Megan probably should have known. She made her voice even gentler. “Come on, Carly. Let me in….”
A second later, the door opened. Carly, strikingly pretty even with puffy eyes and a red nose, sniffled, sobbed and ushered Megan inside. Once Megan stood on the fluffy green bathroom rug with her, Carly shut the door and punched the lock.
Then, with a mournful little groan, she sank to the edge of the tub. Megan got the box of tissues from the sink counter and sat down beside her.
“Oh, Megan…” Carly paused to sniffle some more. She wiped her nose with a torn-up, wrinkled bit of tissue. “I just…I can’t…”
“Here.” Megan extended the box.
Carly whipped out a fresh one. Then she buried her red nose in it and sobbed. “I just…I can’t stand it, you know?”
Megan patted her slim back and stroked her soft blond hair and made soothing noises of support and understanding.
Finally, Carly pulled herself together enough to announce, “It’s final today. Our divorce. Greg and I are…no longer husband and wife. It’s over. Officially. Completely. Kaput.”
“Carly. I’m so sorry….”
Greg Banning, Carly’s ex, had moved out months ago—well, actually, Carly had kicked him out. As a gesture of fury and defiance. Because he’d asked her for a separation. She’d kicked him out and started calling herself by her maiden name.
But it had all been pure bravado. Carly wanted him back. Desperately. Getting her handsome husband to return to her was all Carly wanted, all she talked about.
No one in the neighborhood knew why Greg had asked for the split. There had been no big scenes, no angry confrontations—not that anyone knew about. Carly claimed they never fought.
But then, out of nowhere, he’d asked for a separation. She’d tossed him and his personal belongings out on the lawn of the great big house they owned that took up two lots in the heart of the cul de sac that was Danbury Way. Greg had left and never come back.
The neighbors assumed there must be another woman. But no one had seen such a woman, or had a clue who she might be.
Carly dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I know I shouldn’t have locked myself in here. But I couldn’t stand it downstairs. Everybody’s being so sweet to me, feeling so sorry for me. And then there’s Rhonda and Irene. Those two just won’t leave me alone. You know how they are. Like vultures, hanging around, picking at the bones of everybody’s troubles….”
Rhonda Johnson and Irene Dare were the neighborhood’s most notorious gossips. They lived around the corner, next door to each other, on Maplewood Lane.
“Those two,” said Megan, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ignore them.”
“Oh, I’m trying. I truly am. But every time I turn around, one of them is standing there, looking so sympathetic, whispering how I should tell her everything, every little detail, and she won’t breathe a word to another soul…. I mean, they shouldn’t even be here. It’s our block party, not theirs.” Carly sniffed. “Okay.” She blew out a hard breath. “That was petty of me. That was just downright small.”
�
��It’s all right….”
“No. Danbury Way parties are always the best ones. Everybody in Rosewood knows that. I can’t blame Rhonda and Irene for coming. I just wish they’d leave me alone.”
“I totally understand.”
Carly’s soft lip quivered and her china-blue eyes filled again. “Oh, Megan. If only he would call me. If he would just talk to me, you know?”
Megan dared to suggest, “Maybe it’s too late for that. Maybe what you need to do is to start finding a way to get over—”
“I just don’t understand.” Carly cut in, shaking her head, oblivious to what Megan had been trying to tell her. “I’ll never understand. I’ve been the perfect wife to him. He’s the center of my world. I know I could make everything right between us, if he’d only…” A sob escaped her. “…only…” Her eyes brimmed. “…give me a chance…” And she dissolved into tears again, crumpling toward Megan in her abject misery.
Megan dropped the box of tissues and gathered her close. Carly sobbed all the harder. Megan stroked her soft blond hair and whispered that everything was going to be all right. Eventually, Carly wound down to a sniffle and a sob or two.
Just when Megan was about to take her by the shoulders and tell her it was time to dry her eyes and rejoin the party, someone knocked on the door. Carly gasped and snapped up straight. Megan called, “Try the master bath,” and whoever it was went away.
But Carly did get the message. She heaved another big, sad sigh and pressed her palms to her flushed, damp cheeks. “Oh, I’m such a mess. I have simply got to pull myself together. We can’t stay in here forever. It’s just plain rude. And I was not brought up to be rude.”
Megan smiled. She really did like Carly, who was always the soul of courtesy and Southern gentility—even today, when her perfect marriage to the perfect man was over in the most final kind of way. “Come on. Splash a little cold water on your face, smooth that gorgeous hair and let’s get out there where you can show Irene and Rhonda that they don’t get to you in the least.”
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