Table of Contents
About Smittened
Book List
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Complete Jamie Farrell Book List
Acknowledgments
About Jamie Farrell
Copyright
Smittened
Book #3 in the Misfit Brides series
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A Bad Boy, a Good Girl, and Ice Cream Collide in the Best Little Wedding Town in America!
Dahlia Mallard has finally found her destiny—running an ice cream shop in Bliss, the happiest bridal town in the Midwest. Problem is, her heart is bigger than her bank account, and she needs a serious influx of cash to get through the winter. Her last-ditch effort? Convincing country music superstar Billy Brenton to commit to attending her risqué flavor-tasting event to boost ticket sales. But the closest she can get to Billy is his drummer, the womanizing Mikey Diamond.
Mikey loves the ladies, and he makes no secret of it. But he’s not such a fan of this town devoted to weddings, love, and marriage. And he’s even less of a fan of people using him to get to Billy. When circumstances land Mikey in Dahlia’s house, though, all his caution—and all his interest in any other single ladies—flies out the window. Dahlia’s quirky and funny and, unlike his usual women, she doesn’t tolerate any of his baloney. But when Mikey discovers that Dahlia, too, is using him to get close to Billy, will he take the chance to be her hero instead, or will he revert to his manwhore ways?
Other Books by Jamie Farrell
The Misfit Brides Series
Blissed (CJ & Natalie)
Matched (Will & Lindsey)
Smittened (Mikey & Dahlia)
Sugared (Kimmie & Josh, release date to be announced)
The Officers’ Ex-Wives Club Series
Southern Fried Blues (Jackson & Anna Grace)
Moonshine & Magnolias (Zack & Shelby)
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To Rachel. We’ll get that spa trip one day soon.
Chapter One
MIKEY DIAMOND lived large. He worked hard, he played hard and now, apparently, he burned hard.
His house sure did, anyway.
Sirens rang out, red lights flashed in the night and the acrid taste of smoke choked him. Worst part was, that burning fire hadn’t done a dang thing to warm up the cold January night.
Or it might’ve been his own conscience causing that bitter chill under his skin.
“You think they’d let us close enough to roast marshmallows?” a feminine voice said beside him.
He blinked down at a curvy woman with an upturned nose. She pushed a pair of glasses back up said nose, then squinted at the fire. “Good thing it’s vacant, huh? I wonder what started the fire.”
Mikey looked at the burning two-story structure lighting up the night. Then back at the lady.
She was vaguely familiar—he and Will had been in town a few days and had met a lot of people—and Mikey was all but certain his momma would label her one round short of a full clip, then probably toss a bless her heart on top of it.
“That’s my house,” Mikey said.
She drew back and squinted at him. “No, it’s the—oh. Oh.”
Ding-dong, the lightbulb had entered the building. “Yeah.”
She shot a glance around. No doubt looking for Will, Mikey’s best friend and travel companion, known to the world as country music superstar Billy Brenton. In other words, the more interesting of the two of them.
Also, the one who had just left Mikey here to fend for himself with no transportation and no shelter. Not that Mikey could blame him.
It was Mikey’s fault the house was on fire. And while Mikey had lost a suitcase of clothes and a computer, Will had lost a little more.
A hell of a lot more, matter of fact. Better Will was gone, or he might’ve tried to go into the fire after it.
Mikey shuddered.
The girl shifted a speculative glance in Mikey’s direction. What was her name? Something with a D. Delaney? Delilah?
“So…” she said.
Mikey treated her to a slow grin. Not because he felt like it, but because she was wearing loose pants and clunky slipper shoes under her coat, because he’d never minded using his status as Billy Brenton’s drummer to his advantage when it came to women, and because she obviously knew the neighborhood.
Which meant the girl most likely lived close by.
She probably also had a car nearby and could give him a lift to a hotel. And a lift was all he was up for tonight, which might’ve said something about how badly rattled he was at seeing the house burn down. Because Mikey was always up for something when it came to women.
Except now, apparently. “So?” he prompted.
She visibly swallowed, nose wrinkling as though she’d drank curdled milk. “So… you’re still sticking around Bliss?” she said.
It was Mikey’s turn to taste that milk. If it were up to him, he’d be on the first flight back home to Georgia.
But he was here in Illinois—in the Most Married-est Town on Earth, God help him—to keep an eye on Will, both for his own peace of mind and as a favor to Will’s sister, Mari Belle. Mikey wasn’t leaving until his buddy did. Given what Mikey knew about why Will was here, neither of them would get gone until either Will solved his love life, or until the next leg of the Billy Brenton Hitched tour started next month.
“Yep, sticking around awhile,” he said slowly. What was her name? Dixie? Darla?
“So you need”—she visibly gulped—“a place to stay?”
Mikey opened his mouth to say no, but choked on a lungful of ash.
He did need a place to stay.
She fluttered her hands at something behind them. “My house is just over there, and I have a spare bedroom, so this is quite serendipitous. Except for the part about your current rental house burning down. That’s a little unfortunate. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Mikey echoed. “Unfortunate.”
“A tragedy.” She puffed up her chest under her fluffy coat. The more primitive parts of Mikey’s brain noted that she did, in fact, have a nice chest. Even if covered with infinite layers of polyester. Were they somewhere other than Bliss, he would’ve noticed sooner.
“My heater works very well,” she said. “No frostbite in my house. Did I mention that part?”
“Don’t think so, sweet pea. But it’s right good to hear.”
“Yep. Working heater, and I even cook breakfast. Won’t get that at a hotel. You two will have to share a room since I only have one guest bed. Or maybe I could sleep on the couch. You know. I’m flexible. With sleeping stuff.”
The normal alarm bells rang out in his head over her assumption that she’d be getting Billy Brenton as part of the package. But the primitive part of Mikey’s brain was getting louder too, cheering every time she said bed or sleep. Share was another he didn’t mind either. And flexible.
But it still wasn’t loud enough to distract him from the fire and his concern over Will. Mikey needed to give him a call. Make sure he was okay. Had found a place to stay.
“Billy’s making his own arrangements,” Mikey said to—what was her name?
“Oh.” Her lips twitched down, but she beat them into submission and flashed him a semi-brilliant smile with wide, full lips and dark eyes that sparkled with the reflection of the fire. “Pity for him, isn’t it? So. Ar
e you coming, or would you rather be a Popsicle?”
He took one last look back at the burning house. Fire chief had Mikey’s number and had already said there wasn’t much else Mikey could do tonight. Everything inside the house was gone.
“Suppose I can give you a night to impress me.” He gave her a slow wink.
“Best night you’ll ever have,” she said with a naïveté that was almost refreshing. “Best breakfast too.”
Probably not, but he’d take what he could get.
DAHLIA MALLARD had lost her ever-loving mind. But desperate times, desperate measures, blah blah, all that. She’d already sold plasma twice this week, and while she had gotten a bid on the eBay auction for Great Aunt Agnes’s vintage Christmas Story Leg Lamp, she was running out of things to sell.
Selling herself might very well be next, and by the looks of him, Mikey would be willing to pay.
He looked much more harmless in Billy’s weekly BillyVision YouTube videos than he did in person. Less wolfish. More all-talk, less follow-through.
She twisted her doorknob and suppressed a shudder. This would’ve been easier if Billy were here too. Aside from the part where he’d struck her mute when she’d run into him and Mikey earlier simply by being Billy Brenton, he was so approachable. Plus, he sort of had connections here in Bliss, indirectly, and Dahlia had heard he was “good people.”
And since she’d totally choked during her chance to ask Billy for one teensy little favor when she met him, Mikey needing a place to stay tonight truly was serendipitous.
Serendipitous.
Right.
Sheesh.
Mikey wasn’t serendipitous. He was a giant vibrating mass of pheromones, oozing masculine power and control as though he converted oxygen into testosterone instead of carbon dioxide.
And he accomplished all that simply by breathing. Ducks only knew where her clothes would end up if he spent much time brandishing that deep Southern drawl for anything beyond asking where she kept the toilet paper.
Or if she thought too long about the haunted look in his eyes when she’d found him out there watching the fire.
Haunted and lost, as though he needed to be saved.
Nope, she wasn’t going there. Had enough of that, thank you very much.
She was only offering him a place to stay in the hopes that he could help her make a miracle.
She swung her door open, put on mental blinders to his raw animal magnetism, and led him inside. “So this is—Parrot! Bad kitty! Shoo! Shoo!”
Parrot, her black and orange tortoiseshell rescue cat took off at a run for the bedrooms, leaving the tampon she’d been playing with lying in the middle of the floor. Dahlia would’ve kicked it under the couch, but she’d sold that last week, and now a green-striped easy chair was the only furniture on the expanse of matted tan carpet in the living room.
Plus her glasses were fogging and she couldn’t exactly see it clearly.
Still, she swooped down, located the tampon, and shoved it in her pocket before Dean and Sam, her orange tabby and gray tabby, respectively, could dart in from their spots on either side of the chair for their turn with Parrot’s toy. Dahlia’s glasses slowly cleared, revealing Dean playing with a tennis ball, lying on it and scratching at it with his back feet. Which made it look more like the cat was humping the ball than playing with it.
“Right,” she said, turning to force an all good here smile at Mikey, which was a mistake because it meant looking up at those haunting gray eyes that were tracking her from beneath the brim of the ball cap covering his shaved head.
Seeing everything. He still hovered in the door, silhouetted in the flash of red lights and the residual glow of the fire across the street. “Real nice chair you got there,” he said. One corner of his mouth tilted up, and Dahlia got the distinct impression she’d just been asked to take her clothes off. “It fit two?”
Six months ago, she wouldn’t have fought temptation.
But six months ago, she hadn’t yet met Ted, and he hadn’t yet borrowed her life savings. “Of course,” she said. “The cats will be happy to share it with you.”
His corner smile dropped. He pulled his cap off, ran a hand over his smooth head, and took another glance about the practically empty room before shoving the cap back on.
Dahlia practiced her yoga breathing and tried to slow her racing heart. She truly didn’t want him to stay—she was so done with charity cases, losers, and playboys—but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to seek Billy’s help through a proxy.
It wasn’t as if she wanted to ask him to strip for charity. She simply needed him to sample some special ice cream and tell a few—hundred—people about it.
She wanted to howl. She’d turned into the kind of person who usually took advantage of her.
But The Milked Duck needed help, and she’d be failing all the little kids of Bliss who spent their summers stopping in for ice cream treats if she had to close the shop because she went totally broke this winter.
“The kitchen’s stocked for the basics; the spare bedroom has clean sheets; and there’s plenty of hot water. And you could definitely use a shower. Phew.”
Those gray eyes slid back to her. “Your shower big enough for two?”
“Yes, but the cats don’t like to get wet. Neither does the guinea pig. But you might have some success with the lizard.”
Bad, bad move. Because both corners of his mouth were getting in on the smile action. He moved them one at a time, first the right corner, then a slow follow from the left corner.
And then he showed his dimple.
Trump card every time.
Ducks, she was a mess.
“Whose lizard?” he said.
“My iguana,” she clarified, intentionally ignoring his you want to see my lizard? eyebrow wiggle. “Hank. He’s a rescue, an old boyfriend left him here, but he’s a total sweetie. Would you mind closing the door? The cats shouldn’t be out when your house is burning.”
His cheek twitched, and he eyeballed the chair again, where Dean had paused in humping the tennis ball long enough to join Sam in eyeing Mikey back. But Mikey stepped all the way into the house and shut the door carefully. The red lights still flashed through the front window, and the hint of smoke would probably linger inside for days, but the bigger problem now was having this tall mass of hot, unfiltered maleness alone with her in her house.
No doubt about it.
She was sleeping with her bedroom door locked tonight.
“You can help yourself to anything in the fridge,” she said. “But the freezer is on the fritz—every time it’s opened, there’s a humidity imbalance that makes the defroster malfunction and leak all over the floor. So if you could leave the door shut, that would be awesome. I can probably treat you to an ice cream cone, but you’ll have to come down to the shop tomorrow to get it. I don’t bring the goods home from work or I’d weigh like eight hundred pounds.”
Lying wasn’t her favorite pastime, but she hoped the visual would make him quit eyeing her as though she was the ice cream cone, and that her flimsy reasoning was enough to discourage him from snooping in her freezer.
“Right,” he said. “You’re the ice cream lady.”
She sucked in a lungful of courage. “Yeah. I have this tasting going on Saturday after next. It’ll be—” Fun? Sexy? Her last chance at solving her money problems? “A great time. You should come.”
Mikey shot a glance at the chair again as if he hadn’t heard her. “The ice cream lady with a zoo.”
“With a home,” she corrected.
And, apparently, with the gift of being too subtle.
Or he recognized the invitation to the flavor tasting as a personal favor she had no right asking, and he was ignoring it.
She was so not good at asking for help.
She gave him a quick tour of the kitchen, which didn’t take long considering it was as minimally stocked as her living room.
Only the necessities. Everything else had
been sold to pay last month’s rent.
Two years ago, she had inherited The Milked Duck Ice Cream Shoppe in downtown Bliss from Great Aunt Agnes. After getting her degree in sociology and then bouncing around the country, waffling from job to job and one relative’s couch to another, she’d finally found where she fit: creating and serving happiness to the locals and the destination wedding tourists in Bliss. Two winters ago, she’d learned the importance of saving summer profits to survive the slow winter months, because even perpetual weddings and the smell of love in the air didn’t bring people in for ice cream as often in the colder months. This year, Dahlia thought she had everything under control, but then Ted happened.
Swooped in and stole Dahlia’s heart. They talked for hours about animals, about ice cream, about Bliss and its Knot Festival and weddings. Because one couldn’t move to Bliss and not talk about the primary function of the quirky little town. And then Ted had shared his passion for books. He was an academic with both a love of the literary and an analytical mind, and so he’d decided to launch a book recommendation service online. Because there were so many books to choose from in the digital age, he said.
He’d been so smart about all of it—the Internet, the market, the method of determining which books were the best to recommend to the reading public. He simply needed capital to invest in building the Web site and newsletter. Because graphic designers were expensive, he said. And people wouldn’t take his recommendations if he didn’t look like he knew what he was talking about, he said. And he needed money for marketing to get start-up attention, he said. And then, with the income stream from affiliate programs and the paid advertising from authors, Dahlia’s investment would make itself back threefold in a matter of weeks. It all made brilliant sense.
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