What a Woman Gets (31 page)

I honestly have no idea how authors wrote before the internet came along. But as wonderful as the internet is for research, sometimes you just need someone who knows what the heck they're talking about. Many thanks for the hours I
didn't
have to spend researching tailgate lifts to Nicole at Northern Tool & Equipment. She was very helpful and went way beyond what I needed to help me find something Liam would have in his garage that Cassidy could operate—and figure out
how
to operate. To Nicole's boss: Please give her a raise.

To my editor, Leis, who waited for this so patiently as surgery kicked my butt. Okay, not my butt, but close enough.

To Marci, who came through for me one Saturday night when my world—and the dogs—skewed left. To Michelle for the b*tch sessions, to Janice for the text hugs, and to Steph for the parenting gripes. To The Survivor Girls for the meals, the friendship, and the wine. What would I do without all of you?

And to my readers. It's really all about you. I couldn't do what I love without you reading and loving it. Thanks so much for your enthusiasm, your love, and your emails/letters. Keep 'em coming!

TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT MANLEY MAIDS NOVEL

What a Woman

COMING IN MARCH 2015 FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

T
HREE
hunks in aprons were the best advertising in the world for a maid service. Make one of them a Hollywood movie star, and there was no way Mary-Alice Catherine Manley could fail to get the publicity her fledgling business needed.

Make all three of them her brothers, and the picture only got better.

“You really won?” Gran gripped the doily-covered arm rests and leaned forward when Mac returned from the watershed poker game with her brothers. “Oh Mary-Alice Catherine! I wish I'd been there.”

“Me, too, Gran.” Except it'd been enough of a coup to get a “you can play” from the three of them; there'd been no reason to push for an invitation for Gran, too. That would have raised too many red flags and maybe given their plan away. “You should've seen the looks on their faces when I told them they'd all have to be fitted for Manley Maids uniforms. I wish I'd had a camera.”

She'd make sure there were plenty of cameras around when her brothers started work on Monday.

“So who are you going to pair them up with?” asked Gran, who was on board with the plan in hopes of getting her brothers married off. Whatever worked. Mac just wanted the publicity. “We have to plan carefully. You know the kind of crazy that follows Bryan around.”

Bryan was the Hollywood movie star, and Mac didn't think he minded crazy. He'd taken to that lifestyle like a duck to water. 'Course, you had to teach a duck to swim, as odd as that sounded, so maybe she and Gran could teach Bry a thing or two about women, since his recent choices were about as feather-brained as ducks.

Mac plopped onto the sofa that'd been in the same spot for the twenty-six years she'd lived with Gran, the worn depression cradling her butt as usual. “I was thinking I'd tell them when they pick up their uniforms. That'll give you some more time to figure out where you want them. Though Sean's already called dibs on the Martinson estate. I didn't see any reason to object.”

Gran tapped her bow-shaped lips. “The Martinson estate? But it's empty. He won't meet anyone that way, Mary-Alice Catherine.”

Mac let her full name go by. Gran was the only one who used it since she'd dubbed herself Mac, back when she'd done anything to be like her brothers—male name included. Given that tonight's poker game was her attempt to catapult her company into the same kind of success her brothers had earned for themselves, she hadn't gotten over that competitiveness yet, had she?

But tonight was her win, fair and square. Well, maybe not quite so fair. She
had
spent a lot of hours learning to play poker online and to count cards to improve her chances, but her brothers played together every month. She'd had to even the odds.

Tonight she'd beaten them at their own game; she was going to enjoy every minute of her victory and the possibilities it meant.

And Bry had said she had nothing comparable to what he, Sean, and Liam had? Clearly he had no idea. Yep, she was definitely going to enjoy the win.

“Actually Gran, the Martinson house won't be empty. Merriweather's granddaughter is moving in. Besides, Sean specifically requested that place. It would have looked odd if I'd said he couldn't have it. Maybe he'll fall in love with the granddaughter.” And maybe pigs would fly, but if it kept Gran's spirits up and created enough word-of-mouth, this was worth every bit of her hard work.

“The granddaughter, huh?” Gran tapped her forefingers together. “It just might work. But what about Bryan? We can't assign him to just anywhere. It'll have to be someone who won't mind having Mr. Movie Star around.”

Gran said it with more love than the rest of them did when ragging on Bryan about his stardom. Ever since he'd gotten a part with one of the biggest female leads in the industry, they hadn't been able to resist teasing him, and Bryan hadn't been able to stop smiling. Until tonight.

“I really think he should help that widow you just had a call about. The one with all those children.”

“You want me to send Bryan into a house with five kids? Gran, that'll drive him nuts.”

“Or teach him tolerance. We don't want him getting too big for his britches, do we?”

Gran had a point. And Mac
would
like to see Bryan try to clean a house overrun with five kids. None of her brothers was the quitting type, but this would test Bryan's mettle. She owed him a lot more than that for the pranks he'd pulled on her over the years.

“Okay, so what about Lee, then, Gran?”

“Oh I know the perfect place for Liam. That nice Cassidy girl. She's going to be lonely when Sharon leaves to have her baby. Liam can keep her company.”

“What do you have against Liam?” Cassidy Davenport was as spoiled and high-maintenance as they came. More Bry's type, but if Bryan went there, the only thing he'd end up cleaning would be Cassidy's sheets. And the shower stall. And the table top . . .

“Now, Mary-Alice Catherine Manley.”

Mac winced. The first time Gran had said all four of her names in that tone, she hadn't felt the layer of skin it sliced off for about an hour until she realized she'd been severely chastised. The effect hadn't lessened over the years.

“That Cassidy girl simply needs someone to pay attention to her. And our Liam needs to get his head out of his—well, off himself and into the rest of society. Have you noticed how preoccupied he's been since he broke things off with Rachel? It's not good, and if anyone can take Liam out of himself, it's that Cassidy.”

The problem was, Cassidy was just like Rachel, though on a far bigger scale: all designer-this and celebrity-event-that
.
Rachel had put Liam through the ringer, and Mac wasn't so sure shoving a replica-on-steroids in his face was all that kind. Still, he definitely wouldn't fall in love with Cassidy, so she'd actually be doing Liam a favor by thwarting Gran's matchmaking attempts.

She felt sorry for the guy. He was the only one of her brothers to have come close to the altar and the fallout had been tough to witness.

“Okay, but if he wants to bite my head off, you need to talk him out of it.”

“Never fear, honey. Your brother will love it.”

Mac wasn't so sure about that, but she wasn't about to argue with Gran. Her grandmother had raised four grandchildren on meager savings, love, and not much else. The woman had grit.

“Oh. I forgot to mention something.”

“What, Gran?” Mac hid her worry. Gran had been forgetting a lot of things lately. That was one reason she'd agreed to Gran's wacky plan of trying to marry off her brothers while having them work for Manley Maids, even if the chances were as slim as . . . well, as Mac being able to pull off a win tonight. And lightning rarely struck in the same place twice. Still, it'd give Gran something to keep her mind occupied.

“Mildred's grandson moved back home this week.” Mildred was her grandmother's childhood friend whose recent move into an assisted living facility had spurred Gran to do the same. “You remember Jared? The one who was injured in that car accident?”

“Yes, Gran. I remember Jared.” As if she could forget him. Besides being a professional baseball player who'd sustained season-ending injuries in a bad car accident that was
still
all over the news, and being Liam, her oldest brother's best friend since forever, Jared had been her first crush. And her longest. And her most embarrassing. She'd followed him around like a star-struck teenager. And that'd been
before
she'd been a teenager. God, the time she'd fallen out of the tree fort once when she'd been spying on him, only to land
on
him and his date and, well, it hadn't been her best moment.

It also, sadly, hadn't been her worst.

“Well, Mildred and I were chatting and it came up that now that Jared has moved back, he could use help, what with the house being so old and his injuries. It's been tough for her to keep ahead of it, and, well, one thing led to another, and she wants to hire you to clean it. Isn't that wonderful? I got you some business and you can help Jared out, too.”

That was her grandmother: kindest heart this side of the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Too bad it was
her
biggest nightmare.

Mac gritted her teeth. Refusing would be too childish and petty—and it'd make Gran ask too many questions. Besides, it wasn't as if
she
had to do the cleaning. She wouldn't even have to see Jared. “Yes, Gran, it sure is. When does she want someone?”

“Not
someone
, dear. You. I told her you'd come. Mildred doesn't want just anyone in her home.”

Great. So much for that rationalization.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't. To see Jared . . . All that humiliation hitting her right in the face again . . .

But arguing with Gran was fruitless; she'd win in the end. Mac had learned that early in her teenage years, which had saved them both a lot of angst.

But she was going to end up with angst no matter what, apparently. Best if it was temporary with Jared rather than hurting her grandmother in the process.

She just hoped she was lucky enough that Jared wouldn't remember.

Then again, she might have used up all her luck in the poker game.

She sighed. “When am I supposed to be there, Gran?”

“Tuesday, dear. This Tuesday.”

Which gave her three days to gird herself to see him again.

It wasn't going to be enough.

But she was a big girl; she could do this. After all, she wasn't that same girl who thought Jared was the only man alive. And considering his relationships kept par with his homeruns, she wasn't the only one to think so. And if there was one thing Mac Manley could never abide, it was being one of a pack. Jared no longer held any thrill for her.

“Okay, Gran. Tuesday it is. I'll be there with bells on.”

T
HE
woman had bells on.

Jared blinked, then rubbed his eyes and looked out the front window again.

She wore bells.

Then she rang his bell.

And, yeah, she was a pretty little thing, so she did kind of ring his bell.

She rang it again—the doorbell, not
his
bell.

Jared shook his head and willed his legs to move. Well, the working one. The other just still hung there and let his crutches do its work. Funny, though, how he still thought about the mechanics even though his muscles now made the involuntary actions on their own, but then, habits you taught yourself when re-learning to walk tended to stick.

He opened the door just as she went to knock on it with the pot in her hands, and Jared had to jump back to avoid hot soup—which sent pain shooting through him and almost took the crutches right out from under him.

Damn. His body might have been repaired by the best surgeons in the country, but idiotic moves like that reminded him real quick of what he'd gone through—both during
and
after the accident.

Other things he'd learned when re-learning to walk also stuck.

The woman's bells jangled. “Hello. I'm—”

“Wearing bells.”

“Not exactly.” She hefted a pot of delicious-smelling something with a “Here. Hold this” at him, and he had to shove his crutches into his armpits to balance on them and his good leg. “Actually, I'm carrying them. My grandmother thought your grandmother might want them back.” She hefted a leather slab of sleigh bells off her shoulder, knocking her baseball cap askew. “Where do you want 'em?”

The woman was about five-two yet entered the house like a tornado. Jangling bells included.

“I don't know. I wasn't planning on bells in my future.” Jared waved the pot toward the left. “Just drop them on the chair over there.”

She did. Dropped them right on the chair. Then they slid off and hit the hardwood floor with a nerve-destroying reverberation. He hoped to hell they hadn't destroyed the floor.

And then he saw her outfit. Matching green pants and shirt with
MANLEY MAIDS
embroidered over the left breast pocket.

Oh shit. He knew exactly why this woman had entered the house like a tornado—she
was
a tornado. Mac Manley could stir things up like only acts of God and Nature could.

And now she'd brought her particular brand of terror to his life. He'd seen it first-hand as a kid, with her brothers jumping to do her bidding. And apparently she was still pulling their strings from what his grandmother had told him about a little poker game escapade they'd allowed her to win.

Nothing had changed in all these years. Little Mary-Alice Catherine Manley could still wrap the men in her life around her little finger.

Jared had had enough of women like that. One had landed him in the position he was in: dashed dreams, career on its way down the toilet, and way too much time on his hands. Not to mention busted ribs, a couple titanium rods, a bum knee, and the prospect of arthritis at an early age. He'd learned his lesson. Triplefold.

He was staying far away from women like Camille. And Mac Manley, too. When he started dating again, it'd be someone like his grandmother. Someone warm and loving and giving, who didn't care how many zeroes he had in his bank account as long as the two of them were happy and healthy.

No, the Mac Manleys and Camille Johnsons of this world could be someone else's problem.

Jared took two crutch-swinging/hop steps with the pot, and—yeah. That wasn't going to work. Some sloshed out from under the lid and damn if it wasn't hot. “Hey, a hand here?”

She looked at him as if he had two heads.

He picked his crutches up by clenching his arms against his torso and lifting them with his armpits. “Injury?”

“Oh. Crud.” She grabbed the pot and carried it into the kitchen, steam rising from the pot when it bounced as she set it on the counter. “Sorry. I wasn't thinking. You okay?”

Okay? Hell no he wasn't okay. Any moron could see that.

Unfortunately, the only moron around here was him. He had Mac Manley in his house when he was at a physical disadvantage.

And a sexual one, too, because that soup wasn't the only thing that was hot in this kitchen.

Jared hobbled away from her as fast as he could. As if he'd been burned. By the soup or by her, he didn't know. Didn't care. Because he'd seen Mac in action and it was comparable only to the car accident that had almost killed him.

And she just might finish the job.

*   *   *

J
ARED
Nolan had certainly filled out nicely.

It was Mac's first thought at her first up-close and personal glimpse of the baseball hero who'd filled her dreams long before that last time she'd seen him when Mildred had invited Gran, her, and her brothers to the going-away party his parents had thrown to kick off his major league baseball career—a career that looked to be in jeopardy if those crutches and that leg brace were anything to go by.

But he could work those crutches something fierce, and his flexing chest and biceps were a nice result. Abs and thighs, too. Physical therapy had done good things besides getting him upright again because he certainly didn't look as if he'd come close to death. Matter of fact, he looked to be the picture of health, the perfect cover model for the men's health magazine he'd been on before the accident.

She was very sorry to admit to herself that she had looked at that cover. A few times.

But she wasn't here to ogle the client. She never ogled clients. She never ogled
anyone
. Especially Jared. She'd worked too hard to make Manley Maids successful, so by the time she
could
look at anything other than work, her eyes were crossed with exhaustion.

He, however, definitely straightened them out.

Get over him, Mac. Remember your embarrassment? Remember his derision?

Right. She did. Still, he didn't have to know that. And the best way for him
not
to know it was to pretend everything was just fine between them. “Are you sure you're okay? The soup didn't burn you?”

“I'm fine.”

That he was.

Mac rolled her eyes just as he turned around and shoved his fists onto his hips—a really good look on him that she didn't need to notice, because if she did, Gran's hopes would skyrocket.

Hey, wait a minute . . . Did Gran actually think she could hook Mac and Jared up like she was trying to do to Liam, Sean, and Bryan?

Jared leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, his crutches falling against the butcher block. “Are you really here to clean?”

That was the idea. But was it Gran's?

“I'm certainly not here to cook.” Mac nodded at the pot. “That's from my grandmother.”

A ridiculous idea because chicken soup was a cold remedy, not a cure-all for broken bones. And even if it was, Jared had been out of the hospital for a while; he was certainly capable of getting around if he'd moved in here to get the place ready to sell for his grandmother.

“That was kind of her. Please thank her for me.”

“Or you can give her a call while I get started. I know she'd love to hear from you.” Ever since Mildred's request for her to personally handle this assignment, Gran had done nothing but regale Mac with Jared's wonderfulness, seen fully through the eyes of his grandmother. Gran and Mildred loved talking about their grandkids.

Now Mac was wondering how much of that regaling was because Gran was thrilled Jared was doing okay or because she wanted Mac to be thrilled about Jared. Too bad Gran wasn't aware of their history, or the lack thereof, though not for Mac's fervent wishes—and that one time she'd made a complete idiot of herself—when she'd been a kid. The embarrassingly obvious wishes that she'd wished to hell more than once that she could take back and pretend had never been. Especially since the object of those wishes had been aware of them all along.

Mac picked up a misshapen blue ceramic mug. Mr. Davison's fourth grade project. She had the same one, though hers was a little more even than Jared's. “How about if I start upstairs and work my way down? Will that interfere with your schedule?”

Jared looked at her as if he didn't understand a word she was saying.

She set the mug down next to a picture of thirteen-year-old Jared with Mildred at one of Jared's Little League games. Mac knew exactly how old Jared was in that picture—actually knew it to the
day
; that's how infatuated she'd been with him. Her poor deluded, prepubescent self . . .

“Mac, what are you doing here?” He laid the dishtowel on the side of the sink, folded up all nice and neat.

Who did that? She cleaned for a living and didn't do that in her own house.

“I'm here to clean your grandmother's house.”

“No. I mean, why are you
really
here?”

“
Really
here? I don't understand the question.”

Jared stared at her as if he were trying to figure her out, but finally shook his head and turned away.

And winced.

He stumbled a little and Mac was at his side, under his arm with hers wrapped around his waist before he could protest.

Not that that stopped him. “I've got this, Mac. I got the crutches. You don't have to try to carry me.”

“I'm not trying; I'm doing. I don't need you breaking something on my watch.” She grunted with the effort it took to keep him upright. He might not be aware of it, but he was no lightweight. All that muscle put some major poundage on him.

Not that she was paying attention or anything.

“So you're saying it's okay if I break something later?”

Wow. His tone put Gran's skin-slicing ability to shame because Mac figured out right away that he wasn't her biggest fan. Still harboring resentment that she'd practically been his shadow all those years ago? She'd love to tell him to get over himself—that she had—but Gran and Mildred wouldn't be happy if she blew this contract, so it was time to cut her losses.

Hands up, Mac backed away. Let him fall; see if she cared. “Okay. Fine. I'll just get started and you go do what you do and I'll stay out of your way.” Far, far out of his way.

He gripped the countertop and worked the one crutch under his arm. “Fine. You do that.”

“Fine. I will.” She should probably hand him the other one that was by the sink, but screw it. If he was so “I got this” then let him get his own damn crutch.

She spun around and strode toward the back steps. She'd find the farthest corner of the house from here, and take out her emotions on the dirt—

Except she needed her cleaning supplies that, between the soup and the bells, she hadn't had enough hands to carry in. Which meant she had to go back downstairs. Past Jared.

Great. Fabulous.

Executing a ninety-degree turn that would stop an army drill sergeant in his tracks, Mac strode toward the front door.

“Leaving so soon?” He didn't have to sound so happy about it.

She turned around. “Look, Jared, I'm here as a favor to your grandmother and mine. If you have issues with that, take it up with them.”

She so would have loved to slam the door behind her, but it was Mildred's front door, not Jared's, and she wasn't about to let him see her sweat.

Because, damn it all, he actually
could
still make her sweat.