Living with Her Fake Fiancé (The Loft Book 3)
Page 16
Excerpt from In Want of a Wife
LIZ BENNET WOKE UP at five on a Thursday morning so that she could be first in line at an estate sale, but someone beat her to it.
Her first clue was the shiny gray SUV already parked on the grass beside the long driveway. After parking beside it and getting out, she encountered her second clue—the figure of a man’s back standing on the front porch near the door.
She scowled.
She’d gotten up well before dawn to be first in line. She’d been going to estate sales for her family’s antiques business for seven years now—ever since she’d been eighteen years old. She knew that arriving at a sale of this size and quality at six in the morning always allowed her to be first in line.
What the hell was that man doing here?
He better not be trying for her oil paintings.
Since the paintings were the only items of real value at this sale—at least, as far as could be discerned from the listing—it was likely that he was after the paintings.
And he’d gotten here first.
The man still didn’t turn around. He’d made no sign that he even heard her. He was staring down at his phone, tapping out some sort of message. He was significantly overdressed for an estate sale. Well-tailored trousers and an Oxford in a small gray and white check fabric. It was tucked it perfectly and unwrinkled, despite the early hour.
She scowled again at his back.
She’d barely formed the expression when he turned around, and she had to do some quick rearrangement of her facial muscles. “Good morning!” she said brightly, giving him a smile that was as sincere as she could muster.
It wasn’t his fault that she had an overly competitive nature. She’d still be in the first group of numbers to be admitted into the house. She could get to her paintings before him. She wasn’t going to hold it against him that he’d somehow arrived first.
The man’s eyes made a quick route from her face and down her body. She was dressed casually in dark green capris and a cute top and cardigan. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether he liked how she looked.
“Good morning,” he said. He didn’t return her smile.
Fighting a prickle of annoyance at his unfriendly expression, she kept her voice cheerful. “You got out here early.”
“So did you.”
With the same sober expression, the man scrawled a number on the top sheet of a pad of sticky notes and handed the note to her.
Two.
She was Number Two.
She was used to being Number One.
The man clearly knew what he was doing since he’d brought the pad of sticky notes. She had one in her small purse, since she was normally the one to pass out street numbers.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” she said, trying once again to be friendly. Since they were going to be standing here for a couple of hours, they might as well chat.
“No.”
Her attempt not to scowl again—right in his face—made her jaw sore. A normal person would have added a little more to the conversation, given her something to respond to.
She wanted to know who this guy was and what he was doing here.
He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He had steel gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a strongly chiseled jaw. He was about five inches taller than Liz’s five-seven, and he had a straight posture and a very fine pair of shoulders.
He was one of the best-looking men she had ever seen.
This recognition vied with annoyance in her mind. It wasn’t clear which would predominate.
She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Annoyance was quickly subsuming her visceral appreciation of his appearance.
“I’m Liz,” she said with a smile, holding her hand out to him. She was going to make him follow the basics of civility, whether he wanted it or not.
He slowly reached out and shook her hand, his eyes observing her with a quiet scrutiny she didn’t understand. His hand was big and warm.
Her eyes widened as she waited several seconds and wondered if he was actually refusing to return the introduction.
Then finally he said, “Vince,” just before he dropped his hand.
Vince.
She felt another wave of attraction as his eyes held hers. The man was way too good-looking. It wasn’t entirely fair. That kind of sexiness could be a weapon when left in the wrong hands.
“Do you go to estate sales a lot?” she asked, trying to think of a natural topic of conversation instead of standing there drooling over him.
“Not if I can help it.” His tone was dry. Just shy of bitter.
“If you don’t like them, why get up so early to come to this one?”
The question was perhaps a little pushy, but it was still well within the bounds of politeness. She really wanted an answer because this man was a frustrating enigma.
He responded only with a one-shouldered shrug.
Her lip curled up before she could stop it, and she looked down at the sticky note in her hand to hide the expression. Could Vince be any less friendly?
She was a nice, outgoing person. Other people usually liked her and talked to her easily. And yet trying to make conversation with this man was like pulling teeth—painful and achingly slow.
The Number Two written on the sticky note taunted her.
She couldn’t believe he beat her out here this morning. Her sister, Jane, always told her she was too competitive for her own good. That life wasn’t a race. That living like it was would only lead to needless frustration.
She knew Jane was right and she did—at times—try to work on it. Relax. Mind her own business and let the world do what it wanted.
But the knowledge that a man as rude as Vince had beaten her this morning grated on her anyway. As she stared down at the scrawled number, she mentally planned her attack once she entered the house. She’d been to many estate sales organized by this company, so she knew how this one would be handled. At seven, someone from the company would arrive to take over the numbers, so she could leave the line then—go back to her car or walk around. At exactly eight, the first ten people in line would be allowed into the house as the first group. Vince would go in first, but she’d studied the layout of the house. She could get around him in the entryway and go straight to the dining room where one of the paintings she wanted was hanging on the wall.
The paintings were small, so she could just pick it up and head straight up the stairs to the master bedroom, where the other painting was hanging.
She could get to both of them while everyone else was milling around getting their bearings.
Vince might have gotten here first, but he wasn’t going to get her paintings. They were done by a local artist, and they were a rare find. They might look like normal landscapes, but their popularity was increasing, and the artist had stopped painting about twenty years ago. He didn’t have long left to live. As mercenary as it sounded, his death would at least double the value of the paintings.
Her parents would be so pleased when she returned with them.
She just had to beat Vince to them.
When she looked up at him, he was watching her again, and there was a slight glint in the charcoal gray of his eyes.
Like he knew how she was feeling. Like it amused him that he’d won the first round of their unspoken competition.
She stewed inwardly while she gave him an overly sweet smile—the one her friend Em always called her Blair Waldorf smile.
Vince could laugh now.
But he wasn’t going to get her paintings.
YOU CAN FIND OUT MORE about In Want of a Wife here.
About Noelle Adams
NOELLE HANDWROTE HER first romance novel in a spiral-bound notebook when she was twelve, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. She has lived in eight different states and currently resides in Virginia, where she writes full time, reads any book she can get her hands on, and offers tribute to a very spoiled cocker spaniel.
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She loves travel, art, history, and ice cream. After spending far too many years of her life in graduate school, she has decided to reorient her priorities and focus on writing contemporary romances. For more information, please check out her website: noelle-adams.com.