Free Wife and Mother Wanted by Nicola Marsh Page A

dame thought he needed healing? Maybe she was right. But it scared the hell out of him.
    Following in Daisy’s footsteps, he plastered a smile on his face and picked up Molly, swinging her high in the air till she squealed with delight.
    There’s no maybe about it. Daisy is right. You need something in your life, someone to heal the scars, to make you live again .
    Until now he’d thought he had that someone. Molly was all he needed. But what if he needed more?
    What if he needed Carissa in his life too?
    He had to make up for his Neanderthal behaviour, and he silently vowed to show her just how grown-up he could be.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    C ARISSA flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and reached for the lock as a shadow darkened the door.
    ‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t Prince Charming,’ she muttered, switching the lock and glaring at Brody through the glass.
    He rattled the doorknob and looked at her in surprise. ‘Hey, aren’t you going to let me in?’
    ‘No.’
    She folded her arms and gave him her best don’t mess with me look, while trying not to notice how incredible he looked in a navy polo shirt and khaki shorts.
    Face it, girl. You’d think he looked good in anything .
    What was she thinking? She was mad at this guy—madder than she’d ever been with anyone. All she’d done was extend the hand of friendship to both him and his gorgeous little girl, and he’d treated her badly. She still hadn’t forgiven him for his accusation that she was trying to buy Molly’s affection, and when he’d come knocking on her door after the party yesterday she’d pretended to be asleep.
    If he wanted to apologise she wouldn’t make it easy for him. She was done playing Miss Nice.
    ‘You should let me in. I come bearing gifts.’
    Her heart kicked at his sexy smile, but she shook her head anyway. ‘No.’
    ‘It’s food.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Chocolate and banana croissants. Your favourite,’ he tempted.
    Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, but she held firm. ‘No.’
    He held up the bag from Michel’s Patisserie and swung it from side to side, as if trying to hypnotise her. ‘Call it a peace offering.’
    Thankful that the glass shielded her from the tantalising aromas she knew would be creeping out of the bag, she took a step back and shook her head. ‘You’ll have to do a lot better than that.’
    ‘I’ve got my tool belt in the car. How about I tackle all those odd jobs you need done around here?’
    She thought about the loose door hinges, the creaky shutters, the faulty tap washers and the leaky pipe in the back room handbasin—and the croissants in the bag—and flicked the lock.
    Okay, so the guy didn’t play fair. What was a girl supposed to do?
    She’d always had a thing for tradesmen, finding the whole big, brawny, overall-wearing, tool-belt-slinging, capable man a major turn-on. Combine that little fantasy with the thought of Brody Elliott in a tool belt and, well…she was a goner.
    Opening the door, she waved him in. ‘You’ve said the magic word.’
    ‘But I didn’t say open sesame?’
    ‘No, you went one better. The words “tool belt” will get you in every time.’
    ‘Oh, really?’ He leaned in the doorway, a knowing smirk on his handsome face, and for one crazy moment she forgot how mad she was supposed to be with him and stifled the urge to haul him into her shop by his lapels, lock the door and create a little magic of her own.
    Fighting a rising blush and losing, she swivelled around and headed for the back. ‘I’m starving. Bring your peace offering out here and we’ll have coffee before you get started.’
    ‘Long day?’ He followed her into the cramped back room, and she suddenly wondered at the wisdom of her decision to invite him in.
    Dusk had fallen, they were alone in a confined space, and her imagination had taken flight the minute he’d mentioned his tools.
    Think anger. Think fury. Think how much you wanted to thump him yesterday .
    ‘Uh-huh.’