LITMIR.BIZ

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and, call her crazy, but she simply wasn’t up to a repeat performance of that disaster at the moment. She’d been in love, imagining the happily ever after that Ida relentlessly preached—she’d even reluctantly let that bastard drive her car, her biggest regret because he hadn’t been vintage-Vette worthy and she’d known it—but hadn’t heeded her own intuition because she’d been too busy picking out china patterns and bridesmaids’ dresses. She’d tricked herself into thinking that she was in love, and he’d tricked her into believing he reciprocated the sentiment.

      He’d been reciprocating something all right, but it hadn’t been with her.

      Two weeks before the wedding, she’d shown up at her fiancé’s apartment for some surprise sex. It turned out to be surprise sex, too, only she was the one surprised and he was the one having sex.

      Bitter pill, hard lesson.

      Since then, she’d developed an unspoken code of sorts, one that her father had unwittingly inspired. She didn’t date anyone who didn’t fully appreciate her car, and she didn’t sleep with anyone who had the gall to ask to drive it. Bizarre? Yes. But it worked.

      Rowan glanced at the sleek little convertible parked in her driveway and felt her lips curl at the corners. Dubbed the first American sports car, the Vette was an unparalleled testament to fine engineering at its best. Honduras Maroon with fawn interior and a white ragtop, it had a 327 V-eight with four on the floor, and it purred with megahorse-power perfection. It had been her dad’s first brand-new car and he’d cared for it with the kind of reverent regard the vehicle deserved. She’d shared his passion and, as a result, he’d handed her the keys when she’d graduated from high school.

      Rowan had decided that while she might not be a ’62 Vette, she nonetheless deserved the same care and attention, and the same reverence. Until she found a guy willing to ante up all of the above, she planned to play her cards close to her vest. Did she occasionally long for more? Of course she did. She enjoyed her independence, yes, but not to the point of being a perpetual loner. There were nights when the silence closed in around her and she literally ached for the presence of another body. A big, warm masculine body. Nights when she craved conversation and companionship, a lover and friend. A safe harbor amid the ordered chaos of her life. But she refused to settle for anything less than the total package, and therein lay the rub.

      Ignoring Ida’s bride-of-a-pig remark, Rowan summoned a smile. “Was there something I could do for you, Ida?”

      Ida started. Her preoccupied gaze darted away from Rowan’s grimy shirt and settled on her face. Then she frowned, huffed an exaggerated breath and fished a napkin from the front pocket of her housecoat. “Honestly,” Ida complained as she wiped Rowan’s cheek. “It’s all over your face, too.” She tsked under her breath. “I hope you’re hosing yourself down before you climb into that old tub. Those drains are slow enough as it is.”

      “I always do,” Rowan lied easily. Ida was forever offering little tips on how to care for the aging guest house. Don’t overload the circuits. Use oil soap to clean the floors. Ida Holcomb was a woman of many opinions and she could be counted on to share them—liberally—whether one wanted to hear them or not. A droll smiled curled Rowan’s lips.

      Seemingly satisfied, the older woman stuffed the napkin back into her pocket. “There. That’s better, though I really wish you had time to change. You’re my representative, you know,” she said, drawing herself up primly. “How you look reflects directly upon me.”

      So an errand was in order, Rowan thought, resisting the urge to smile. “I can change in a flash, Ida. Where do you need me to go?”

      “To the drug store.” She winced uncomfortably and rubbed her belly. “The fiber and prunes didn’t do the trick. I need an enema.”

      And she should definitely be turned out for that mission, Rowan thought dimly, equally horrified and revolted. After all, buying an enema was important business. But just par for the course in her train wreck of a life. She was so used to being humiliated she often wondered what it would feel like to be normal. To not blush or squirm or writhe with embarrassment.

      Rowan swallowed, nodded jerkily, not trusting herself to speak.

      “In fact, you’d better get two. Better safe than sorry,” Ida prophesied grimly.

      Rowan managed a sick smile. Right. And better this than hungry, she tried to tell herself.

      The argument might have worked, too…if she hadn’t just lost her appetite.

      2

      AT THIRTY-TWO and in perfect health, Will Foster found himself skating the edge of an anger-induced aneurysm, or at the very least, a massive stroke.

      Doris Whitaker had screwed him again.

      Not in the literal sense, of course—Will shuddered as her heavily made-up, wrinkled face flashed through his mind’s eye—but figuratively, he might as well have painted a big bull’s-eye on his ass.

      The ass she was undoubtedly watching, the old perv, Will thought with an unhappy start as he strode across her yard to his truck. He cast a glance over his shoulder, and sure enough, she’d been watching him leave. Her painted lips slid into a wider smile and she twinkled her arthritic, bejeweled fingers at him.

      Will forced a tight smile and waved back. “Goodbye,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

      His company, Foster’s Landscape Design, had spent the better part of three summers, not to mention thousands of dollars, trying to fulfill their “satisfaction guaranteed” promise.

      To no avail.

      Though he knew he should simply let it go—should simply concede defeat—perversely, Will couldn’t do it. He’d get that satisfied-customer stamp of approval from her, dammit, or die trying. It was the point of it. All bragging aside, he was good at what he did. He loved his job. Loved developing a landscape, then pulling it together and seeing it to fruition. Loved getting his hands dirty, nursing blooms and watching things grow. He had a tremendous amount of respect for the codependent design of the world. The whole oxygen and carbon dioxide cycle that made plants and animals dependent on one another. It was…awe-inspiring.

      Furthermore, Foster’s Landscape Design was swiftly approaching their ten-year anniversary and in those ten years, he’d never had an unsatisfied customer.

      He absolutely refused to let Doris ruin that record.

      His team had finished up today and, though she’d been pleased throughout the process—had approved the design herself once again—she’d decided that it wasn’t what she’d wanted after all.

      Tear it out and start over.

      Will had wanted to tear something out all right, but it hadn’t been the cacti she’d decided she hated. This was the third freakin’ time she’d pulled this shit. He was at his wit’s end, and quite honestly, if he wasn’t afraid she’d howl blue murder down at that country club she virtually funded, he’d be tempted to tell her to take that cactus and shove it up her—

      Two loud beeps, followed by his mother screaming “Will?” into the two-way radio interrupted the uncharitable thought. Despite the fact that he’d told her repeatedly that yelling wasn’t necessary, Millie Foster, perversely, continued to do it. On purpose, he suspected, because it never failed to startle the hell out of him.

      Will swore, unsnapped the combination radio/phone from his belt and dredged the bottom of his soul for an ounce of unspent patience. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Mother, for the last time, you don’t have to yell.”

      “Sorry,” Millie replied unrepentantly. “I just wanted to make sure that you heard me.”

      “I heard you. What’s up?” Will detected a bit of laughter and catcalling in the background. He frowned. “What’s going on?”

      “I just wanted to let you know that you have a dinner date tonight, so be sure and finish up in time to take a proper bath.”

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