by Eliza Watson
And the fact that she might be falling for him more difficult.
* * *
That evening, Cassidy picked up another batch of applications from Alex, putting the total received at just over 7,000. Only twenty-four hours until the deadline for the preliminary step. She had to select a max of 500 women by Wednesday morning so the marketing department could contact the lucky women, who in turn had until Friday at midnight to submit the same extensive personality questionnaire as Ryan’s. The fifty finalists would have until Monday to submit their ten-minute videos online.
The sealed envelope containing Ryan’s questionnaire sat on the living room cocktail table, tempting her, daring her to open it. To gain the insight into Ryan she’d so desperately wanted and was now afraid to learn. Like Ryan wasn’t a womanizer. Regardless, he was still her client, and she wasn’t mixing business with pleasure ever again.
“Luckily, a ton of women in their early twenties applied, and a high percentage with two or more divorces,” Lucy said. “Narrowing these things down is easier than I thought it’d be.” She glanced at an application. “This woman has sent in ten applications, all with different answers, photos, and variations on her name.” She handed Cassidy the paper. “Does she think these are contest entries being put into a drawing? Like we won’t realize it’s the same person?”
All the e-mailed applications included a color photo. The woman had platinum blonde hair with piercing aquamarine eyes, flirting with the camera from behind false eyelashes. Her name read Ronnie Taylor, aka Veronica.
“She’s definitely not a candidate.” Cassidy tossed the application in the reject box.
“I assumed not. Did you see I got you a present?”
Cassidy cringed inwardly. Not another urn, hopefully.
Lucy gestured to the stack of board games on the bottom shelf of the TV stand. The Dating Game was on top. “Thought it might come in handy.”
Cassidy smiled. “We’ll have to play it some night so I can get some ideas for questions.”
“If we ever get through these things.” Lucy scanned the next application. “We have a winner. She’s in marketing and worked her way up from an entry-level position to director. She’s family oriented. When she has kids she wants to work part time and put her career on hold.”
“Ryan doesn’t want kids.”
“I always thought Kenny wanted kids, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.”
Join the club. Cassidy certainly didn’t know him as well as she thought she did either. A very disturbing discovery. Their conversation yesterday had blown her away. So, why hadn’t she told Lucy about it? Deep down, was she jealous of Lucy and Kenny’s relationship? They had an emotional connection she hadn’t had with Nick. And if they had kids, Lucy would be focused on raising a family, and Cassidy might lose the only true friend she’d ever had.
She promptly shared their conversation with Lucy.
Before Lucy could respond, a loud crash sounded outside. They rushed to the window.
“Holy shit,” Lucy muttered. “Kenny just ran into the hearse.”
They barreled down the stairs and flew out the side door. Kenny sat paralyzed behind the wheel of the funeral home’s van. The hearse’s rear bumper was crumpled, and a taillight was smashed out. It would take more than Kenny the Buffing God to fix Stella.
Lucy opened the driver’s door. Kenny didn’t bat an eye. He hadn’t had a heart attack, had he? She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. She attempted to loosen his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, but his hands wouldn’t budge. She finally managed to get him to step from the car.
Kenny stared at the bumper, shaking his head in disbelief. He frowned up at the sunny blue sky. “I’m so sorry, Grandma.”
“Now, Kenny, honey, it was an accident.” Lucy latched on to his arm as if to keep him from launching into space. “She forgives you.”
His expression relaxed as he turned to Lucy. “You’re talking to me?”
She smiled sweetly. “Of course, I’m talking to you.”
“I really do want kids,” he said earnestly, sounding like a kid trying to convince his mother he could care for a new puppy.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“How about we go work on it right now?” He pulled Lucy to him and kissed her.
How bizarre. Watching them kiss, Cassidy wasn’t the least bit repulsed by Kenny’s hair goop, his sleazy smile, or his shifty eyes.
She wanted exactly what Lucy and Kenny had.
Well, except for Kenny himself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Frank Sinatra sang “Fly Me to the Moon” while waltzing Cassidy gracefully around a dance floor. She wore a long fuchsia satin gown and four-inch stilettos.
Wait a sec, she didn’t know how to waltz.
She cracked an eyelid. It was her cell phone singing, not Ol’ Blue Eyes himself. She felt around on the nightstand for her phone, finally locating it.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling for the past ten minutes,” Charlie wailed on the other end.
She squinted through a sleepy haze at the clock. “Charlie, it’s six o’clock.”
“You gotta get over here.” He sucked in some serious air, and she could picture his face deflating. “Fiona locked herself in the guesthouse with all those cats, and she won’t come out.”
Cassidy yawned. “Maybe she needed to be alone for a while.”
“That ain’t it. She accidentally gave an interview, and they twisted her words around. Ryan’s gonna be pissed. Damn media. I let them photograph me in a dress; what the hell more do they want? Them reporters claim she said Ryan has good drugs. She said he has great craic. Which, to the Irish, means lots of fun.”
The haze vanished from her head, and she bolted straight up in bed. She would call a reporter she knew at the paper and refute the article. “I’ll take care of the article. I’m sure Fiona will come out eventually.”
“Said she ain’t coming out until she’s dead. Which won’t be long, seeing as she didn’t take her medication in there with her.”
“What medication?”
“On account of her being allergic to cats.”
“She’s allergic to cats?”
The woman lived with Aggie for thirty-some years, and she’d been allergic to cats? Talk about faithful.
“Since you talked her out of the tree, we’re hoping you can get her out of the guesthouse.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Cassidy flew out of bed. She exchanged her satin nightshirt for a pink terrycloth tennis skirt and matching jacket and slid on a pair of flip-flops. She brushed her teeth and tossed her hair up in a clip, forgoing her makeup routine. Who was she going to see at this hour?
* * *
When Cassidy arrived at the mansion, no photographers or reporters were in sight. Didn’t mean they weren’t lurking in the bushes or perched on rooftops somewhere, so she stuck with standard operating procedures and used the neighbor’s drive. The guesthouse was located behind the mansion, hidden from the street. The staff referred to it as the bungalow, but the stone ranch-style house had to be at least 1,500 square feet. Cassidy drove across the grass and parked by the back patio where the staff stood anxiously awaiting her arrival.
A white T-shirt and a pair of oversized blue plaid boxer shorts swallowed up Charlie’s spindly frame. Charlotte wore a slinky pink nightgown and matching robe with marabou collar and high-heeled slippers. Hector had on orange hospital scrubs.
She stepped from the car, and they surrounded her.
“Here’s her inhaler and eye drops.” Charlotte slapped the items into Cassidy’s palm.
“And Kleenex.” Charlie thrust a box of tissues at her.
“Her meds and coffee.” Hector handed her a bottle of prescription medication and a Thermos.
“How does she survive in the mansion with three cats?”
“No carpeting helps, and I vacuum daily,” Charlotte said
. “And there’s plastic on the upholstered furniture.”
“I bathe the cats twice a week,” Charlie said.
Things were finally making sense.
“But the guesthouse is filled with carpeting and upholstered furniture. She’s going to die.” Charlotte attempted to calm herself by patting a dryer sheet over her face and neck, which were red and irritated.
Cassidy walked over to the patio and rapped on the French doors, attempting to peek through a slit in the curtain. “Fiona, it’s Cassidy, can I come in?”
No answer.
She rapped louder. “Fiona, I know you’re in there.”
Still no response.
“I’ll have Hector and Charlie break the window if you don’t open up.”
“Can’t. It’s bulletproof,” Charlie said.
“Why’s it bulletproof?” she asked.
They all exchanged nervous glances.
“Never mind.” She turned back to the door. “Listen, it’s your decision if you want to die; however, this is kind of spur of the moment, and I’m guessing you probably haven’t preplanned your funeral or wake. If you even want a wake.”
“’Course I want a wake,” Fiona barked on the other side of the door. “What sort of wanker doesn’t want a wake? Best part of dying, it is.”
“Well, I’ve never planned an Irish wake.” Cassidy gave the staff a conspiratorial wink. “What do you do at one? Pray, sing hymns—?”
“Drink! Ya drink at a wake and sing traditional pub songs.”
“I’d probably hold it at the funeral home and drinking isn’t allowed—”
The door flew open. Fiona grabbed Cassidy’s arm and yanked her inside. She slammed the door, slid the lock in place, and snatched the Thermos from Cassidy.
Priorities.
Panic filled Fiona’s watery, bloodshot eyes as she unscrewed the top. “Don’t be holding me wake at no funeral home, laying me out in a strange place.” She took a swig of coffee. “Want it here at the mansion.” She plucked a tissue from the box in Cassidy’s hand, looking faint. Her burst of energy had obviously drained her.
A drama queen as usual, yet for once her theatrics might be justified. She looked so fragile. Not like the feisty cook Cassidy had grown to care about. Her green chenille housecoat swallowed her hunched frame. Large, purple rollers haphazardly lining her head replaced the black lace scarf.
Cassidy had to get her out of there, and fast. The place was wall-to-wall carpeting, including dozens of climbing apparatuses. Five cats occupied a small leopard-print couch, two of which sat on the back, watching an aquarium full of fish. A half a dozen other cats lounged on matching chairs.
Fiona shuffled wearily over to a couch, which stood a foot high, and collapsed onto it, her butt sinking to the floor. The cats on either side slid toward her. Cassidy placed the box of tissues by Fiona’s feet before perching on the edge of the chair across from her, sharing the cushion with two cats.
“What would you like to be buried in? A black dress or—”
“I want to look me best in me purple velvet leggins’ and gold sandals.” She sneezed, the force of which about knocked her over backward along with the couch and cats. She blew her nose. “Don’t want no Selling the Pig at me wake neither.”
“What should we sell?”
Fiona shot a frustrated gaze off into space. “It’s a game, Selling the Pig, a wretched game.”
“Wish I’d brought a pad of paper to write all this down. Want to make sure I pass along the correct information.”
Fiona stopped dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Pass it along to who?”
“To whoever plans the funeral. I won’t have time, with finding Ryan’s fiancée and…well, actually, he probably won’t care much about finding one if you pass away. I didn’t think of that. This might really throw a wrench in his plans.”
As hoped, Fiona took the bait.
“Been looking for an excuse not to marry, he has. Not taking Aggie’s wish seriously.”
“Too bad you won’t be around Monday. We’re going to start reviewing the videos of potential fiancées. There are some great candidates. Even one who’s Irish.”
Fiona raised an intrigued brow. “An Irish lass?”
“Her family’s from Dublin.”
“Don’t let me Ryan marry some hussy from Dublin!” Fiona’s hand snapped to her chest, and she started wheezing. Cassidy sprang from her chair and handed Fiona the inhaler, which she stuck in her mouth and sucked the life out of.
“Don’t know if I could talk him out of marrying her. He doesn’t really listen to me, not the way he listens to you.”
Exhaling a ragged breath, Fiona collapsed against the couch. “Thought I was helping by feeding them reporters me whiskey punch and cake. They seemed so appreciative, asking me questions as if they honestly cared. Those people are as crooked as a ram’s horn, they are.”
“We’ll write an article retracting what you said, putting it in context. Ryan would be much more upset at having to bury another family member than some stupid article. Why don’t we get out of here?”
Fiona let out a defeated sigh. “I’ll do it for me Ryan’s sake.” She rocked back and forth on the tiny couch, attempting to gain momentum enough to catapult herself to her feet. Cassidy grabbed hold of Fiona’s arm and heaved her up off the couch.
Cassidy opened the patio door and two cats dashed out. After confirming Fiona was going to make it, Hector and Charlie took off after the cats. Fiona popped a pill and washed it down with a shot of coffee, then put in eye drops.
“Look at you,” Charlotte wailed. “You’re on your deathbed. We need to get you to the doctor.”
“Sickness is the physician’s feast. Won’t be letting no doctor feast on me.”
With Cassidy ahold of one arm and Charlotte the other, Fiona trudged toward the house. Hunched over, Fiona moaned and wheezed, milking it for all it was worth, until Ryan’s Mercedes appeared through the bushes and drove into the yard.
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!” Fiona’s body went ramrod straight. She turned away and discreetly added more eye drops, then wiped her eyes and nose on her robe’s sleeve. She slipped her medication bottle and eye drops into Cassidy’s terrycloth jacket pocket. “Do I be looking all right?”
Better than Cassidy probably looked without a stitch of makeup on and greasy hair. Her gaze skittered around the yard, searching for someplace to hide. Not really an option since Ryan was out of his car and heading toward them. It’d been three days since their conversation at the café. Since he’d proposed they have sex. Seeing her now would certainly kill his libido.
* * *
Why was the entire staff coming from the guesthouse? Even better question, why was Cassidy here at this ungodly hour? Looking like she’d just rolled out of bed after an all-night sexathon with her tousled burgundy hair, flushed cheeks, and emerald-colored eyes, sparkling even more than usual.
Had she gone out and had meaningless sex just to prove him wrong? The thought of her with another man brought a sick taste to his mouth. However, no matter how badly she might want to spite him, her high moral standards would prevent her from using sex as a weapon. A refreshing quality.
A brisk breeze blew off the lake, sweeping her hair back over her shoulders. She brushed stray strands from her face and tucked them behind an ear. Being the first time he’d seen her hair down, he fought the urge to touch it, verifying that it felt as silky as it looked. Like her hair, her cheeks were undoubtedly windblown, giving them their rosy coloring. Not a trace of lipstick on her lips. Now, knowing what her lips tasted like, it was even harder to resist them. She looked gorgeous.
She also didn’t care to confide in him about her past.
Fiona looked like crap with her puffy, bloodshot eyes and bright red nose.
“What happened to you?” Ryan asked.
“Was outside and heard a noise in the guesthouse, thought maybe somebody broke in. Just a cat knocking over a chair.”
He glanced
over at Charlie scurrying around the yard after a cat, and Hector trying to coerce one from a flowerbed. “Why didn’t Charlie check it out? You shouldn’t be going in the guesthouse. Are you suicidal?”
Charlotte giggled. “Of course she’s not suicidal.” Her giggle grew until it bordered on hysteria.
Fiona shot her a look that said get a grip, then peered over at him. “I’m grand.” She sniffled.
He gave Cassidy a curious look. “What are you doing here?”
“Using the pool,” Fiona said.
“Kind of early and cool out for a swim, isn’t it?”
“Pool’s heated,” Fiona said.
Fiona had invited Cassidy over to use the pool? If she’d ever caught Serena in the pool, she’d have drowned her. Aggie and the staff had never invited Serena into their home. Lately, Cassidy spent more time there than he did. It wasn’t like Fiona to warm up to someone so quickly. Usually she was less trusting than him. He should have listened to her sixth sense when she insisted Serena was “as thieving as a fox’s snout.”
Cassidy smiled. “Decided I needed to start working out. No time like the present.”
He eyed her pink terrycloth outfit.
“My suit’s on under here.”
Visions of her in a pink thong bikini about sent him over the edge.
“What are ya doing here now?” Fiona asked him.
“I’d said I was coming by for breakfast, since I couldn’t make dinner tonight.” He studied Fiona’s face, which appeared to be growing wearier. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Enough with the fussing. I’m fine. Now let me be making breakfast.” She turned to Cassidy. “Ya need some food in your belly before your swim.”
“I’m not really hungry,” Cassidy said.
“Swimming on an empty stomach will give ya worms,” Fiona said.
Twenty minutes later, they were all seated around the mahogany dining room table. Fiona distributed potato pancakes on antique Wedgwood china plates.
“I didn’t see the newspaper. Where is it?” Ryan asked.
The staff exchanged uneasy glances.
