Free Husband for Hire by Susan Wiggs Page A

because, damn, she was a knockout withall that red hair and those legs. He tried to think of something else. Like what the hell he was doing here. She had all but let him off the hook yesterday, yet something had driven him to find her, to convince her that they ought to give it a shot. Now that he was here, standing like an intruder in her house, he had no idea what that something was.
    A small, white-haired woman came in. She wore a flowered apron over her dress, an unorthodox-looking pair of red tennis shoes and a pleasant smile.
    “Mom, this is Rob Carter. Rob, my mother, Gwen.”
    He shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. I don’t mean to intrude on your Sunday—”
    “Oh, heavens, Sundays were made for company, weren’t they, Twyla dear? We absolutely love having people over. Can I get you some coffee? I’ve got some cinnamon rolls just out of the oven.”
    “I’d be a fool to turn down that offer,” he said. “Smells delicious.”
    “I’ll give you a hand, Mom.”
    “Don’t you dare. I’ll just be a minute.”
    The two women shared a smile. Sometimes when he saw a parent and child, he felt a raw burning inside him that had no antidote. Long ago he had made a mental list of the things he could never have, like a mother and a father. He had dedicated his life to acquiring the things he could have—a good education, a meaningful career, friends he enjoyed. Since meeting Lauren DeVane, he had begun to think a wife was even a possibility.
    “Your mom’s nice.”
    “The best.” A shadow darkened her face and her smile dissolved, then reappeared quickly. “She lives with us—there’s a mother-in-law apartment in theback—and watches Brian when I’m at the salon. She did a lot of the work on that quilt you won.”
    Twyla led the way into an old-fashioned parlor. The room had a high ceiling outlined by fancy molding and tall windows hung with lace curtains. The furniture wasn’t grand, certainly not priceless antiques, but it seemed to fit. Between the two windows was a small upright piano, polished to a high sheen. Built-in bookshelves were crammed with an eclectic mix of titles. Scanning them, Rob noted a heavy concentration of psychology texts and self-help books on everything from panic attacks to holistic grief recovery. Not what one would expect of a hairdresser. Maybe her mother was the reader.
    Deciding it was impolite to speculate on people’s reading choices, he turned his attention to the collection of family pictures. Framed photos hung everywhere or stood propped on every available surface. Seizing on a way to fill the silence, Rob said, “So give me the grand tour. These photos don’t have captions.”
    “It’s just family stuff. Boring, really,” she said.
    He picked one up. The photo featured Twyla as a girl, playing outside a double-wide mobile home. “I’ll be the judge of that. Humor me.”
    “Lord, I was a skinny thing, wasn’t I?” she said. “That’s the Lazy Acres Mobile Home Court, where I spent most of my childhood. Classy place.” With a wry smile, she gave a shake of her head. “Here I am with my father on the miniature golf course he built. He spent all his savings on it.”
    “Quite the place.”
    She set down the framed photo. “I’m sorry to say it failed despite the marvelous innovation of sound effects. Bells and whistles when the ball went in the hole.”
    “He must’ve been way ahead of his time.”
    “He was a dreamer,” Gwen said, not unkindly. She had entered the room with a tray of coffee and rolls. “And a bit of a dabbler, never settling on one project.” She stared fondly at the golf course photo, then wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll leave you two, then.”
    “No, please, join us—”
    She held up a hand. “I promised Brian I’d sugar down those blackberries he picked. We’ll have a cobbler tonight.”
    Rob grinned, watching her go. “Don’t tell me. She’s in on the matchmaking along with the other two.”
    Twyla nodded.