Книга - The Love Lottery

The Love Lottery
Shirley Jump


Imagine the scene…You’re running a love lottery – names are pulled out of a hat and lovestruck couples are paired off. Sophie Watson is feeling safe in the knowledge that her name isn’t in there…until her name is drawn out of the hat! No one likes to see uptight Sophie in a fix more than Harlan Jones. She might be easy on the eye, but as a neighbour she’s really annoyed him since he moved in.But his sexy smirk is wiped away when his name comes out of the hat – straight after Sophie’s! A week of dates. It’ll only take one to show them how mismatched they are…so what will they do on the other six…?









Praise for Shirley Jump


‘Shirley Jump winds up A BRIDE FOR ALL SEASONS

with Marry-Me Christmas, a sweet story with terrific characters and a well-constructed plot.’ —RT Book Reviews on Marry-Me Christmas

‘Jump’s office romance gives the collection a kick,

with fiery writing.’

—PublishersWeekly.com on

Sugar and Spice

‘Shirley Jump is simply extraordinary!

In just a hundred pages she has written a

captivating romantic tale that will bring a tear to your

eye and make you smile as you cheer her two characters

on to the happy ending they deserve!’

—www.cataromance.com onSnowbound Bride




About the Author


New York Times bestselling author SHIRLEY JUMP didn’t have the will-power to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing funny. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before The End. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and helps feed her shoe habit.

To learn more, visit her website at www.shirleyjump.com




Also by Shirley Jump


If the Red Slipper Fits

Vegas Pregnancy Surprise

Best Man Says I Do

A Princess for Christmas

Doorstep Daddy

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk


The Love Lottery

Shirley Jump






























www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my little brother, Fred.

Remember, I’m never going to be too old to pick on you.

I love you!




CHAPTER ONE


HARLAN JONES set the sixth chair of the month on his front stoop, removed his cowboy hat and brushed the sweat off his brow before replacing the headgear. If he kept up like this, he’d either have to get married and have twenty kids or start giving the damned things away. Or, better yet, quit building them. If he was a smart man, he’d put the circular saw and drill away for good. Get over this stupid fantasy that he could be a woodworker.

A soft barrel-shaped body brushed against his leg. Harlan chuckled, leaned down and scratched Mortise behind the ears. The golden retriever’s tail slapped happily against his rump, and he snuggled closer. Tenon, not to be left out, brought her slender golden body into the mix, and slobbered onto Harlan’s hand.

“A sane man wouldn’t waste time building chairs he isn’t going to sell,” Harlan said to the dogs. Because they never argued back.

“A sane man focuses on a job with benefits.” Harlan moved away from the dogs, heading into the garage he’d converted into a woodshop, and started to put his tools away. “One that has a nice retirement package.”

Mortise dropped to his haunches in the doorway and panted. Tenon bounded off after a squirrel in the yard.

Harlan exited the garage, then shut the door. Was it crazy to be talking to his dogs? Probably, but hell, it was only him and the mutts here. Had been for six weeks, ever since he’d moved from Dallas to this tiny rental house in Edgerton Shores, Florida. The small town was quiet, peaceful. And gave a man too much time to think. “If there’s one thing I learned from my father, it’s that hobbies don’t pay,” he said to Mortise.

He had a job. A job he wasn’t always fond of, granted, but it was a job he was good at. A job he also needed to keep because a hell of a lot of people were depending on him. Harlan Jones was nothing if not a dependable, hard worker, one who took care of those he loved.

His gaze went to the distance, to a hospital that lay fifteen miles to the north. Out of sight, never out of his mind. “I have a job,” he repeated to the dogs, to himself, and to the air linking him and the Tampa General Hospital. He best not forget that when he was sanding a leg and admiring the sheen of the wood after the finish was applied. He had seen firsthand where foolish dreams got a man—penniless and unable to support himself, never mind his family. And right now, people were depending on him not to be foolish.

Harlan was about to go back inside and find something else to do with his Saturday when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Here she came. Again. Bound and determined to mess up his life, that woman. “Be good,” Harlan muttered to the dogs. “And I mean it this time.”

“Mr. Jones,” Sophie Watson called to him from two houses down, her blond hair back in a loose ponytail, swinging along her shoulders. From the first day he’d moved into Edgerton Shores, he’d seen Sophie Watson on his daily walk to work. They were pretty much the only two people up and about at that time in the morning, before the sun even thought about rising. She to open her downtown coffee shop, Cuppa Java Café, and have it ready for people wanting an early-morning java, and he to greet them when they were looking for weather forecasts or traffic reports or a quick chuckle as they got ready for their day.

In those early morning moments, Harlan hadn’t done much more than say hello as he passed by. Sophie had seemed nice, friendly even, the first few times he’d encountered her. She was a beautiful woman, too, with delicate features and a penchant for skirts. That had intrigued him, made him even consider asking her out. Then he’d found out she lived across the street from him, and that was when the trouble started.

“My dogs are staying on their side of the street,” Harlan said, putting up a hand to stop Sophie Watson before she started her daily rant about the twins’ tendency to wander around the neighborhood. So they’d relocated a couple of Sophie’s rosebushes, and, well, creatively repotted her lilacs and a rhododendron. Oh, yeah, and that incident with the muddy paws and her living room sofa.

Still, Mortise and Tenon meant no harm. They were merely being … dogs. Something Sophie Watson didn’t seem to appreciate, as she’d told him at least a dozen times. “The dogs are staying out of trouble, and out of your flowerbeds. No need to come over here and ruin my day.”

She propped a fist on her hip. The small white bag in her hand bounced against her upper thigh. “I don’t ruin your day.”

He took a step closer to her. “I think you make it your personal mission to be sure I’m as miserable as a horse without a tail.”

“I do not. I’m a nice neighbor.”

A roar of laughter escaped him. “Nice wasn’t the adjective I was thinking of.”

“That’s right. I’m that ‘lunatic next door.’” She put a finger to her chin, feigning deep thought. “And ‘that neighbor from hell.’ Oh, and my personal favorite … ‘that animal antagonist.’”

He bit back a smirk. So she had heard his tales about their encounters. He had to admit they made good radio. Harlan had always had an ability to turn his personal stories into listener experiences. For years, he’d shared the lurid, boring or funny stories of his life, building a career out of those stories. Sometimes, yes, it nagged at him that he had been so open, but his listeners loved it. “I’m just keeping my radio audience entertained.”

“At the expense of my reputation, and that’s something I take very seriously,” she said, her voice hard and low. For a second, he wondered if she was upset about more than a few jokes on his morning show. “I would appreciate it if you would keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“I’m a radio personality, Miss Watson. Expressing opinions is in my job description.”

“Find something else to opine about.” She gritted her teeth, then a forced smile flitted across her features. “Please.”

He tipped his hat her way, but didn’t make a verbal promise. He had a job to do, and a radio station that desperately needed a boost in ratings and advertising dollars. That came first. “So what brings you to my porch today?”

Another smile curved across her face, one Harlan would classify as crafty. “I’m here to find out if you have made a decision yet on my chairs.”

That again. This woman was as persistent as a gnat on a horse’s ass. “They are not your chairs, Miss Watson. And they are not for sale.”

She’d kept coming as she’d talked and now she stood at the end of his walkway, that one hand on a hip that was cocked a little to the side, giving her a jaunty air. Coupled with the knee-length flouncy skirt she wore and the low-heels that gave her legs a sweet curve, it made a pretty picture, he had to admit. Something within him stirred. Something that hadn’t stirred in a long time. A real long time.

Damn. He’d be smart to keep that in the back with the table saw, too.

“Now, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Sophie said. “Last time I made you an offer, you had four chairs on your porch. Now you have six. What are they doing, breeding?”

“I can assure you, ma’am, that they are not.”

“Well, either way, it seems you have a problem. And I’d like to take it off your hands.”

The way her green eyes were sparking at him, he could think of a hundred other things she could take off his hands besides his furniture. Once again, he added something else that needed to stay in the toolshed. The beautiful but intensely frustrating Sophie Watson pushed his buttons—and not in a good way. He could only imagine the hell a man would endure being in a relationship with her.

“I don’t have a problem. Unless I count you.” He paused. Added, “Ma’am.”

Seemed nicer that way. And Harlan Jones’s mama had raised him to be a nice man.

“The way I see it, I’m trying to take a problem off your hands.” She gestured toward the chairs. “Two of them, in fact.”

“Why on earth do you want my chairs?” he said. “Last I checked, you thought I was the lowest scum of the earth.”

She strode up his walkway, as bold as a peacock. Mortise padded over, tongue lolling, apparently forgetting Sophie wasn’t in his fan club, especially since that little debacle at her barbecue party. She didn’t pay the dog the least bit of attention. Mortise should be counting his blessings. “My opinion of you hasn’t changed. And believe me, if there were other chairs in this town available, I’d be buying those. But I want a local flair for my coffee shop and these—” her teeth gritted a bit “—are quality examples of local craftsmanship.”

Even though it was clear the compliment had cost her, a swell of pride rose in his chest. All these years, he’d been making furniture in his spare time, and up until now, he’d kept everything for himself, save for a few pieces he’d given to his brother. He hadn’t meant to make so many chairs—it was just something about the art of creating the curves that had seemed to bring him a peace since he moved here, and before he knew it, he had more than he had room for. The compliment, coming from a near stranger, almost knocked his boots off.

“Mr. Jones,” she went on, “I am offering you good money for a good product. You and I both know those chairs would have a far better life sitting outside my shop being enjoyed by people than they would sitting on your porch, wasting away.”

“They’re chairs, Miss Watson. They don’t live.”

Sophie climbed the four steps to his porch and ran a delicate hand along the arm of one of the flat-backed cypress wood chairs he’d made. The exact one he’d placed out there this afternoon, in fact. His best one yet. The way she touched it, he had the fleeting thought that she, unlike any woman he’d ever met, could appreciate the work he put in, the parts of himself that were blended with the wood, the glue, the screws. The dreams he’d once had that still stubbornly rose to the surface when he was transforming a plain piece of wood into something with beauty and use. Dreams, he reminded himself, not a reality he should entertain.

“You can’t tell me that these chairs don’t live for you, Mr. Jones,” she said quietly. “Because they sure look like they do to me.”

“You really like the chairs?” he asked, then cursed himself for letting the question slip out. He shouldn’t give a damn what people thought. He wasn’t in this for anything other than a little stress reduction.

She glanced up at him, and smiled. “Of course I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t keep trying so hard to buy them.”

He’d had a good reason not to sell her the chairs five minutes ago. And last week, when she’d come by, and the week before that. But darned if he could remember it now. “They’re just a passel of wood and glue,” he said, glancing over at them and seeing the imperfections—the slight dent where he’d sanded too hard, the miniscule change in spacing between the slats. “Nothing more than places to seat your … seat.”

As he said the last word, he resisted the urge to peek a glance at her curved seat, as she walked around the chairs and examined them. He did not need to get involved with this woman, or any woman right now. He had a busy radio station over at WFFM that needed his full attention. Running WFFM and hosting his daily show consumed his days, and most of his nights. The station had been struggling for years, and when his brother called him after his boating accident a few weeks ago and asked Harlan to temporarily take over as CEO while Tobias recovered,

Harlan hadn’t even hesitated. Tobias needed him and he would be there, simple as that.

In recent phone calls, Tobias had mentioned that the station had been hurting lately. Tobias had underestimated.

Once Harlan got a look at the books, he realized the company wasn’t just a little in the red—it was drowning in a pool of debts. Tobias’s own income was a pittance, and that told Harlan that his brother was scrimping to get by. Typical of Tobias, he hadn’t said a word. Harlan had buckled down at the office and told his brother not to worry, that he’d have WFFM back on top in no time.

Turned out, it would have been a sight easier to wrangle a herd of cats into a horse trough. But his brother needed him both physically and fiscally, and when push came to shove, family always came first. Tobias had to focus on healing his injuries, not his radio station, and that meant Harlan would step up to the plate. Take care of your brother, that had been his mama’s dying wish. And so Harlan had and would continue to, no matter what it took.

Which was why he shouldn’t be getting distracted by pretty women or pretty furniture. Or anything else. Tobias was counting on him to be one hundred percent committed, and not get off on some tangent with some nails and a hammer. Not to repeat the mistakes of their father.

Harlan Jones may be a lot of things but he wasn’t the kind of man who let down those he cared about. They came first. Everything else ran a distant second.

“Certainly you won’t mind if I buy a pair, Mr. Jones,” Sophie said. Mortise sat right beside her, either keeping an eye on her or trying to make a friend, Harlan wasn’t sure. Across the yard, Tenon gave up on the squirrel and started watching the events on the porch. “I’m sure the other chairs won’t even miss them. They can breed a few more next week.”

She was determined. But she’d met her match in the stubborn department when it came to Harlan Jones. He wasn’t starting a furniture business, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

“I’m rightly sorry to say this, again,” he said, wondering why she seemed so damned determined to rid him of a bunch of chairs that he’d built solely as a hobby, “but they are not for sale. Particularly to you.”

A gust of protest left her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not in the practice of doing business with people who don’t like my dogs. And who clearly don’t like me.” Mortise glanced up at him, and wagged. The dog, apparently, had forgotten Sophie Watson’s twenty-minute rant last week when she’d discovered her transplanted rosebushes. Harlan hadn’t.

She sputtered again, clearly ready to argue back. Then she paused, and that crafty smile returned. “Then are they available for rent?”

“Rent?”

“You have no more room on your porch, Mr. Jones. And if you intend to make more furniture—or have any more clandestine furniture reproduction—here, then you are going to need more space. And I happen to need something exactly like this for in front of my shop. So, I would like to rent some of your chairs and give you the space you need.”

“No.”

She pursed her lips. “Give me one good reason why.”

“Because.”

“That’s not a reason at all.” She shook her head. “You can’t be serious. I’ve just made you a business offer here. What kind of businessman doesn’t at least negotiate?”

“I’m not in the furniture business.”

She quirked a brow at that.

“And I’m not negotiating.” Or explaining himself.

Mortise stood, his tail wagging, all friendly-like. Harlan snapped his fingers to call the dog back, but it was too late—Mortise had already crossed to Sophie and pressed his body against her leg, his tail slapping against her legs, sending loose fur flying around them like dandelion fluff. Then Harlan realized why Mortise was being so friendly—

The small white bag still dangled from Sophie Watson’s fingers. A temptation that had the dog sniffing the air and pressing closer.

“Are they for rent?” she asked again, trying to sidestep the dog, but Mortise moved with her.

“Mortise—” Harlan warned, but it was too late. Before the warning left his throat, the retriever had reached up, snatched the bag out of Sophie’s hands and dashed off the porch.

“What the heck?” Sophie wheeled around. “Your dog just stole my lunch!”

Harlan glanced at Mortise lying under the shade of a palm tree and happily tearing into the paper wrapper. “That he did.”

“Aren’t you going to stop him?”

Mortise raised his snout and chugged back a bite of the sandwich he’d unwrapped. At the same time, Tenon dropped to the ground beside him and began chomping on an unwrapped cookie. “I, uh, think it’s a little late for that.”

Sophie Watson sputtered. She cursed. She sputtered some more. “Well, then you leave me no choice,” she said. She stripped off her sweater and tossed it to him. He caught it and stared at her. By removing the pale yellow sweater, she’d reduced herself to a clingy tank top in a matching fabric. He blinked and for a minute, lost his focus.

It took him a full five seconds to realize she had stacked up two of his chairs and hoisted them over her head, the muscles in her biceps flexing with the effort. “I’m taking these chairs, as repayment for my missing lunch,” she said.

“Hey, you can’t—”

“I can and I will. Just watch me.” Then she swung around, his chairs on her head, and strode off down his stairs.

Harlan glanced at his dogs. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

Mortise and Tenon looked up at him, then, Harlan swore, the dogs shrugged before going back to devouring Sophie Watson’s lunch between their paws.

Well, hell. Harlan was definitely going to have to do something about that woman before she drove him completely over the edge.




CHAPTER TWO


“NICE chairs.” Lulu Saunders shot Sophie a grin, then plopped into one of the two Adirondack-style oak chairs that now sat on either side of a small brightly tiled table in front of the Cuppa Java Café. The handmade chairs were the perfect complement to the homey atmosphere of the coffee shop. She’d been looking for outdoor furniture for months, and when she spied these on Harlan Jones’s porch one afternoon, she’d stopped looking at any other types. They were perfect, and even better, made by a local resident.

In a small town like Edgerton Shores, the more local the better. Sophie bought her coffee beans from a local vendor who roasted them on site, made her muffins with local ingredients, and catered to her clientele with drinks named after local celebrities. She’d hired Lulu, who came from a family that had lived in this town for as long as there’d been an Edgerton Shores, and who, with her outgoing, boisterous personality, was nearly a local legend. Sophie herself had lived here all her life, and wanted the coffee shop to feel as if it had been here forever, too.

Which was why she’d tangled with that annoying Harlan Jones this morning. That man got on her nerves in the worst way. On top of that, he had the most incorrigible dogs in the world. And it seemed he was determined to make her a laughingstock in her own town. But he made some seriously nice chairs.

Sophie dropped into the opposite chair and turned her face up to greet the sun. She had a rare temporary break, with no customers in the shop. She spent most of her days here, dispensing lattes and fresh-baked biscotti, and though she loved her job, she also loved the occasional opportunity to enjoy the fruits of her labor. “Thanks,” she told Lulu. “I stole them from Harlan Jones’s front porch.”

“Stole them?”

“Yep. That man is too stubborn for his own good.”

“And sexy,” Lulu said with a sigh. She pushed her dark brown hair off her brow, and then took a sip of one of the two iced coffees she’d brought out earlier. “Not to mention that Southern drawl. He’s yummy all around.”

Sophie laughed. “Yummy? I wouldn’t describe Harlan Jones with that word or anything close to it.”

“Then you are blind, girlfriend, because that man is the sexiest thing to come to this town in a long time.” Lulu pressed a hand to her chest. “And since I’m the one who rented that house to him, you should be thanking me for improving the neighborhood view.”

Mildred Meyers came striding down the sidewalk, saving Sophie from replying about Harlan Jones’s sexiness quotient. Probably a good thing, because Sophie had no time for a man in her life. She’d learned her lesson about trying to mix a relationship and a business that consumed most of her hours, a lesson that had ended her engagement and left her wondering how anyone managed to combine entrepreneurship with a personal life. On top of that, the messy and very public ending of her relationship with Jim had been the talk of the town for months.

Reminder to self: Never run out on your own wedding on a slow news day. The reporters had bugged her for weeks, disrupting her life and her business. Thank goodness the furor had finally died down. Sophie was inordinately relieved when Gertrude Maxwell took up a Winchester shotgun and chased her cheating husband out of the house, thus becoming the new topic du jour.

Either way, Sophie loved her cozy little coffee shop. It wasn’t just her business, it was her refuge, even if building the business into something strong and viable was a continual, energy draining effort. She worked hard, but at a job she loved. When she reached the end of her week and realized she hadn’t so much as flirted with a man, never mind go out on a date, she told herself there’d be time later for a relationship.

Yeah, like maybe when she was in a retirement home.

“I’ve had the most amazing brainstorm!” Mildred exclaimed as she approached them.

Sophie smiled. Combining Mildred with the word “brainstorm” could very well be a dangerous proposition. Mildred had once been a teacher—had even served as Sophie’s third grade teacher—and had always been an active member of Edgerton Shores. She was an effusive, quirky woman with a penchant for bright clothing in garish combinations. Today she had on a pair of neon-lime Capri pants and a coral blouse that seemed to rival the sun in color strength. A chunky turquoise-and-gold necklace completed the ensemble, and was echoed in her jeweled sandals. “Where’s your partner in crime?” Sophie asked.

“Your grandmother was feeling a bit under the weather, so she stayed home today.”

Concern flooded Sophie as she and Mildred headed into Cuppa Java and Sophie started making Mildred her usual order. “I should leave and go see her. Make sure she’s okay.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Your grandmother told me specifically that you were ‘not to worry or run over to her house for no good reason.’” Mildred fluttered her fingers in air quotes. “She is just fine, and ‘you have enough on your hands,’ quote, unquote.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. Besides, I left my can of pepper spray there. She’s covered for any situation.”

Sophie bit back a laugh. Mildred and her pepper spray. Ever since she’d read a newspaper article saying that local crime had risen two percent over the last year, she’d started carrying the little can in her purse.

“Miss Meyers, I hardly think there’s going to be a pepper spray–worthy incident in Edgerton Shores this afternoon.”

“You never know,” she said, wagging her finger in Sophie’s direction. “Anyway, back to why I’m here. I came up with the most brilliant idea!”

Sophie finished mixing a latte for Mildred, then slid the coffee over to her. Lulu had also come inside and was busy loading fresh-baked cookies into the glass display case. “For what, Miss Meyers?” Sophie asked.

“For the town’s Spring Fling, of course. We wanted something that would draw attention to the town and get people around here excited again.” Mildred’s red lips spread in a wide smile. “And I’ve got the perfect solution.” Mildred dug in her floral tote bag and took out a thick pad of paper filled with notes in her distinctive loopy handwriting. “A love lottery.”

Lulu sputtered, biting back a laugh. Sophie cocked her head, sure she’d heard Mildred wrong. “A love what?”

“A love lottery. I told your grandma about it and she thought it was a splendid idea. All the single people in town put in applications to be matched with another single person. They pay a few dollars for their match, and once they find their perfect love, they go out on a date.”

“Like one of them, whatcha call it? Online dating services?” Lulu asked.

Mildred waved a dismissive hand, then tucked the notepad back into her tote bag. “We aren’t going to do any fancy internet stuff. We’ll be matching people based on similar interests, the old-fashioned way.”

“What old-fashioned way?” Lulu asked.

Mildred pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “By instinct, of course. By, well, my instincts, since I have so much dating experience.”

Sophie looked at Lulu. Lulu looked at Sophie. Both of them decided not to ask about any of Mildred’s dating experiences. There were times when a little information was just too much.

“I’m not sure about this,” Sophie said. “Do you really think we’ll have enough participation? Edgerton Shores is a pretty small town.”

Mildred harrumphed. “I have done my research, and this town has a sixty-two percent available rate. We are home to some highly desirable singles.”

“We are?” Lulu said. “Someone better tell me where they are, then, because I’ve been looking for a man for way too long. Specifically, a man with a j-o-b.”

Sophie laughed. Poor Lulu hadn’t exactly gotten lucky in love, though Sophie wasn’t one to talk. She’d thought she’d had it all, then realized pretty quickly that was a figment of her imagination. That she’d mistaken infatuation for love and had missed the warning signs that she was marrying Mr. Wrong. Thank God she’d gotten smart before she got a wedding band.

The media, however, had never seemed interested in her side of the story. They’d loved the sensation of a bride ditching her groom at the last minute—and that was all the sentence they wanted before they put in the period.

“For instance, there’s Art Conway, over on LaBelle Terrace,” Mildred said, interrupting Sophie’s thoughts. “That man’s got a nice retirement package from GE, and a brand-new Cadillac.” A smile danced across the older woman’s features. “He’s quite the talk at the senior center.”

Sophie bit back a laugh. She could just see the results of the love lottery—a whole lot of eligible retirees making a love connection. Chances were it would spur more hanky-panky at the bingo hall than anywhere else. Still, it sounded like a pretty good idea, and an easy fundraiser.

Sophie glanced at Mildred’s notes. “It could work. Maybe. But I’m not sure we’d be able to raise the money we need.”

“You have a point.” Mildred pressed a finger to her bright coral lips.

“Unless … we combine this with the Spring Fling celebration,” Sophie said. “That’s never a very big event, just a picnic on the town square and a dance at the end of the week. Making it the highlight of the week would increase awareness for the community wellness center. Maybe then all the events combined would bring in more money.”

Mildred nodded. “I know how important that is to you. It’s something this town has needed for a long time.”

For the past year and a half, Sophie had been working to raise money to open a community wellness center to provide much needed services for the town’s large senior citizen population. Sophie had proposed the idea, after watching her grandmother’s health decline over the last few years. If there was some kind of a community place where Grandma Watson could go with her friends, to take exercise classes, cooking classes, or simply to fill her days with fun, she would. Grandma got out from time to time, but ever since her hip replacement a few months ago, she’d become more frustrated by the lack of nearby venues for a day or night out. The closest place like that to Edgerton Shores was nearly forty-five minutes away—a trip that could double during tourist season. The town needed its own place, and needed it soon. Sophie and the rest of the committee members had held a bake sale, a fish fry and even sold T-shirts, but it hadn’t been nearly enough. She glanced again at Mildred’s notes. “This could be just the kind of thing that would add to the project’s coffers.”

“We could put out the word to nearby towns,” Lulu said. “There are single gals all over Tampa Bay looking for Mr. Right.”

“Great idea. And if we have enough participation in this love lottery thing,” Sophie said, running some quick numbers in her head, “we’ll be one step closer to building that community and wellness center. Maybe even have enough money to start renovating that building Art Conway gifted to the town last year.”

“Art is quite the man.” Mildred sighed. “He knows how much this town needs a place that meets everyone’s needs.” She flexed her right arm. “As for me, I could use a power-lifting class.”

Sophie chuckled. “You and me both, Miss Meyers. Okay. I say we go for it.”

Mildred clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!” Then she thrust her bright floral tote bag into Sophie’s hands. “I think you’ll do a terrific job with this.”

“What? Me? But I—”

“Volunteered to head the publicity for the Spring Fling this year, remember?” Mildred gave Sophie an apologetic smile. When Sophie had volunteered to promote the annual town celebration, she hadn’t expected it to involve much more than sending a few press releases to the local media. And she certainly hadn’t anticipated having to promote a date day. “And if you ask me, nothing deserves publicity like a Love Lottery.” She turned to go, her mission of passing the buck completed. Then she paused, and cast another smile over her shoulder. “And don’t forget, as head of the Love Lottery, you need to participate, too.”

“Oh, no, that’s the last thing I need. To make my love life public again.” The whispers about the runaway bride had finally died down. There hadn’t been a call from a reporter in over six months. She had no desire to get the gossips buzzing again. It wasn’t good for business and it definitely wasn’t good for her. “Besides, I have my hands full already with the shop and now—” Sophie held up the folder “—this.”

“Your hands are never too full for love, dear.” Mildred toodled a little wave, and walked away, leaving Sophie holding the bag. Literally.

Harlan gave Sophie Watson thirty minutes, then he plopped his hat back on his head and strode downtown, Mortise and Tenon trailing along at his feet, a pair of happy panting puppies ready to go anywhere.

Harlan found Sophie standing beside his chairs, picking up an iced something or other from the tiny table she’d set between the two wooden seats. “I’m here to give you back your sweater, Miss Watson, and—” he plopped himself in an empty chair and kicked back “—to reclaim my chairs.”

“You can’t just sit there.” Sophie snatched her sweater out of his hands and shrugged into it.

“Reckon I can. These are stolen property. My stolen property. I’m staking my claim before anyone gets any crazy ideas—” he turned to her and arched a brow “—and tries something like branding them.”

“I don’t own a branding iron, Mr. Jones, so the identity of your chairs is safe. Though I would be glad to hang a sign promoting your woodworking.” That crafty smile flitted across her face. “As an expression of my gratitude for your temporary relocation of the chairs to my front door.”

“No need for a sign. I’m not in the woodworking business.” Not now, not ever. “And this ‘temporary relocation’ ain’t nothing more than a furniture hijacking. So I reckon I’ll sit here until you’re ready to give back what’s mine.”

She scowled. “Those seats are mine for now, and while they are, they’re for paying customers. Only.” The dogs settled at Harlan’s feet, with Mortise resting his snout on Harlan’s boot. “And there are no dogs allowed in the shop.”

“We aren’t in the shop, we’re outside, on the public sidewalk. And as for customers …” He looked up and down the sidewalk, then peered around Sophie and into the shop. It was just after two, and the usually busy coffee shop was nearly deserted. “Seeing as there aren’t many of those right now, I think I can sit here in peace. Should a … what’d you call them?” He smirked, teasing her.

She pursed her lips. “Paying customer.”

He tipped a finger her way. “Should one of those happen by, I will gladly vacate my seat for the time they need it. Until then, I’m here.” He lowered the brim of his hat and tipped his head back, as if he were about to take a nap.

“You are the most infuriating man in Edgerton Shores,” Sophie said, and for a second, he was sure she’d dump that iced something or other right onto his head.

A part of him found her feistiness … intriguing. Hell, attractive.

“I refuse to let you sit there unless you are a paying customer,” she said.

“And I refuse to let you keep my chairs. They’re mine, and I’m damned well going to sit in them. Here or on my own porch, your choice.”

“You’re really going to sit there, no matter what I do?”

“You could come over here, kiss me for thirty minutes straight and I’d still stay.” He’d kept the hat over his eyes, so he couldn’t see her, but he could hear her fuming beside him. He wondered if she’d go that far, and for a second, hoped she did.

“It would be a cold day in hell before I’d do that.”

“Good thing we’re in Florida. No chance of any ice forming around here.” From the corner of his eye, he noticed her clench and unclench her fist. He bit back a chuckle. If he’d known it was this much fun to drive

Sophie Watson crazy, he’d have camped out at her shop long ago.

The woman deserved every bit of aggravation he gave her. She was always coming over to his house, lecturing him about his dogs, the length of his lawn, the furniture he made. He was pretty sure Sophie Watson had an opinion about every darned thing in the world.

“I can’t have you sitting here indefinitely,” she said.

He pretended to think that over, when in fact, he’d had a plan in mind before he even showed up. Sophie Watson had been driving him crazy for weeks. It was time for a little turnaround. Maybe then she’d get off his back and let him have a little peace. He had a radio station to run, a brother to worry about. He didn’t need the distraction of a sassy barista with a thorn in her thumb she’d named Harlan. “I’ve rethought your offer of rent.”

“You have?”

“I’d be mighty pleased to rent these chairs to you. I’m sure we can work out an equitable deal.”

“If it’s money you want—”

“Nope. Just a drink and the pleasure of your company.” He tossed her a grin, to show her he wasn’t all bad. And just because he could see in her face how much it drove her crazy when he teased her. Oh, this was going to be fun. By the time he was done, she’d be marching those chairs back to his front porch and staying out of his way for good.

And in the meantime, he’d have a hell of a story to tell his radio listeners. A win-win all around.

She considered his words for a moment, a parade of emotions dancing across her delicate features. “I’d say that’s a fair offer, Mr. Jones.” She turned toward the shop. “I’ll go get you a cup of coffee.”

He popped forward, the hat slipping back on his head and exposing his eyes. “I’d say it is, except I don’t drink coffee.”

“Everyone drinks coffee,” Sophie said.

“Apparently not, Miss Meyers.”

She let out a long breath. “What do you drink?”

He grinned. “I’m a tea man. Get me a good cup of Earl Grey and I’m all yours.”

Her gaze filled with skepticism. “You don’t look like a tea man.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Miss Watson. I might even be a nice guy and here you’re thinking I’m the devil in cowboy boots.” He tipped back in the chair, crossed his feet at the ankles—exposing said boots— and crossed his arms over his chest. Tenon let out a sigh and sprawled at his feet.

“Oh, I don’t think it, Mr. Jones,” Sophie said as she turned toward the door of the shop. “I know you are.”

“That man is the most annoying human being on this planet,” Sophie fumed as she readied the hot water and tea bag for Harlan Jones. This was the last thing she needed. She already had a business to run, a fundraiser to head and a grandmother to worry about. She didn’t need to add Harlan Jones to the mix.

“I think he’s pretty cute for being so annoying,” Lulu said. “He’s got that cowboy butt and those big brown eyes and—”

“I’ve seen his butt and his eyes and I am unimpressed.”

“You are full of beans, Sophie.”

“No, I’m not.” The hot water spigot hissed steam as she turned the knob. She dropped a tea bag into the mug, placed it on a saucer, and then loaded that on a tray, along with a tiny pitcher of milk, and some sugar. She debated adding honey, then decided a man like Harlan Jones probably didn’t like something that sweet.

Lulu raised a brow at her. “You’ve been over to that man’s house seven times in the past month.”

“I have had my issues with him as a neighbor and dog owner, that’s why. And because I like his chairs.”

“You like what he puts in his chairs.”

“I’m not attracted to him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He drives me crazy. Him and his damned dogs. Don’t you remember what those terrors did to the steaks I had on the grill last weekend?”

Lulu laughed. “I never seen a dog run so fast.”

“They were like a band of thieves. One starts digging up my lilacs—serving as the distraction, I’m sure—while the other jumps on the grill, yanks those steaks right off the barbecue. They were gone before I could do a thing. I had to serve everyone grilled cheese.” She shook her head. “I bet he trains them to be bad.”

Lulu laughed. “They’re dogs who spied an opportunity and took it.”

“That opportunity happened to be dinner. Yours and mine and everyone else’s.”

Lulu shrugged. “So give them a biscuit the next time you see them and maybe then they’ll leave your lilacs alone.”

Sophie snorted. “Those dogs would probably bite off my hand. I like dogs, but Harlan Jones’s dogs aren’t ordinary dogs. They’re … golden-coated monsters.” Not to mention, they were huge. The only dogs Sophie had ever spent a lot of time around had been her mother’s dachshunds. Energetic, but small, and eager to please. The two Goldens were big and looked ready to topple her at any moment. She’d heard that breed was supposed to be friendly and smart, but Harlan’s dogs were rambunctious giants who never listened to her.

“Okay, so you don’t like the man’s dogs,” Lulu said. “What about his voice? You can’t tell me you don’t like that sexy drawl lighting up your mornings.”

“I don’t listen to him anymore. You know that.”

“I thought he was pretty funny.”

Sophie shot Lulu a glare. “He was making fun of me.”

Thank God he hadn’t heard the story of her breakup. It was bad enough that he recounted their every neighborhood argument on his radio show. If he got wind of the public demise of her relationship last year, Sophie could just imagine how long he’d milk that particular joke. She had no desire to be back under the media spotlight again. She’d be perfectly happy doing her job every day and not worrying about nosy reporters. “Harlan Jones doesn’t care about anything but his ratings.”

“Oh, lighten up, Sophie. That man could make fun of me anytime, long as he used that drawl when he did it. He’s like a piece of candy in your ear.”

“Which only makes you deaf. Honest, I don’t see his appeal.” In the weeks he had been in Edgerton Shores, Harlan Jones had seemed to convert every local resident into a WFFM fan. Women stopped him on the street just to hear him speak and men dropped by his yard to ask him what he thought of the Marlins or the Dolphins that season.

Every resident but Sophie.

She’d come inside to escape him, but it seemed it was impossible to do that. When Harlan wasn’t on the radio, he was on the tip of people’s tongues, or worse, he was here. And thus a topic of conversation.

Okay, so he had a nice smile. And a sexy drawl. Didn’t mean he was the kind of guy she wanted, or needed, in her life. He was the antithesis of what she was looking for.

“Women on the moon could see that cowboy’s appeal,” Lulu said, clearly not convinced.

“I can’t see why. I mean, I don’t even call him by his first name.”

“Yet.”

Sophie scowled. What did Lulu see in that man? Or for that matter, what did everyone else see? He was too full of himself for her. All confidence and swagger, like he was God’s gift to Edgerton Shores. “Why’s a cowboy living in Florida anyway? There are radio jobs all over the world.”

Lulu grinned. “If you ask him, you’ll know why.”

“I don’t want to know why. I just want him to go away.” Sophie raised the tray into her arms.

“Bringing him tea and fresh-baked biscotti is sure to accomplish that.”

Sophie glared at her assistant and left the kitchen. Lulu was crazy. Sophie didn’t like Harlan Jones. He wasn’t her type anyway. He was obnoxious, rude and mean. And he owned the world’s worst dogs.

If he didn’t make such darn nice chairs, she wouldn’t talk to him at all. Already, she regretted commandeering the furniture this morning. That’s where her impulsive streak got her—saddled with the last man on earth she wanted to spend time with.

She had a business to run. A fundraiser to plan. Thinking about Harlan Jones would do nothing but raise her blood pressure.

Harlan watched Sophie come out through the door, a tray balanced in one arm, a determined, no-nonsense look on her face. He could see she didn’t want to give him the time of day, much less a smile.

Ah, he loved a challenge. Especially one that drove her as crazy as she drove him.

A twinge of guilt ran through him. He should be at work, trying to get the radio station back in the black. Tobias was counting on him—and that wasn’t a role Harlan took lightly. But for now, for just a moment, he wanted to enjoy himself.

“Miss Watson, I do hope you intend to join me for that cup of tea,” he said as she laid his drink and some long, thin cookies before him. The water, he could see, was steaming hot, just the way he liked it. The cookies, crisp and fresh. The woman knew her stuff. He might just have to stay a while and make himself at home, considering how tempting she made the place. Surely he could find a way to work and take some time to annoy his neighbor—and all while enjoying a cup of tea.

“I can’t sit out here with you,” Sophie said. “I have a shop to attend to.”

“Seeing as how I’m your only customer, I think you can spare a minute or two to sit with me.”

“I—”

“Have you even tried these chairs you’re so darned fond of? Might as well plop your saddle in one and see how she rides.” He grinned. “Who knows? You may want to rethink our deal.”

Sophie hesitated a second, then pulled out the second chair and lowered herself into it. A slight smile crossed her face and he knew, as his own behind told him, that the seat had done the trick. If there was one thing Harlan Jones could do, it was make a pretty good chair. Too bad he knew better than to try to make a living at it.

Once again, the what-if questions flitted through his mind, but he pushed them away. He’d seen how a life built on a dream ended. His father had ended up penniless, with his wife literally working herself into an early grave to put food on the table. What food there had been, that was. Harlan had ended up getting a job at fourteen. He’d handed every paycheck to his mother, and still, there’d been lean weeks, lean months.

Times when the temperature on the heat was kept so low, living through those cold winter nights was barely tolerable. And more than one night when dinner was a couple slices of bread slathered with store-brand margarine.

Now Frank Jones relied on his sons to support him for the rest of his days. Not that Harlan minded doing it, but he was smart enough not to repeat those mistakes. His mother had suffered because of her husband’s selfish quest, one that drained instead of paid. Harlan would not make the same mistake. And he would take care of his brother for as long as Tobias needed the help.

Harlan shrugged off the thoughts. It was the end of a stressful day. For five minutes, he was going to enjoy himself and not think about the responsibilities that lay waiting for him outside of the tiny circle of Sophie Watson’s coffee shop. He could indulge in this oasis, and then go back to shouldering his burdens.

“I have to admit you do make a nice seat,” she said.

“Why, thank you. Though I think since you’re sitting on something I have smoothed with my own two hands, you can start calling me Harlan.”

Pink rose in her cheeks. “You are still a customer, Mr. Jones.”

“Technically, you’re my customer. And I don’t go for all that fancy-schmancy stuff. Harlan will do just fine, thank you.” He paused a second, then added, “Sophie.”

The pink flush turned crimson and washed over her face at the use of her name. Damn. He’d have to do that more often. Just to drive her crazy, of course. Not because she looked so pretty when she blushed.

She half-rose out of the chair. “I need to get back inside.”

“What do you do when you aren’t serving coffee and … what do you call these?” He lifted up one of the cookies.

“Biscotti.”

“Nah. I call them bis-yummy.” He bit off another chunk.

She laughed. There. He’d accomplished his goal. She was smiling now. Even better, she’d slipped back into the chair. “I’m afraid I don’t do much, Mr.—”

He raised a brow.

“Harlan,” she corrected, stumbling a bit over the use of his name. “My business takes up a lot of my time.”

“Seems a shame, considering you’re living in paradise.” He waved an arm to indicate the sunny sidewalk, the palm trees dotting the landscape, the bay’s beach twenty minutes away. Like he was one to talk. These few minutes sitting outside were the extent of his time enjoying paradise. In six weeks, he had yet to visit the beaches or watch a sunset.

“Don’t you have to get over to the radio station and embarrass someone else?”

He took a sip of the tea. “Nope. I’ve already done my show today.”

He did have a mountain of work he should be doing, not to mention a mile-high stack of financials to review. He also needed to find time to run over to Tampa General and visit Tobias. But right now he wanted nothing more than to soak up the sun. Maybe doing so would clear his head and ease that knot in his shoulders.

“How disappointed your fans must be.” Her voice was droll, sarcastic. “To have to wait until tomorrow to hear you bash another human being.”

His ego winced at the bruising. “I take it you aren’t a fan?”

She arched a brow in answer.

He chuckled. “Well, I guess I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.” He raised the mug in her direction.

Silence extended between them. They sat there, watching the people walking by. Everyone knew and greeted Sophie, and a surprising number of people said hello to Harlan, too. That told him the show was growing in popularity. Thank goodness.

“So what brings you to Florida from …” She let the sentence trail off, the question implied.

“Texas.” He gave her a grin. “For someone who doesn’t like to call her customers by their first name, you’re treading on some mighty personal ground.”

She colored and got to her feet again. “You’re right. I’ll leave you to your tea.”

“Do you often run away from a challenge, Sophie?” If she wasn’t such an infuriating, difficult woman, he might like the way her name rolled off his tongue.

“Me? Run away?” She parked that fist on her hip again. Given how often she did that, it was a wonder she didn’t have a dent. “If I remember right, you were the one getting bristly at personal questions. Seems I’m not the one doing the running, Mr. Jones.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “Oh, we’re back to that now, are we?”

“I do think its best, don’t you?” She gave him a smile that had no hint of flirtation in it and moved her chair back until it sat in perfect alignment with his. A clear signal she was done sitting with him. “Seeing as how we have a business relationship only.”

“Are you saying you want to keep it that way? Business only?” What was he doing? He had no time or desire for a relationship right now.

He wasn’t pursuing Sophie Watson, he told himself. He was trying to get back at her for her constant rants about his dogs and his show.

Sophie tucked her long blond hair behind her ears and leveled her emerald gaze on him. “I’m a smart woman, Mr. Jones, and I learned a long time ago that smart decisions are the ones that serve me—and my business—best. So the answer is yes. Business only.”

Good advice—advice he should take himself. Harlan drained the last of his tea, picked up the lone cookie remaining on his plate, then rose. “Then I’ll bid you good day, Miss Watson.”

“Good day, then. And kindly remember our agreement.” She picked up the tray, added his empty mug, then balanced it on her arm. She flashed him a smile that was anything but friendly. “Because if you ruin my reputation on the radio again, you might get more than you wanted in your tea.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Why, of course not, sir.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “Just a business arrangement. I’ll speak nicely of your chairs if you don’t speak of me at all.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.” He wagged the cookie at her, not making any promises. “But I think I need to up my rent charge. For personal aggravation.”

He could hear her sputtering all the way into the coffee shop. An hour ago, he’d been ready to murder Sophie Watson for stealing his chairs and forcing him off his porch. But now, she’d given him a challenge he couldn’t refuse. That woman had a breaking point and Harlan Jones intended to find it.

Then he’d take his chairs and his bis-yummy and go back to his own little cave, and forget that sassy woman had ever marched on up his stairs and into his life.




CHAPTER THREE


HARLAN JONES had been coming to the coffee shop every single afternoon for a week, after he got off working at the radio station. Thankfully, Sophie had too many things keeping her busy to give him more than a passing glance. She made sure Lulu had his tea ready every day, but she avoided sitting with him again. He kept to himself, spending his time poring over stacks of documents. He seemed stressed, and she wanted to ask what was wrong. But didn’t.

She had no room in her life for a man right now, and especially not that man. The coffee shop consumed most of her time. If there was one lesson she’d learned from her broken engagement, it was that the business wouldn’t let her down. Not like a man could.

Despite her misgivings, she’d gone along with Mildred’s plan for the Love Lottery. They’d sold matches in the coffee shop and most of the downtown shops, with the big match event scheduled for this evening. Mildred had suggested they hold it at the coffee shop—what better place to hold a first date than a coffee shop, after all?—and Sophie had spent most of the day preparing extra baked goods and ensuring every inch of the café was spotless. She’d had to leave the Spring Fling committee meeting early so she could get ready for the drawing tonight. Hopefully, she hadn’t missed anything.

By four that afternoon, when Sophie returned from her last logistical meeting with Mildred and the rest of the committee, she half expected to find Harlan Jones’s rear end parked in one of the seats out front. But no, the man was nowhere to be found, and according to Lulu, hadn’t been in at all today. Maybe because it was Sunday or maybe he’d given up on that ridiculous notion of sitting in his own chairs and torturing her with his presence.

“Sure does seem quiet around here without him, doesn’t it?” Lulu said, coming up beside her.

“Without who?”

“That tall drink of whiskey you pretend to hate.”

“I do hate him. He annoys me.” She chalked up a new advertisement of specials for the day.

“Uh-huh. Sure he does. Him and that swagger of his would annoy any woman … straight into his bedroom.” Lulu winked, then wisely disappeared into the kitchen.

Sophie let out a gust of frustration. The conversation with Lulu had messed up her concentration and she’d misspelled coffee. Twice. She took a wet rag, cleaned off the board and started over. What was with Harlan Jones? Even when he wasn’t here, he could affect her day. She was going to have to find a way to get rid of him. Agreement or no agreement, she didn’t want to find him at the shop when she least expected it. Today she would insist he take money for the chairs and then there wouldn’t be any need to have him sitting out there, getting her all distracted.

Before Sophie knew it, the clock was ticking toward six and people were filling the coffee shop in anticipation of the big matchmaking unveiling. Even though she was glad to have the boost in business, Sophie hoped it went quickly. As soon as she left the shop for the night she wanted to get home to check on her grandmother.

Ever since Sophie’s parents had moved to northern Florida for her father’s job, Sophie had been Grandma’s chief caretaker, and in turn, they’d become close friends. The last few months had been hard on Grandma Watson. Some days, her recovery from her hip replacement went well. Other days, she had too much pain to enjoy her regular activities with her friends, or even to come by the coffee shop for a couple hours.

Recently, the insurance company had cut her physical therapy back to once a week, not nearly enough in Sophie’s non-medical opinion. If there was a local low-impact exercise class, one within walking distance of the house, then Grandma could speed up her recovery and strengthen her bones in the process. That was exactly the kind of thing a community wellness center could provide.

Mildred came rushing in, dressed for the occasion in a multicolored floral housedress so bright, Sophie was pretty sure it could glow in the dark. Mildred’s gray hair was in a wild cloud around her head and she was huffing from the exertion of hurrying. “Hello! Hello! Are we ready for the big announcements?”

Sophie glanced at the clock, then out over the filled shop. “I think so. I set up a microphone for you on the stage over there.” She gestured toward the back corner, where local bands often played on weekends.

“Oh, I’m not announcing,” Mildred said. “Why, I get as nervous as a hen in a kitty litter box when I have to speak in front of people.”

“A hen in a …” Sophie waved a hand, and gave up trying to translate that particular metaphor.

“You do it,” Mildred said, thrusting a stack of sealed envelopes at Sophie. “It’s your shop, and you are the publicity director for the project, after all.”

The thought of getting up in front of a good chunk of the residents of Edgerton Shores, several of whom had been in the pews at her aborted wedding, caused Sophie’s throat to close. “I … I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You’ll be great at it.”

“No, I mean, I can’t get up in front of people like that. The last time I was in front of a crowd …” Her voice trailed off. She thought back to that day a year ago. The running-out part hadn’t been the worst part—it was the stories that had filled the front pages for a long time afterward.

“You ran out on what would have been a disastrous choice,” Mildred said. “Those silly reporters just couldn’t see the truth.”

“All they saw was the fiancée of a man running for state senator ‘ruining his election chances.’” She shook her head. “I’ve never been one for being the center of attention and that. that was far more center than I ever want to be again.”

“How are you ever going to get over this little … hurdle in your life?” Mildred said, laying a hand on Sophie’s arm, “if you don’t just get up there and do it? Besides, you’re publicity director. It’s your job.” She smiled, then gave Sophie a hard nudge in the direction of the mike. That was how Sophie ended up on the stage, calling out names to a crowd of people she’d known since she was a little girl. She stammered and stuttered her way through it, but kept her focus on Lulu and Mildred, making the crowd seem like only two people. Thankfully, the attention was more on the paired names than on the announcer herself.

The matches inspired lots of giggles and applause, especially when Tad Harrison, a cute twenty-something with a cleft in his chin and a ready grin, ended up with DeeDee Lewis, who had graduated two years ago and still had her cheerleader perkiness.

A roar of approval sounded when Lulu was matched with Kevin Ackerman, a local mechanic who stopped by the coffee shop on a daily basis. Given the way he was grinning at Lulu, Sophie wondered if maybe Kevin’s frequent lattes were more a way to see the spunky barista than to quench his need for caffeine.

Good. She was almost done. Then she could get off this tiny stage and back behind the shop’s counter, where she was happiest. Sophie let out a deep breath, then picked up the next match, which like the others was sealed inside a big manila envelope. Inside the envelope were two long questionnaires that had been stapled together by Mildred, So far, Sophie would have to say she agreed with Mildred’s pairings. For the most part, she’d put together people with common interests, and already Sophie could see several conversations springing up among the newly matched couples. Maybe there was something to this Love Lottery after all.

The door to the shop opened, letting in a burst of sunshine, the kind that came just before sunset, and seemed to kiss the world with gold. Harlan Jones stepped inside the shop, doffing his cowboy hat as he did. He took a seat in the back, far from Sophie.

Was he just coming by for his usual Earl Grey? Or had he put in for a match, too? She scanned the room. Only a few single women remained, and for a second, a whisper of jealousy ran through her that any one of them would end up sitting across from Harlan, listening to his Southern drawl and eating up his smile.

Like she cared what that man did in his spare time. If she hadn’t wanted those chairs so bad, she never would have talked to him. He could date every woman in Edgerton Shores and she wouldn’t care one whit.

Sophie shook her head, unzipped the envelope with one finger, then raised the paper in front of her face. She hated this—all eyes on her—and felt heat climbing her neck as the crowd waited for her to speak. “And now for our next match,” she said, “we have Miss Mildred Meyers with—”

“Mr. Art Conway!” Mildred shouted, getting to her feet and hustled across the room to her intended beau. Art leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide, as if he might make a run for it. Several of the women in Mildred’s church group let out disappointed sighs.

Mildred just beamed and dropped into the seat beside Art. “It’s like we were destined to meet,” she said to him.

Yeah, Sophie told herself, if Destiny was cattle prodded into the decision.

Harlan Jones didn’t need a cup of tea. Nor did he need a snack of cookies. What he needed to do was finish booking guests for the rest of the month. WFFM had been struggling for months, and Harlan hoped that by bringing in some celebrities, he’d boost the ratings for the morning show. The ratings had risen in recent weeks, but the sales manager was still having trouble translating that into advertising dollars. In radio, advertising dollars talked—and right now, there wasn’t a whole lot of chatter at WFFM.

While Tobias recovered, Harlan needed to increase the revenue stream, using the formula that had worked so well for him in Texas. Harlan couldn’t blame his brother’s inattention entirely for the station’s troubles. The recession, and a loss of the station’s top broadcaster who’d gone to a rival station in January, had delivered twin blows to WFFM’s bottom line. Now Tobias was recovering in the hospital, his mortgage was three months behind, the station was hemorrhaging money, and Harlan was busy trying to turn the station around to take one more burden off his brother’s shoulders.

He cursed to himself. Damn his brother and his determination to do things on his own. If only Tobias had said something sooner, maybe they wouldn’t have this mess and maybe—

Maybe Tobias wouldn’t be in a hospital room right now. Responsibility for his brother weighed heavy on Harlan’s shoulders. Tobias was an adult, but Harlan had never lost that urge to protect and worry.

In their weekly phone calls, Tobias had barely mentioned the station’s problems. His little brother had always been upbeat, rarely complaining. It was part of his happy-go-lucky, live-for-today personality, but damn, if Harlan had known sooner—

Well, he would have done something to fix it.

Then Tobias’s boat had collided with another during a beer-filled weekend on the causeway. Tobias had fallen overboard, got caught between the two boats, and ended up with a badly damaged leg. Two breaks, and an infection that had kept Tobias in the hospital for weeks. Harlan had come to Florida the minute he heard, and once he saw the condition of the station’s finances, he’d moved into the rental house and set to work. He’d realized pretty quickly that his brother had been spinning the truth into butter when it was really melted margarine.

Trouble was, the celebrities who had loved being on the popular Dallas station Harlan used to work for were shying away from some unknown little ten thousand–watt place in Florida. He was going to have to do some serious fast-talking to get any top music names onto his morning show.

Good thing fast-talking was the one thing Harlan excelled at.

As he took a seat in the back of the room, Lulu crossed to him. She moved fast for such a large woman, and had a ready smile and a cup of tea with her when she deposited herself into the seat opposite him. “Well, well, Mr. Jones. You’ve returned.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He thanked her for the tea, then took a sip. Harlan had never been one for coffee shops—he wasn’t much for paying three times more than a man should for a simple cup of joe—but there was something about coming in to a place that knew your order before you could place it that was well, nice. And, he could look at it as building an audience for WFFM. Whenever he was here, people stopped by to talk to him, offer suggestions for the show, or voice an opinion. It was good business, nothing more. It certainly wasn’t about seeing Sophie Watson.

If that was so, then why had his gaze strayed to her the minute he entered the room? Why had he taken a moment to admire her lithe figure before he sat down?

“Did you sign up?” Lulu asked, thumbing toward the stage.

His gaze followed Lulu’s gesture. Sophie Watson stood under the small spotlight, her golden hair glowing like a halo. She wore another yellow sweater today—this one a V-neck with white flowers curving around one side—with a pair of cropped black pants. She looked like a human sunflower. Radiant and pretty enough to put on display on his verandah. The problem was that sunflower came with a lot of thorns. When he had time for dating again, he’d be looking for someone nice, sweet. Agreeable.

“So, did you?” Lulu asked.

“Do what?”

“Sign up for a match.”

He jerked his attention back to the barista. Match? His brain, overloaded with work concerns, took a while to make the connection. “Are you talking about that questionnaire Mildred Meyers strong-armed me into filling out?”

Lulu laughed. “That’d be the one.”

“Then yes, I guess I did.”

Lulu sat back and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Well then, this should be interesting.”

“What should?”

“Seeing who you got matched with.”

He shrugged, and his mind went back to working on the guest list again. He didn’t even know why he’d let Mildred talk him into that thing. She’d stood by his chair out in front of the coffee shop, blocking the sun and going on and on about how this was part of building a good community relationship. Before he knew it, he was handing her a few dollars and answering questions like what his favorite movie was and where he’d take his dream vacation. Then he’d promptly forgotten about the encounter.

“I’m sure the computer they used has me paired up with some nice lady,” Harlan said. One date, nothing more. It surely wouldn’t lead anywhere. He’d sit here, share the agreed-upon drink with his match, then find a way to beg off from anything more. The chances of Miss Right dropping into his life right now were slimmer than none. Maybe he’d get a funny story or two out of the whole experience, something he could share on the show tomorrow.

A whisper sounded in the back of his head, one that said he’d been alone a long time and he was overdue for someone to shake up his life. Harlan shrugged off the thought.

Lulu laughed again. “They didn’t use no computer to make these matches, Mr. Jones, and as for someone nice—”

“We have one last match to announce,” Sophie said, holding up a large manila envelope. Lulu stopped talking and turned to face the stage. Harlan sipped at his tea, then fished a notepad out of his pocket and began going over his list of potential guests. He’d come here so he could concentrate—he loved his dogs, but there were times when their barking and squirrel-chasing plumb drove him nuts—and now there was this thing going on. It looked about over, though, and either way, he’d probably missed whoever had been his match. No matter. He’d only signed up because Mildred had been so insistent. If there was one thing Harlan didn’t have time for, it was dating.





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