“We. This is where we live.” Jon stepped to the side, one arm still curled around my waist. He motioned to his picture-perfect brick house. “Christine Price—soon to be Christine Stewart—welcome home.”
“Home,” I echoed, letting him guide me inside. “Oh ... wow.” I couldn’t believe this ... showroom ... was going to be my home. First, it was huge, but I’d already said that. And beautifully decorated, and ... there was absolutely no way the particleboard and laminate “furniture” I’d just hauled across three states was going to fit in here. We meandered through the foyer, past the sweeping staircase leading to the second floor, down a hallway that led to the rear of the house. On our way, we strolled past a formal living room that looked like it had never been used, past a formal dining room that also looked unused, and finally an office-slash-library. The hall ended at an open space housing the family room and eat-in kitchen.
In the family room my eyes jumped from one thing to another. The sectional sofa screamed, Sit on me! The ginormous flat panel TV on a wall gleamed in the sunlight. A pair of comfy-looking leather club chairs created a cozy nook that inspired me to grab a book and cuddle up to read. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining the back wall beckoned me, the lush green landscape beyond framed in drapes (were they ... happy sigh! ... silk?).
The whole place whispered expensive. Tasteful. Classy.
Jon looked proud. “I want this place to feel like home. If there’s anything you’d like to change—and I’m hoping there is—I want you to do it. Just tell me what you want, what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”
I tested one of the chairs. Heaven. “Thanks,” I said, beaming as I ran my hand over the arm. I pulled in a deep breath, drawing in the scrumptious scent of the leather and the equally intoxicating aroma of the man standing next to me. Whatever cologne he was wearing, it was pure aphrodisiac. “But everything looks so new. I don’t see why we’d need to change a thing.”
“Doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want.” He grabbed my hands, eyes twinkling, and pulled me to my feet. “Don’t get too comfortable yet. I still need to show you the rest of the house.”
He escorted me into the kitchen, which sported all the essentials of fine suburban living. Stainless steel appliances, natural stone countertops, beautiful wood cabinets and floor. There were two ovens. Two. I rarely put one to use. How would I ever find a reason to use two? Jon informed me the stove was a chef’s stove, whatever that meant. It was big and looked dangerous. I decided I’d stick with microwaving for now. The fridge, on the other hand, was also enormous but not at all scary. It was well stocked with all my favorite foods. There was even a month’s worth of my fave ice cream in the freezer.
This man deserved a kiss. I gave him one. And a second. And a third.
He growled like a man-bear—how I adore the way he growls—scooped me up into his arms, and turned a one-eighty, heading back toward the front of the house.
With one arm looped around his neck, I swallowed a girly giggle. Would this be my life from now on? Filled with toe-curling kisses, manly growls, and a never-ending supply of German chocolate ice cream? I didn’t dare hope so. A past full of heartache, hardship, and frustration had shattered the lenses in my rose-colored glasses a long time ago.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy this moment.
“Now, to show you our room.” Upstairs, Jon turned into the first room on the right, and I literally gasped.
“No way. Is this really our bedroom?” I asked, gaping like a kid who’d just stepped into the world’s largest toy store. I was beginning to see a trend here. The bed, just like the stove and refrigerator and television downstairs, was gigantic. Who would need so much space to sleep? Then again, I wondered if that space was intended for something else, something besides sleep. As a few possibilities played through my mind, I licked my lips.
Jon said, “I just had this room redesigned. But if you don’t like it—”
“I love it.”
“Good.” Jon dropped me on the bed. It was like landing on a cloud. He palmed my cheeks and stared into my eyes, his expression dark and manly and one hundred percent sexy. “I want you to be happy.”
“I have a feeling I’ll be very happy.”
“You can bet I’ll do everything in my power to make sure of that.” He tipped his head, and I closed my eyes, bracing for another mind-blowing kiss. But a knock on the door had me snapping them open and Jon jerking back.
“Dad.” Joshua, Jon’s twelve-year-old son, was standing just inside the door, his cell phone in his hand. He had the world’s worst timing. But I’d heard that was true for all kids. “Can I go to Ethan’s house?”
I scrambled to my feet and tried to pretend my face wasn’t about to combust into flames. I was slightly aware of Jon pushing to his feet beside me.
I stuttered, “Josh, it’s good seeing you again.”
Josh gave me one of those looks, the kind that said, “yeah, whatever.”
Jon said, “Josh, I told you, I need your help today. Christine’s moving in.”
Josh’s expression darkened. “But Dad, it’s Labor Day weekend. School starts Tuesday. It’s my last weekend of summer vacation—”
“Jon,” I whispered, turning to face my hot, sexy almost-fiancé. “If you’re making Josh stay home for my sake, it’s okay. I’d rather he go play with his friends, have fun.”
Josh adopted a convincing sad puppy expression.
Jon thought about it.
“Please,” Josh said, his voice doing that preteen-boy cracking thing. Ugh. I was about to become a stepmom to a teenager. Good times were coming my way. I could see it already. “I’ll be back by seven. That’ll still give you plenty of time to make me work.”
“Fine. By seven. Not a minute later.”
Josh roared out of the house as fast as his twelve-year-old legs could take him. When the deep thump of the front door slamming echoed through the house, Jon strolled to the bedroom door and closed it. Turning, he gave me a look hot enough to melt lead. “Now, where were we?”
I fell onto the mattress, batting my eyelashes at him. “I think you were about to make me very happy—” I gave a little shriek as he pounced on me like an overgrown jungle cat.
Angled over me, Jon gave me a Cheshire grin. “Ah, yes. And so I was.”
Okay, so there was at least one thing about this Stepford setup I’d like....
Jon nibbled on my earlobe.
The doorbell rang.
“Urk,” I said.
“Damn,” Jon said. He scowled. “The hell with it. They’ll go away.” He went back to nibbling, and I went back to melting.
The freaking doorbell rang a second time. Jon kept on nipping my neck, but I wasn’t into it anymore. I was distracted. When the bell rang a third time, I shoved him. “Okay, Dracula”—it’s a silly pet name, but the man has a thing for necks—“we’re going to have to take a timeout. I can’t get into the mood with all that ding-donging.”
Jon sighed. It was his turn to give a sad puppy look. It was clear where Joshua had learned it.
“Won’t work.” I pushed on his chest until he was upright.
“But it worked for Josh.” Ding dong. “Ignore it.” He grabbed my hand, flipped it over, and scattered tickly little kisses over the inside of my wrist.
Ding dong.
“I can’t ignore it.”
Ding dong.
Sheesh, whoever that was, they were persistent.
Jon motioned to me. “Stay put. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I decided I was okay with that plan ... until I heard a woman’s voice downstairs. Laughing.
I’d just left the best job of my life, said sayonara to every friend I had in the world, and hauled everything I owned three hundred miles. I didn’t do that to sit upstairs and listen to my soon-to-be husband flirt with another woman.
After a quick mirror check—a girl needs to make a good first impression—I headed downstairs to see why my not-quite fiancé hadn’t returned to me yet.
I wasn’t happy with what I saw when I reached the foyer. The world’s most perfect woman—Stepford, I’m telling you—was standing a little too close to Jon for my comfort. She was holding a covered Pyrex pan with something red in it. As I stepped onto the stone tile, the visitor’s attention snapped to me. So did Jon’s.
“Hi,” I said to them both.
Jon and the Stepford wife began chattering at the same time. Jon stopped.
Mrs. Perfect beamed at me. Perfect blond hair. Perfect makeup. Her dress was very well-maintained vintage. 1950s. Silk. I was guessing Harvey Berin. She was wearing a wedding ring. “Hello, Christine, I’m Samantha Phillips. I live next door. So good to meet you at last.” She shoved the hot dish into my hands, cherry pot holders keeping them from blistering. “I made a pan of lasagna, thinking you’d probably be too busy to cook tonight.”
The scents of tomato sauce and garlic and cheese tickled my nose. “How thoughtful. Thank you.” I took the pan to the kitchen and set it on the stove. I heard Jon and Samantha following me.
