“Mommmmyyyy, your Pop-Tart’s ready!” Claire called from downstairs.
“Oh crap.” Anne stumbled out of bed, grabbed her robe off the footboard, and ran down the stairs and then into the kitchen. “Claire, next time wait for Mommy before you cook, please.”
Claire stood on her helper stool at the small island. A burnt strawberry pastry was peeking from the top of the toaster, and another one—also charred—was on a plate at the small kitchen table. It had a fork resting beside it.
“That one is yours, okay? I’m making me a new one because this one is all burned up,” Claire said matter-of-factly as she pulled open another foil packet. “I gave you that one because I know you don’t like to waste.”
“Oh, well, thank you so much for your thoughtfulness.” Anne sat down and picked the blackened edges from the pastry then took a bite. It was edible.
After a couple more nibbles she stood up and made her way to the coffeepot, which had filled on an autotimer nearly two hours ago. Luckily the heating element hadn’t shut off; still, it was bordering on bitter sludge and scalding hot, though nothing a liberal amount of creamer wouldn’t fix. She would need at least two mugs to recover from her champagne-and-mortification hangover from yesterday. She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure she’d had an X-rated dream featuring her special party guest and his well-fitted jeans.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him driving by the park. Had he meant to see her? Was it his normal route? Surely not, Settlers Park was in a neighborhood, not really near anything. Then again, she didn’t know where he lived. The whole thing had been making Anne crazy, but she needed to let it go. If he’d been interested, he would have said so. But no, instead last night he was on a hot date. Shit, he might be waking up with that hot date right now … or sneaking out of her place. Good grief, it was like Anne had never interacted with a handsome man before.
Ironically, she used to be married to a handsome man. Scott Edmond had made her heart pound and body quiver once upon a time. She worked at the local community college in the humanities and social sciences office when she first laid eyes on the cute guy in khaki cargoes and plaid flannel shirt. He looked like a rock climber or a model from an L.L. Bean catalog. His tanned legs had caught her eye immediately when he walked into the office, then he proceeded to unabashedly flirt with her while she transferred him to a different public speaking class. He asked her out before he left the office that day.
It was a romantic courtship. He took her to fancy parties hosted by his well-to-do parents and friends, basically treated her like the most special person in the world. Even Anne’s mother had been won over by his boyish charm. When he finally proposed she thought she knew exactly what he wanted from a marriage—someone to make his life effortless and his home comfortable, plan nice parties, look good on his arm. It never really occurred to her that she would be wrong, or that one or both of them would grow to be unhappy, because at the time it had all seemed so right.
Sadly, she’d allowed her Prince Charming to talk her out of finishing college. A stupid mistake, because she had worked so hard to get there, not starting until she was twenty and applying for financial aid to pay her way since her father’s final years of cancer had squelched her family’s savings. Quitting left her undereducated and without a career to fall back on when she found Scott screwing his cousin’s wife in the bed Anne shared with him. Thank goodness she had started to make money off her blog by then, or she didn’t know what she would have done.
After the initial dust settled, the most painful part was feeling like she’d let Claire down. Anne wanted Claire to have the same happy childhood she’d had when her parents had adopted her out of foster care when she was four. And after her divorce, she had felt like the worst mom ever. Thank God when she told her mother about the divorce her reply had been, “You can do better than him anyway.” She supported Anne without question, emotionally and financially when the need arose for a short time.
Anne took another long sip of coffee, the scent of vanilla filling her nose. She hadn’t thought about her divorce in a while, tried not to in fact, but here she was two years later still processing the failure. Obviously her recent dealings with this handsome man were bringing up repressed thoughts. It was a sign she just needed to live like a nun.
No, she was not going to let those depressing thoughts control her. She missed being touched, and the affection that came with a partner. Not that she’d gotten all that much from Scott toward the end, but at this point she was starting to think that some was better than none. Love could be fleeting, right? At least it was in her case. However, right now she just needed a male-induced orgasm.
Claire stepped off her stool and sat down at the kitchen table with her perfectly heated breakfast when Anne’s cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, which was odd for a Sunday, but she cleared her unused morning voice and put on a cheery hello … just in case.
“Hi, is this Anne the party planner?” a female asked. Her words were clipped and her voice chipper, like she’d been awake for hours and already solved world problems.
“Yes, this is Anne.”
“Perfect. This is Jill Monser, and I’m in a bit of a pickle, Anne. You’re services came highly recommended, and I am in need of the most beautiful, lavish sweet sixteen party you can create. Are you available?”
Wow, way to just lay it all out there. This woman was no-nonsense. Anne had never done a sweet sixteen party. She’d only ingested half a cup of coffee this morning; she wasn’t feeling particularly up to par, so she started with the basics.
“Well, Mrs. Monser, when is your party scheduled?”
“That’s the problem, Anne, when I say a pickle, I’m putting it mildly. We had everything set for the Millard Country Club in early July, but they had a disaster and now we have to start from scratch. I need everything. A new venue, DJ, catering, lighting, decor … and I need it to happen before the end of June.”
Anne almost dropped her mug. Lighting? Wow. “Oh! Okay. Well…”
She’d seen the story about the sewer disaster on the local news. Extensive damage, so the club was using the opportunity to renovate the old building. Millard Country Club was only for the very wealthy, so this Mrs. Monser would probably have high expectations. But she’d also have lots of money. Anne couldn’t even imagine—no, she actually could. Pictures of what she would want to do were already flowing through her mind. The only rub was the time frame.
“I realize this is not ideal, Anne,” Jill went on, obviously sensing her slight reluctance to take the job. It was also a little unsettling the way she kept using Anne’s name, as if she were a child receiving a scolding. “But my daughter is counting on this. I’ve been promising her a sweet sixteen party for her entire life, and I need to make sure it’s parallel to none.”
“Well … Jill, let me think for a minute. I’d certainly love to—”
“Oh thank you, Anne! I just wasn’t sure about you when the referral came from a man, but then I Googled you and realized you’re the My Perfect Little Life Anne and I was thrilled. Your work is just precious, and exactly what I’m looking for. The perfect mix of class and handcrafted. I should have thought of you myself. Can you put together a plan and meet me for coffee tomorrow? We can discuss specifics.”
What was left to say? Could she do this? Yes, she could, and she wanted to. But who was the man who’d referred her? It must have been a dad from one of her parties. “Okay, sure, Jill. Where would you like to meet, and might I ask the name of the person who referred you? I always like to show my appreciation for referrals.”
Which was the truth. Word of mouth had made her what she was, and she liked to send personalized thank-you notes to those gracious enough to think of her when they spoke with friends and family.
“Wonderful, let’s meet at Callie’s Confections. I know she does the blog with you and she has a low-fat coffee cake that I can’t get enough of. Oh, and her services were already enlisted for the
cake by way of the club, so I’d like to kill two birds with one stone. Perhaps you can chat with her and make sure she is fine with the new date and location you have in mind.”
Anne had been smiling since the moment Jill had mentioned Callie’s. It was a relief to know she wasn’t in this madness alone, and ironically she did have the most perfect venue in mind, a gorgeous farm on the outskirts of town that she’d been in love with for the past two years. She wondered if she could pull it off. “Yes, I can certainly do that.”
“Splendid, well then, I’ll see you at nine sharp, Anne. And oddly enough, you were referred by the man who restores my husband’s old cars. His name is Mike Everett. You just never know who knows who, do you? Thanks again. Bye-bye now.”
The line went silent and Anne was still processing the conversation. Mike Everett, old car guy? There were a lot of Mikes in her contact list, but she didn’t remember working with a mechanic or an Everett. However, she didn’t ask her clients’ professions, and they rarely offered up the information. A certain Uncle Mike came to mind since he’d been at the top of her thoughts, but it couldn’t possibly be him. They’d just met, and he didn’t seem the type to run out and brag about little girl parties he attended.
Everett, Everett, Everett. She recited the name to herself as she clicked open the Internet on her phone and typed in the key words: Mike Everett old cars. The first link pulled up, and she clicked it open. It was from a site for Muscle Car Magazine. A photo started to unroll … slowly.
“Damn WiFi,” she whispered.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Claire asked. She was stirring her strawberry milk and sloshing it all over the table. Anne chose to ignore it this time. “Are you mad at your phone again?”
“No, sweetie, everything’s fine.”
The photo finally loaded far enough that she could see a fancy muscle car and two men standing beside it. She used her fingers to zoom in and her breath caught. “Oh my God.”
There looking sinfully handsome was none other than Uncle Mike. It wasn’t recent—he looked a little younger—but it was most certainly him. Mike Everett. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, his hands tucked into his pockets, his grin wide. The caption said that he’d restored the car, a ’65 Shelby Cobra, for Dan Monser. There was even an entire spread on the vehicle. Anne didn’t know much about muscle cars, but she knew this one was gorgeous.
She put her phone down and picked up her coffee, her mind reeling from the sudden job put in front of her and even more from the fact that Uncle Mike had given someone her name in the last, well, less than twenty-four hours. What did that mean? Maybe that’s why he’d driven by the park, not to see her, but to ask her about this. Maybe it was completely innocent. She planned parties, and he knew someone. It meant nothing.
But … she should still send him something to say thank you. She had to show her appreciation just like she would with anyone else.
Five
“You better be messin’ with me, man. A pink fastback?”
Mike sighed into the telephone. His frustration equaled that of his painter. Manuel was the best within a hundred-mile radius, and knew better than anyone that painting a classic American muscle car hot pink was sacrilege. Ford had produced some pink cars in its time, but this one was going to be bright. Anne’s raspberry color came to mind, putting a smile on his face.
“I know man. It sucks, but we gotta get paid,” Mike joked as he tapped his pen on the desk. “Monser helps to keep us both in business, so we’re gonna make this the most badass hot-pink Mustang anyone has ever seen.”
Manuel took a deep breath. “You’re right, but it’s gonna break my heart to load pink paint into my gun.”
“Just be ready for me to drop it off around the second week in June, and rush it.”
Mike got off with Manuel and leaned back in his chair. It was Monday and he’d been up since five o’clock working on a client’s Chevelle, which was nearly done. All he had left were some minor trim pieces. The faster it was finished, the sooner he could focus on the Mustang. He usually tried to keep his shop high quality, low volume, but it was hard to say no to money, which meant it wasn’t uncommon to find himself in these situations where builds overlapped and got crazy.
He glanced at the clock, noting that it was nearing one. He really needed to eat something, but he knew his mini fridge only contained some frozen burritos and a bottle of hot sauce. However, the burger joint down on Main Street knew his order by heart, so he grabbed his keys and headed for the door to the alley. He wasn’t expecting to find a woman there when he pulled it open, but he did, bent over just outside the door.
The suddenness of it startled her and threw her off kilter. He could see her trying to regain her balance, but the threat of falling was imminent. He reached down to grab her arm, steadying her. A mass of golden ponytail rolled back, and he locked eyes with none other than perfect Anne Edmond.
She found her footing and stood, forcing him to let go of her arm. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, a little breathless. “I’m sorry. I was just leaving you something.”
Mike couldn’t help but grin as he glanced down and took in her pale-yellow top, navy skirt, and strappy yellow heels. Between their feet sat a little pink box from Callie’s bakery. A little card rested on top.
“You’re feeding me again? I must look like I’m starving.”
She gave him an embarrassed, sexy smile, locking eyes with him and then quickly looking away. “No. I mean, I guess yes to the feeding-you part. I just wanted to thank you for the referral. I just left a three-hour meeting with Jill Monser, and I was at Callie’s anyway, and her cinnamon rolls are so good, although I really try not to eat them. But I just wanted to thank you, and your sister told me where your shop was, and—”
“Anne,” he said, cutting her off. She’d been about to buzz out of control, arms flying as she spoke, but not once had she looked him in the eye for more than a quarter of a second. She did now—in fact, her pupils had dilated and her lips were just barely parted. He spoke softly. “You could have knocked, you know. I would have been really sad if I knew you were at my place and I didn’t get to see you.”
Her face was frozen for a beat, but then just as she had at her house, she pulled it together. Watching the realization in her expression was so damn hot. He wanted her to know it, wanted her to reciprocate. Flirt with me, Anne, give me something.
She smiled, and a faint blush colored her cheeks. Okay, well, that was something. “I just didn’t want to bother you.”
“Not possible.”
“Oh, don’t underestimate me. I might surprise you.” She scrunched her nose. He was beginning to really enjoy that cute little habit.
He wanted her to surprise him, but probably not in the way she implied. He wanted to see her strip out of that little skirt she was wearing. Peel off her top and show him her lingerie. Was it yellow, too? Wouldn’t that be a surprise? Anne looked like a gently bred southern belle, but he wanted to fantasize about her being a wildcat in bed. Okay, he had fantasized about that. In fact he’d woken this morning with a painful hard-on that only a shower, his hand, and a lurid mental image of Anne had taken care of.
He was imagining it right now.
“You wanna come in?” he asked. “It’s kind of dirty in here. Car parts, grease, metal … but it’s my thing.”
She laughed, obviously remembering their conversation from Saturday. Quickly she reached down, making his breath hitch as this morning’s shower scene popped into his head again. Oh God, wouldn’t that be a great surprise. Instead of fulfilling his fantasies, however, she reached for the box of rolls and stood up.
“That’s okay, you’re busy. I really just wanted to thank you.” She held the gift out to him. He glanced down at the card as he took it from her. In her meticulous little penmanship he read, Uncle Mike. Holy shit. Why did that seem so sexy?
“You have to come in,” he said. “So you can see the car I’m doing for the Monsers’ d
aughter. It will be the focal piece of your party.” She appeared to think about it for a second. He raised both eyebrows.
“Okay, you’re probably right. In fact, Jill did want a tiny replica in fondant on top of the cake. So I guess I should.”
He had no idea what fondant was, but he’d agree with whatever she needed in order to get her inside. “Great.”
His shop was located in an older structure owned by his friend Derek, who was a commercial building architect and contractor. Derek had bought the property a block away from Main Street near the train tracks a few years ago to house his office. The place had obviously been used as some sort of shop or warehouse before. It had a couple of garage doors off the large work space, so Derek had offered to rent the back and side to Mike. It worked out well for both of them.
He led Anne inside and set the rolls on his desk. When he turned back to her she was glancing around the small office. Worn couch, file cabinet, and oversized messy desk. He wondered what she was thinking. When their eyes met she smiled. “So Erin said you live here also?”
“Yeah, it’s not ideal, only temporary.” He cleared his throat, and just like that he saw himself through her eyes. He lived in a fucking auto shop. What did that say about him? He knew that he had enough money in his bank account to buy a house tomorrow, a decent house even, but he’d never felt rushed. The initial plan was for it to be a temporary solution, but after a while it seemed stupid to move when he worked such long hours. He had plans and dreams; they were just always for the future. In the meantime she probably thought he lived like some squatter.
He had every intention of buying a piece of land at some point. Derek had even offered to work up a simple design plan for a home, but for the past couple of years this had served its purpose. He was a single guy and saving his money made sense, but here and now he felt the need to explain the situation. Make her see that he was more than the place he went to sleep at night. But ultimately, did it even matter?
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