by Gwen Hayes
Dedication
For my dear friend, Ely. Thank you for always dropping everything when I need a pair of eyes and for always having faith in me.
Chapter One
This is a mistake, Charlie repeated to herself across both the lawns that separated their houses. It was a bad, bad idea. She thought about returning home and changing clothes one more time. What exactly did a girl wear on a date she didn’t exactly agree to, with a guy she didn’t exactly like?
She chastised herself. No, no going back. The little black dress wasn’t little enough to send the wrong kind of statement, but it was black enough to be flattering without trying too hard. Plus, her patent leather boots were made of awesome. They made her legs look longer and leaner. Even though, of course, she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She climbed the steps and inhaled deeply before she knocked on the screen door. The front door had been left open despite the December chill.
“Come on in,” Jeeves Allencaster, likely not his real name, called from another room.
This was ridiculous. What was she doing dating a movie star? She’d only meant to call his bluff. He just never stopped asking her out—like the Energizer Bunny only hot and funny and with a silky bedroom voice and piercing green eyes…and…and…and she didn’t even like him!
Charlie closed the screen door behind herself right before the dog launched at her. “Hey, Medusa.” She scratched the dog’s mismatched ears and pushed her off gently. “Down, baby.” Medusa’s curly hair would weave into the fabric of her dress and take root. The brown wiry hairs looked silly enough on the dog—she didn’t need to be pulling them out of her clothes all night.
Music started playing from the surround-sound speakers in separate corners of the room. Was he joking? Marvin Gaye?
“Subtle, Jeeves,” she called to the kitchen. Very subtle.
God. There were candles covering every flat surface in the room. And…were those rose petals on the floor? In a trail. Leading to his bedroom. She rolled her eyes. Apparently they needed to discuss, yet one more time, the fact that she was not going to sleep with him. Not ever.
“I’ll be right out. There’s wine on the coffee table,” he yelled. Plates rattled and the house smelled amazing, aromatic herbs and sweet onion. So he really was cooking for her. She reminded herself not to be impressed by that.
She pulled the bottle out of the ice bucket on the table. Pink Champagne. Pink? The man was out of control. He needed counseling. He needed…
Jeeves paused provocatively in the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room, posing for maximum effect. He had on the tightest pants she’d ever seen and a button-down shirt that was not buttoned down from his belly button up. In his hands, he held a tray of appetizers. “Oysters, foxy lady?” he asked, arching one eyebrow and sending come-hither vibes.
Charlie shook her head and tried not to laugh. Her smile, though, felt as if it were coming from a place deep in her chest, lighting up her insides. “You don’t have nearly enough chest hair to pull that look off. But nice touch with the gold chains.”
He winked at her before he strutted across the room as if he had the Bee Gees singing directly into his ears. Jeeves was utterly ridiculous.
It was at that moment she knew she would sleep with him.
Four Months Ago…
Charlotte Jeeves, Charlie to everyone who didn’t pull her over or collect her taxes, was really tired of hearing about her new neighbor, and he hadn’t even moved into the house next door yet. The whole town was talking about him. Wasn’t it cute, they said, that they shared the same name—Jeeves and Jeeves? Wasn’t it great that he’d fixed up the old house next door to her? Wasn’t he just the most charming man ever?
Granted, Port Grable didn’t get brushed with celebrity very often, but that was part of its charm. She had a feeling Jeeves Allencaster, which could not possibly be his real name, was going to ruin everything she loved about her anonymous nook in the world.
Port Grable was the town that time forgot. It had all the modern world amenities, of course, but somehow it had charmed its way into keeping the simple grace of a different era. She could drink a latte and surf the internet downtown, but it was at the counter of an old-fashioned soda shop in the back of the pharmacy instead of Starbucks. The soda machine in front of the hardware store sold Coke…in real glass bottles. Downtown, all two blocks of it, still had angle parking in front of all the stores. Angle parking. She didn’t ever drive downtown, preferring her bicycle, but knowing there was angle parking filled her with warm, happy feelings.
Port Grable had been her gift from God, her reward for waking up each day when she hadn’t wanted to anymore. If she hadn’t found this place, well, she might not have made it, and she was really afraid the Hollywood star was going to take it all away from her.
He wasn’t even all that great. Well, okay, he was really gorgeous and she’d liked him in that one show she’d seen him in…but he was more of a television star than movie star. His shows were almost popular, but they were always cable series, not network. It wasn’t as if he was Brad Pitt or George Clooney. He was just Jeeves Allencaster.
But Charlie knew that he was going to taint her refuge from the rest of the world, damn him. Everyone in town was already acting different, trying to one-up each other to impress him before he even got here. She wouldn’t be surprised if they planned a parade. It was getting unreasonable. She glanced up at the banner as she rode her bicycle onto Main Street.
Welcome Jeeves Allencaster.
Ridiculous.
Charlie got off her bike and pushed it into the bike rack. No need to chain it up. Not here. Not like Milwaukee. Even after ten years, it still made her smile every time she walked away from her unsecured bike, knowing how safe it was here. How safe she was here.
First stop, Myrtle’s Muffins. She’d been thinking of a Dark Cherry Desire muffin for days. If she was feeling virtuous, she could make it last through tomorrow. They were huge. And dreamy. The secret was ricotta cheese, Myrtle had told her once, knowing her secret was safe because Charlie would never bake anything that didn’t come pre-packaged with reheating instructions.
Charlie strolled down Main Street, enjoying all the fall decorations. The town was getting ready for the Autumn Festival. All the planter boxes were filled with late-blooming mums and colorful kale, and the doorways were surrounded by leaves of burnished orange, yellow and red. A few shops used Halloween props too, but they were friendly, happy decorations. Nothing creepy or scary. Not downtown. They saved that for the haunted house down the road a bit.
The September weather was warm enough for a light sweater over her dress. She almost always wore dresses since she moved to Port Grable. She never felt frumpy when she wore a dress, even if she threw it on straight from the dryer and paired it with her Keds. She’d worn one of her favorites today. It was hard not to feel upbeat wearing red with white polka dots.
The bell tinkled merrily as she opened the door. The rich smells of sugar, butter, chocolate and cinnamon almost knocked her over like they always did. “God, Myrtle, you’re a saint.”
Myrtle popped up from behind the counter, all buxomly blonde Marilynness. “Hey, Charlie.” She even sounded breathless and sexy.
Myrtle, not the gray-haired granny you would expect from the name, was someone Charlie wished she could hate. Unfortunately, the goddess who ate all her own baking and never gained a pound was also her best friend.
“Please tell me there’s a cherry left.”
Myrtle smiled and began wrapping the last one up. “Has he moved in yet? Lord, I can’t wait.”
“Not yet. Thank God.”
“Spoilsport.” Myrtle slapped one hand over her eye. “Oh ow. Son of a baker
!”
“What’s wrong?” Charlie rounded the counter to her friend.
“There’s something in my eye.”
“Lemme see.”
Myrtle tried opening her eye, but Charlie didn’t see anything. The bathroom had better light, though. While they were in there, the front door jingled.
“Be right out!” Myrtle chirped brightly, ever the professional, even while suffering.
“I see it,” Charlie said. “Try blinking really fast.”
Myrtle made the classic goofy faces while she tried blinking out the eyelash. She even looked pretty doing that. It wasn’t fair. “You’re such a bitch,” Charlie complained.
“Yeah, I love you too.”
When the eyelash had worked its way out, Charlie reiterated how much she hated Myrtle. Myrtle reminded Charlie that she wasn’t above poisoning her food. They made it back to the front of the store giggling.
The man who’d come in was patiently waiting, checking out the local art on the walls. A few of the pieces were Charlie’s. She hoped he would buy one. Extra money was never a bad thing.
That was when she noticed it.
“Hey,” Charlie said, stopping at the counter. “Where’d my muffin go? I left it right here.”
She sent a look to the guy across the room. The one holding her muffin. He turned slowly, oblivious to his breach of baked-goods etiquette. Myrtle gasped. Charlie’s shoulders sagged.
Great.
“You, sir, have my muffin.”
The man looked dubiously from Charlie to Myrtle, where his gaze, like most men, paused a little longer than necessary, then back to Charlie. “Excuse me?”
Charlie pointed to the muffin in his hand. “My muffin. You took it. I set it on the counter and you took my muffin.”
He squinted at her. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s the last one.”
He looked behind her, to a case full of muffins and treats. Stopping, again for a second too long, on the five-foot-eight blonde treat standing next to the case.
Exasperated, Charlie closed the distance between them. “Look, you already get to be Jeeves Allencaster. You don’t get to have my muffin too.”
Jeeves wasn’t exactly sure what to make of the June Cleaver in a 50s dress standing in front of him demanding he return her muffin, but he was oddly intrigued.
“Did you already pay for the muffin?” he asked.
She curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, if you haven’t bought it yet, it isn’t yours.”
“You haven’t bought it yet, either.”
He smiled at her. The same one he used on Beth Farriday in the second grade whenever he wanted her to stomp her foot and push him. Back then, he paired it with cutting in line or tugging her hair, but this was interesting too. “But I’m the one holding it.”
She narrowed her eyes. They were dark. Dark brown like chocolate, which was really what he’d wanted when he came in, but the muffin on the counter had been wrapped already and he’d thought it would be easier just to buy that one.
Mrs. Cleaver inhaled sharply, obviously about to let loose a barrage of what he hoped were at least witty insults when the blonde intercepted.
“Mr. Allencaster, welcome to Port Grable.”
Her hand was soft when he shook it, and she smiled prettily with sparkly blue eyes and shiny pink lips while her friend looked like she was gutting him in her mind.
“Call me Jeeves. And, please, tell me all the women in this town are as sweet and pretty as you.” For added emphasis, he turned his shoulder to block the muffin victim from the conversation.
Cleaver snorted.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but I can assure you they all want to meet you. I’m Myrtle Malloy. This is my shop.” Really? This was Myrtle? She didn’t look like a Myrtle. “And this is Charlie. She’s your neighbor.”
Great. He snapped his head to her. “Yellow house?”
“It’s the only one next to you. Can I have my muffin now?”
“Charlie,” Myrtle intoned through a tight smile. “He’s new in town. Be a good neighbor. Let him have the muffin.” Her smile never faltered, but her tone implied business.
His new neighbor seethed all kinds of uncomfortable feelings in his direction. “I think Mr. Allencaster would be happy with any muffin, really, but I came in for that one.”
“Tell you what.” Myrtle gently took the muffin from him. “Why don’t I split this one on two plates and pour you each a cup of coffee. On the house.”
The muffin was nearly as big as his head. He didn’t need the whole thing. He kind of wanted to win that round, though. It seemed as if it would be a good idea to begin as he meant to go on with this woman. But, on the other hand, Myrtle was nice and he wanted no bloodshed in her shop. “Sounds fabulous,” he lied.
“Dreamy,” answered his new arch-nemesis.
The blonde angel nudged them both to a small bistro table in front of the window spilling sunlight into the room. The shop, all blues and yellows and lace, was quaint, like everything in this town. Except for his muffin date, of course.
Charlie sat across from him, being the opposite of quaint, her spine rigid, her eyes wary, and her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was the same cocoa color as her eyes. It fell soft and wavy around her face and touched her shoulders.
Actually, all of her looked soft, which completely went against her character. She ought to be rail thin and hard as nails to match her attitude. Lean and mean. Instead, her curves suggested a voluptuous, yielding quality about her.
Yeah, right.
“What do you do, Mrs. Cleaver?”
“What?”
“Your job? Profession?”
“No, I mean what did you just call me?”
Jeeves held his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry. You just reminded me of Leave it to Beaver’s mom. Your dress does. I meant no disrespect.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m a graphic novelist.”
He smirked. The one that got him hired more often than not. “Graphic as in bow-chicka-bow-wow?”
Cleaver blinked at him.
The heavenly angel arrived then with the food of the gods on pretty yellow plates and coffee that smelled like it just came out of the roaster. One bite and he realized why his date would have wrestled him to the ground for the muffin. “Good God,” he said. “Marry me, Myrtle.”
She patted his hand and winked before she went back to work.
If he ever settled down, it would be with a woman like that. He imagined a chorus of angels followed her around, singing whenever she entered a room or took something out of the oven. He looked across the table.
No angel chorus for that one. Organ music. Creepy, depressing organ music. The kind they played in old vampire movies. “You’re staring at me,” he said.
“You have crumbs on your chin,” she answered.
Jeeves wiped his chin with a napkin. “You don’t like me.”
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t really know you.”
“Which makes your dislike of me all the stranger. Let me guess, you were Team Ryan and are still mad the writers had Jessica choose Dante.” That’s usually what it was. People took his last show, Raiders, very seriously. The two-season love triangle ended in the series finale with him getting the girl. He didn’t think he’d ever stop getting mail about it.
“I didn’t actually watch that show.”
Ouch. “Okay, then there must be something besides the muffin mayhem that teed you off.”
She pursed her lips in consideration of his words. She had freckles. They were cute. As if God sprinkled chocolate jimmies on her before he sent her out to conquer the world, one bad actor at a time. “I suppose I haven’t really been very neighborly.”
Careful. This was where he would sink or swim. Well, probably not swim. He might stand a chance treading water, though. If he navigated the next moment well. “It’s hard to be ni
ce to a guy who commits larceny before he’s been properly introduced. I get that.”
Was that the corner of her mouth lifting in an almost-smile?
“Tell me about our neighborhood. I heard there was a story behind our houses.”
Charlie relaxed a little. “One of the town founders built them. One for him and one for his wife.”
“That’s unusual. Why did she need a different house? Don’t most married people live together?”
“Most do. Apparently they couldn’t. They were childhood sweethearts, so the story goes. They grew up as next door neighbors on the East Coast, actually. Very much in love. He had the house you’re living in built before he asked her to marry him. He brought her all the way across the country and proposed on the front porch.” Charlie poured more cream in her cup. “They planned a huge wedding, went on a fantastic honeymoon, and then they came back to live in the house he’d built for her.”
Watching her talk, it was as if she’d forgotten she didn’t like him, so he didn’t dare interrupt.
“Except all they did was fight from that moment forward. Publicly, privately, loudly, sometimes without words. They just could not get along. So, he figured he’d save their marriage and build her a new house. She moved next door to him and they were happily married until the day they died. No more fights. People say their romance was the stuff of epic love stories.”
“Maybe we should get married and honor the town tradition,” he said.
“You’ve been in town less than fifteen minutes, and you’ve proposed to two different women. How is it that you’ve earned your confirmed bachelor title?”
“Nobody ever says yes.”
She choked on her coffee. Which brought his attention to her breasts and then he wondered how he’d missed them before. They were fabulous. Well, most breasts were. This particular set he liked because they were big.
When she had her breathing back under control, he asked her more questions about the town. It was obvious she loved Port Grable. The more she talked, the less pinched her face became. Her lips were really gorgeous. She wasn’t the kind that wore make-up, so they were a natural shade of pink—a creamy color.
