Free Vanity Fare by Megan Caldwell Page A

my shoes, and another eight minutes of updates.
    “Not more than two hours a week, I’d say.” He frowned, as if even that was too much time with me.
    “Tuesdays at noon, then?” Tuesdays with Scary. Fun!
    He pulled out some man-gadget and looked down at the little display. “That should be fine. Can I have your phone number?”
    “My phone number?”
    “Yes, Ms. Hagan, just in case I need to reach you.” He spoke as if he were talking to someone not so swift. Which, actually, he was.
    “Oh. Okay.” I gave it to him, and checked my watch. 1:42. Rats, not time to leave yet.
    He gestured toward the waitress, who came bustling over as if he were asking her to bear his first child. “You all set here?” she said, giving him the once-over. Twice.
    He didn’t seem to notice. I guess if you were that determinedly handsome, and that autocratic, you took it for granted people found you attractive. At least until they got to know you.
    He slapped a credit card down on the table as I was scrabbling in my bag for some cash. He frowned at me. “I’ll take care of it. It’s business.”
    Nope, sure wasn’t anything personal here.
    “Thanks.”
    I rose to go as he signed the credit card receipt. We walked back out into the street, where the sun had managed to fight its way through the clouds. The sky was a bright blue and I blinked as my eyes adjusted. Nick, of course, just pulled out some super-sleek shades and put them on, making him look even more threatening. His lips pulled down at the edges as he looked down the street. I saw why when the Glory of Simon appeared.
    “Afternoon Nick, Molly.” Simon stood in front of us, curls waving in the breeze, his green eyes squinted against the sunlight. He really was a vision.
    “Good afternoon, Simon,” Nick said in a curt voice. He sounded so—flatly and solidly American. As opposed to Simon’s patrician British accent. “I thought you were on your way already. Ms. Hagan and I were discussing the project.”
    Simon winked. “I didn’t think you were indulging in anything illicit, Nick, not you, buddy.” He looked at me, frowning a little. “Nick’s explained he’ll be working with you?”
    “Yes, he has, Mr. Baxter.” Keep it professional, Molly. Never mind his laughing green eyes made me think about all kinds of things. Simon smiled, like he knew what I was thinking. Hey, he could read minds, too!
    “It’s a shame we won’t be working together, but Nick insists,” Simon said, spreading his hands wide in a helpless gesture. Which fooled no one—helpless he wasn’t.
    Nick’s arm stiffened on my elbow. “If it were what I wanted, Simon, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” Nick shot back. What the heck was going on? I felt like I had gotten stuck in the middle of a kung fu movie, and I was the wooden board.
    “Uh, I’d love to stay,” and watch you two scrap over territory like wild dogs, “but I’ve got to get back. Mr. Harrison, thanks for the information and the coffee. I’ll see you next week. Simon, I mean, Mr. Baxter, it was nice to see you again.”
    As I walked toward the subway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that both of them were watching me. Why? What the hell was going on?
    And why did I feel as if I were stuck in the middle of a rock (that’d be Simon) and a hard place (that’d be Nick)?

Tom Jonesing for Cookies
    Rich, sensual, unabashedly luscious . . . this cookie of undetermined origin will bring keeping-up-with-the-Joneses to a whole new level. English cream, country butter, hand-milled flour, and an excess of chocolate makes this cookie the most rambunctious lot in the bunch.
     

 
    7
    “ MOMMY? ”
    “Mm?” I was poring over my cookbooks on the floor of the kitchen, searching for inspiration within the seldom-cracked pages. Aidan’s hand tugged at my sleeve.
    “Mommy.” His tone was peremptory now.
    “Yes, honey?” I lifted my eyes from Betty Crocker’s words of wisdom. Aidan was regarding me with a serious look in