Love Letters, Inc

by E C Sheedy

  She stood, leaned against the porch rail, and looked across her sunlit pasture. Everything about Kent was so confusing, it made her head hurt. On one hand, she respected his ambition, his drive. She'd want her kids to have those traits, too. But on the other, knowing when to ease up, when to come home, and be home in body and soul was lots more important. And then there was the baby count. They couldn't even agree on that.

  Maybe she could compromise...

  She shuddered. Lord, if prioritizing was rubber gloves and suction, compromise was scalpels and clamps. But was she so selfish, so stubborn she couldn't even think about it? Could she sit back and lose Kent because her obstinacy button was stuck on max?

  She held the tissue to her nose and shut her eyes. She'd already lost him, walked out in fine fettle. And he'd let her go. Fettles and all.

  She'd have to learn to live with it. But oh, how her heart ached, cried in her chest like a cold, starving orphan.

  Font butted her thigh with his big head and whimpered. She scratched his head. "You wouldn't be sticking by me, friend, if you knew that in the process of screwing up my love life, I also screwed up yours."

  Font wagged his tail, proving that ignorance was indeed bliss.

  She smiled, but her lips had trouble holding the curve. "Come on, big guy, let's go in. I've got a new cookbook called Dinners For One. I can't wait to try it."

  She heard the first horn blast when her hand was on the door knob. Then a second, more insistent. But it was the cacophony of a dozen or more that finally got her attention. She turned to see a cavalcade of cars kicking up dust on the road beyond her fence. Horns continued to blare as the noisy parade roared down her driveway. A dozen cars. More.

  A black Audi was in the lead.

  The cars' horns sounded until Kent pulled up to her porch and jumped out of his car, followed immediately by an Irish wolfhound the size of a pony. Font bolted down the stairs to sniff out the situation. This left Rosie alone on the porch, first gaping at the crowd, then staring at Kent, hope growing in her chest like a weed on steroids.

  Kent cleared the steps two at time, took her in his arms, and kissed her until her vision clouded. She still couldn't find her voice, which was just as well because she'd probably say something of monumental idiocy and spoil the whole dream. And this had to be a dream.

  Car doors opened, and Kent's entire family spilled into her yard, most of them wearing smiles a mile wide. Kent's mother waved. So did Jayne, Zach, and the twins.

  She waved back weakly and tried to make sense of things. Not easy after she'd just been kissed by the world's leading osculation expert.

  "Everybody's here," she mumbled, clutching Kent's shoulders.

  "I invited them."

  "Why?"

  "Because they're family and because family is what this is all about." He touched her face, smiled. "Besides, I figure you'll think twice about throwing me off the porch with a cast of thousands to watch."

  Rosie didn't get it, but one thing was certain. She wasn't the least inclined to throw him off the porch. Although she'd super-glue her teeth shut before she let him know that. At least until she heard what he had to say.

  When she smiled into the crowd and waved again, they moved en masse toward the porch steps, like a throng of movie extras called to the staging area.

  "Rosie," Kent said, "Look at me."

  Still dazed, she looked into a pair of sexy green eyes now hot with intensity.

  "I can't let you go. I won't let you go."

  "But—" she started, feeling she should protest, but unclear as to why.

  "No buts." Kent said firmly. "We're two intelligent people, and we can work this thing out, given time and a compromise or two."

  Compromise. Rosie stiffened. "On whose part?"

  "Way to go, Rosie." Someone in the crowd yelled. "Make him squirm."

  Kent sent a forbidding look into the horde of his relatives.

  There was muffled laughter, a couple of hoots, then silence.

  "Mine," he said softly, looking her directly in the eyes. "I'm in love with you, O'Hanlon."

  She closed her eyes. "Say it again."

  He bent his head toward her ear. "I love you," he repeated softly. "You and the kids you want to have. I want them too."

  Her eyelids popped open. "All the kids?"

  He swallowed and set his chin as if facing into uncharted territory in hurricane force winds. "Every last one of them."

  The assembled family clapped, cheered, and whistled.

  Rosie's ragged orphan heart warmed to a toasty glow. Unable to speak, she wrapped her arms around Kent's firm waist and hugged him hard enough to crack his ribs. But there was still her future children's rival to be dealt with. She looked him in the eyes. "And Beachline? What about it?"

  "I spoke to Con. We've worked things out."

  "Just like that?" She was doubtful and let it show.

  "No, not 'just like that.' We talked a long time." He shrugged, looked confused. "The bottom line is he wants more control and more responsibility, and I've agreed to give it to him."

  "Why?" She hoped she knew the answer but needed desperately to hear it.

  He smiled and smoothed back her hair. "Because it will give me more time to convince you how much you love me and how you can't live without me."

  Some brave soul in the crowd yelled, "Bravo!"

  Rosie shook her head. Her lower lip quivered. "No convincing necessary. I've loved you since you strode through my door—all bad attitude and aftershave—and demanded to meet Gardenia."

  Kent took her face in his hands and kissed her. "Thank God," he whispered against her lips. "Does that mean we can start over? Get things right this time?"

  She looked into his eyes and smiled. "Yes, that's exactly what it means. I'm no fool, Summerton. I know a good thing when I see it."

  He grinned.

  She sobered. "About those kids—"

  This time he didn't tense up. Kent just kept grinning, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "Yes?"

  "I don't really want a whole, uh, dozen. I'm, uh, a bit flexible as to the exact number." Sheesh, this compromise business was hard. "Like maybe eight?"

  He stepped back, gave her a speculative look. She could practically see that computer brain of his boot up. "Maybe three?" he said.

  "Six."

  "Four."

  "Five," she smiled. "And that's my best offer."

  He laughed. "I'll take it."

  He bent his head again and murmured in her ear. His warm breath and darkly seductive voice so addled her, she didn't quite make out all the words. Something about how the sooner they got started, the better.

  When she got her breath, she glanced at his family who still stood in groups at the bottom of the stairs. They seemed to be waiting for something, but she seriously doubted it was the X-rated show Kent had in mind for the two of them in her bedroom. She coughed and stepped away from him.

  "Hey, Kent, can we go now?" Mike called out. He was standing near the back of the crowd holding Emma and Jane.

  Kent beamed into the horde. "Not until you all come up here, congratulate my wife-to-be, and tell her she's just made the wisest decision of her life."

  "Don't push it, dear," his mother said, stepping up to the porch and patting his arm. "I'll speak for all of us." She hugged Rosie hard and kissed her cheek. "Welcome to the family, Rosie. I always knew we were missing someone." Another hug and she turned to the crowd. "Now, my dear ones, move out. Let's give these two some privacy." She smiled at Rosie. "It's probably the last they'll ever have."

  * * *

  Rosie, snuggled up to Kent, and watched until the last speck of dust settled back to the road. They were alone.

  "Let's go inside," Kent said.

  "Let's. I'll make you something to eat. Are you hungry?"

  "You could say that." He nibbled her lobe. "Are you? Hungry, I mean." He kissed her throat just below her ear.

  She bent her neck and sighed. "For the same
thing you are, I think. But I think I left the recipe in the bedroom."

  He'd worked his way up to kissing her cheek, the corners of her mouth. "Then I guess we'll just have to go on up there and get it."

  He kissed her then, crushing her close, taking her mouth as if he couldn't get enough of it. The kiss was long, deep, and filled with heart. It burrowed into the deepest part of Rosie's soul.

  He was hers.

  She was his.

  And she owed it all to some purple prose and another woman's misplaced passion.

  They headed up the stairs to her bedroom. When Kent closed the door behind them, he took her back into his arms. "What are you thinking about?"

  "About you. About me. About a woman called Gardenia."

  His forehead furrowed. "About Gardenia—"

  "Forget it, Summerton. I'm not going to tell you who she is."

  "A man has ways of getting the information he wants." He gave her a devil's grin and marched her backward toward the bed.

  "Not a chance, but you're welcome to try some of those 'ways' of yours. Could be fun." The back of her knees bumped the bed and he shoved her gently backward. Propped on his elbows, he loomed over her.

  "Oh, it'll be fun, Red, I guarantee it," he said huskily. "And if my methods don't work tonight, I'll just have to persevere until they do. Are you ready for that?"

  She smiled up at him, wound her arms around his neck, and pulled his mouth to hers. "Ready, willing, and able," she whispered, giving herself up to his kisses.

  Before her brain hazed to a fog, a vision of love letters, Gardenia, and the "fun" to come merged in her mind. The man of her dreams was in her arms—forever. She sighed deeply, closed her eyes, and behind his broad, strong back did a thumbs up. I owe you, Mae.

  The End

  Page forward for a note from EC Sheedy

  followed by excerpts from her popular titles

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for buying and reading this story. I loved re-writing and expanding Rosie and Kent's romance. I sincerely hope you enjoyed Love Letters, Inc., and if you did, that you'll watch for my other titles

  Now available:

  One Tough Cookie, a contemporary romance set on Spain's magical Costa del Sol and featuring Willow, a heroine resolutely determined to be financially, emotionally, and physically independent. She wants no man—until she meets Taylor Monroe.

  Overkill, a short romantic thriller, and the first in a series of novelettes featuring the covert Raven Force, a privately funded organization working internationally against the illegal arms/drug trade. Ravens cross borders to get the job done, when no one else can.

  In Overkill Tanner Cross is called home from the Congo with orders to kill his boss. And as if those orders aren't insane enough, that boss is the father of the woman Tanner has loved—on the QT—for a dozen years.

  Thanks for reading me! That you have taken the time to read my stories is appreciated more than I can say.

  Happy Reading!

  EC Sheedy

  Website: www.ecsheedy.com

  Twitter: @EC_Sheedy

  email: ecsheedy@ecsheedy.com

  ~

  Page forward for an excerpt from EC Sheedy's

  One Tough Cookie

  Excerpt from

  One Tough Cookie

  by

  EC Sheedy as Carole Dean

  Chapter 1

  Taylor looked at the number on the door for the third time. Eight. Right number. Wrong key? He sure as hell hoped not.

  He tried again and the lock gave. He was in.

  Dropping his luggage, he pocketed the key and groped blindly for a light switch. To the right? Wrong. To the left and not working.

  "Figures," he muttered, before starting across the dark room—carefully. Unless Danny boy had changed his ways, the room was a minefield of sneakers, clothes, camera equipment, and pizza boxes.

  "Damn!" The coffee table shin kicked him just as he found a small lamp.

  He turned on the lamp and looked around. One quick scan told him he was in the right place. Clutter City. Only Daniel Monroe would live like this.

  Distinctive, eclectic, he would say.

  Taylor would say a bloody mess.

  It had taken him two years to find and refurbish his own West Side apartment in New York. This run-down second-floor condo on Spain's Costa del Sol wasn't for him. No way.

  He coughed, then swallowed to ease his dry, scratchy throat. He needed a drink. On route to the tiny kitchen, he sidestepped a broken tripod and switched on another lamp. The fridge yielded beer, bottled water, some suspicious-looking milk, and something labeled jugo de naranja. The words meant nothing to him, but the color said orange juice. He took a swallow and gasped.

  The damn stuff burned like a lye cocktail. Massaging his throat with his free hand, he traded the juice for water. Water in hand he headed for the scruffy sofa. He sat down heavily, loosened his tie, and took a good look around the room.

  What a dump!

  Even if you could ignore its inglorious state of disrepair, the place wasn't big enough to swing a kitten. But that hadn't deterred Dan from filling every inch of it with—Taylor tried to think of a description—stuff. He knew most of it, miscellaneous jugs, bottles, tiles, and—he picked up a piece of fabric resting on the littered coffee table—black lace would be represented in the dozens of unframed photographs on the wall. He shook his head at the chaos. That Danny traded a potential partnership in a successful business for this was a mystery to him.

  Well, Dan, it's adios, Espana for you. You're coming home if I have to drag you. You're too much like dear old Dad for your own good.

  Their father… dreamer, occasional cab driver, and general all-round do-little, maker of big plans and even bigger disappointments. Following his star, he called it. Trouble was the damn star was always over the next hill, in the next town. And while he chased it, their mother supported two sons by pushing a laundry wagon down an endless labyrinth of hospital corridors. Taylor loathed the idea his younger brother had inherited their father's instability—his wanderlust.

  His gaze fell on the photographs covering the walls. Dan's photographs. They were damn good, sure, but a thousand of them wouldn't buy a hamburger let alone pay the rent. It was responsibility time and past time for Dan to come home. He was twenty-five years old. There was a position open for him in the company, and he was going to take it if Taylor had to haul him back in chains.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost one a.m.

  Letting his head fall back against the sofa, he closed his eyes. His damned throat felt like an acupuncture test site. Just your luck, Monroe, your first trip to sunny Spain, and you bring a New York cold. Not that it mattered. This wasn't exactly a vacation. As soon as he got Dan right side up, he'd be on the next flight stateside.

  He stood up, rotated his cramped shoulders, and stretched. The weariness in his bones held fast. He was beat and, for the first time, glad Dan hadn't been there to meet him.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to hear his impractical, romanticized arguments. Right now he needed sleep, long, deep, dreamless, and uninterrupted. That would do it.

  * * *

  Willy pulled the hat further down her scowling brow and turned the key. Again.

  "Come on you rusty, corroded excuse for a lock." But her muttering and cajoling had no effect.

  Damn Dan Monroe anyway. Why didn't he get the lock fixed? Willy was dirty, tired and frustrated. Leaving the car on the other side of Marbella and hitchhiking the last few miles to Puerto Banus in the rain hadn't been in the plan. Bloody car. But buying a new one wasn't in the plan either, not unless this arrangement with Dan worked out.

  When the lock finally gave, Willy shoved open the door with a strong shoulder and stepped in. The room was as dark as the bowels of a coal mine. She left her baseball cap on, dropped her backpack to the floor with a grateful sigh, then flexed her tired muscles.

  No stranger to Dan's apartment, she headed directly for the
sofa without turning on the light, kicking off her shoes and dropping her jacket along the way.

  When she stubbed her big toe on the leg of the coffee table, her throaty, creative Spanish curse nearly illuminated the room. She hopped and grimaced the next few steps to the sofa.

  She rubbed her injured toe for a minute before closing her eyes and resting her head on the sofa back.

  I'll just relax here a minute, then hit the bed. A moment later she slid down to stretch out on the sofa. The moment after that she was dead gone, face down on a hard beaded pillow.

  * * *

  Taylor woke coughing and sat up in bed. Massaging the back of his neck—it felt as if it had a poker in it—he glanced at the digital bedside clock: 4:11.

  Disoriented, he squinted at the smaller letters. A.M. He groaned, rolled his head, and coughed again, tried to ease his tight throat. He felt like shit. Whatever this bug was, it was no common cold. His body was one giant ache. He was burning up and felt as if he'd swallowed a golf ball, along with a dozen tees.

  He swung around and put his feet on the cold floor.

  Aspirin, he needed aspirin. Ignoring his nakedness, he stood up. Struck by a wave of dizziness, he stumbled toward the bathroom. Once there, he turned on the light and rifled through the medicine cabinet over the sink. Shaving gear, condoms, and vitamins. Not an aspirin in sight.

  Seized by a sudden chill, he grabbed the robe hanging on the back of the door. It was worn thin and too small for his large frame, but he put it on anyway. The kitchen. Maybe Dan kept the aspirin in the kitchen.

  One step out of the bathroom, he stopped.

  Someone was stretched out on the sofa, a long, lean someone wearing a baseball cap. And by the look of things, he'd made himself damn comfortable. Taylor cursed. Probably one of Danny's down-on-his-luck, squatter friends. There'd been a stream of them while Dan was living with him in New York. He'd tolerated it then, he didn't intend to now. He was in no mood for company. Period.