Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7 Read online

  “I—I’m not trying to invade your privacy, I just thought you might need this back,” he motions towards the bag.

  “Where was it?” I ask, still dazed.

  He shakes his head. “Just showed up one day, out of the blue. Sitting in the lobby. It was covered in glitter. Not sure what that was about.” He takes a step towards me. “A hand delivery just felt like the right thing to do.”

  “A hand delivery?” I quirk an eyebrow. “Sounds like a good thing to do with your hands.”

  He’s caught off guard by that, but then his face morphs into that dangerous one, the one that got me hooked that first night.

  “Well, since you came all this way,” I say, “I’m guessing you want a tip.”

  His eyes never leave my lips as I close the distance between us and rise, pressing my mouth against his.

  Nothing has changed—not the heat, not the intensity, not the driving desire that makes me forget for a moment that we are standing out in plain view, blocking the doors to my building.

  The door opens. I don’t know if someone’s coming out or going in. All I can sense is him around me, and I can’t wait to get him inside of me again.

  I pull away, breathless, panting, looking at my reflection in his eyes.

  “So,” he says, tightening his hold on me. “Can I finally tell you my name?”

  “Later,” I say. “I don’t think I can hear anything you have to say while you’re wearing this many clothes.”

  EPILOGUE

  The door to the apartment building across the street shuts. Delilah rolls up her window and picks up her tablet, tapping out a message to send back to the office.

  Within seconds, Neenah has sent her reply.

  GOOD WORK. YOUR NEXT ASSIGNMENT IS IN SANTA ROSA, CALIFORNIA. I HOPE YOU LIKE ROCK MUSIC.

  Delilah punches in the coordinates on her slightly modified GPS system. Her vintage, purple Volkswagen Beetle roars to life and disappears in a waft of smoky, leaving behind the sound of bells.

  Copyright © 2018 by L. Penelope.

  Melinda Curtis is an award-winning, USA Today bestselling author of over 40 romance titles. She writes sweet romance for Harlequin, sweet rom"chapter-sub"antic comedy, and fun, sexy sports romances. Sign up for her book release newsletter and download two free reads.

  YOU GOTTA KISS A LOTTA FROGS

  by Melinda Curtis

  ONCE UPON A TIME

  Do you believe in fairytales and fairy godmothers?

  You should.

  If you come to the farmer’s market in Brody Falls, you’ll see an old woman sitting at a card table. She dresses in red. Magical apple red.

  In winter, she wears a woolen red cape. In warmer months, a red scarf flutters around her silver hair like silken butterflies. Her purse is a large red satchel with a crocheted rose hanging on the side (red, of course).

  Unlike other vendors, the woman in red offers no fresh produce or handmade goods. She hangs no professionally made banner and puts out no painted sandwich-signs. She sits behind a simple card table with a piece of pink notebook paper taped to the edge. Her sign has two simple words on it: Love Advice.

  Young or old, no one in Brody Falls can remember a farmer’s market without her. Ignore her invitation if you like. She’ll remain a mystery. Those who’ve sat on her folding chair won’t discuss what’s been said.

  They don’t call her odd.

  They don’t call her old.

  They simply call her their Fairy Godmother....

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’ve gotta kiss a lotta frogs.”

  “Haven’t I kissed enough already?” Julia Mackenberry slumped in a folding chair at the Love Advice table at the farmer’s market in Brody Falls. She was on a mission—find her Prince Charming before her eggs died an untimely death. She rubbed her throbbing temples. “I mean...you should have seen my date last night. Tall and handsome, yeah. But death-lily white.”

  Did she want to have a child with a vampire?

  Yes, chorused her soon to be sacrificed eggs.

  “Let me check your frog-o-meter.” The old woman’s plump fingers gripped Julia’s hand. Her thumb and forefinger pressed the flesh between Julia’s thumb and forefinger—hard, like an acupuncturist who’d forgotten their needles.

  “Ow,” Julia yelped.

  Suck it up, the eggs shouted, because they knew the Love Lady had helped Missy Lancaster find a man (a wealthy realtor), landed Belinda Higgans a stockbroker husband (owned an island in the Caribbean), and shown Ana Zapata the way to bump into a sexy soccer star (that concussion in the park was totally worth it).

  Mama ain’t just getting you a daddy, Julia told the eggs. She’s getting you a sugar daddy!

  “No.” The Love Lady removed her calloused, vice-like grip from Julia. Her voice had a happy, high-pitched quality that contradicted her bad news. She sounded like Glinda the Good, but she looked like an ancient Red Riding Hood. “You have many more frogs to kiss.”

  The good news was: the old woman’s pressure point treatment had relieved Julia’s throbbing temples.

  The bad news was: Julia was no closer to finding true love than she’d been three months ago when she’d been told her female equipment had to go. Given her mother and her sister had both battled cancer, Julia had been tested recently for mutated BRCA1. The result? She was a mutant (and she didn’t even have X-Men powers), being 50% more likely to contract breast and ovarian cancer than the average woman. Julia wanted a baby before all her lady parts were removed.

  The old woman tightened the knot on the red scarf covering her gray curls and nodded at Julia with both her chins. “You’re looking for love for all the wrong reasons.”

  She must have talked to Julia’s mother. “I’m thirty,” Julia said firmly.

  The eggs applauded.

  The Love Lady grinned, a spectacle of color given she wore two slashes of rosy blush and a couple of coats of apple red lipstick. “Your eggs must be ancient.”

  Julia gasped. The eggs gasped. Even the passerby in the crowd seemed to gasp. (Okay, maybe that was a kid choking on a corndog for a moment.)

  “Never fear.” The Love Lady patted Julia’s hand. “I have something that will speed up the process.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  The old woman held up a red notebook the size of an address book. “You must follow this to the letter.”

  Now, Julia was no spring chicken when it came to the promise of love. She’d tried online dating, singles nights, business networking, fortune tellers, matchmakers, and wedding crashing. “What do the letters spell?” The ones she had to follow.

  “L-O-V-E.”

  Sold! the eggs chimed.

  “Okay. Why not?” Julia reached for the book. Maybe it had a list of eligible men in Brody Falls. That was better than the love potion perfume she’d purchased last week. The scent had given the produce man an allergic reaction. And she had yet to get the stench out of her 1950s vintage sundress.

  The old woman pulled the book just out of reach. “That will be fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty? I only have forty in my purse.” That was the Love Lady’s usual fee.

  “That’s too bad.” The Love Lady tucked the book back in her red satchel. “The book is ten dollars extra.”

  “Wait.” This was like waving a cinnamon bun, fresh out of the oven, under Julia’s nose and then taking it away. “Would you accept forty in cash and a ten dollar gift card to Consignment Couture?” The shop Julia owned.

  A slow smile spread across the old woman’s face. “Your wish is granted.”

  “What’s that you’re reading?” Paula asked Julia two days later, pausing while dusting a display of rhinestone-studded heels at Consignment Couture. “Another love advice book?”

  “Yep.” Julia leaned on the counter and flipped a page. The work day was coming to a close and those letters the Love Lady promised hadn’t materialized (not so much as an L, much less an O or V or E).

  “What does this one
recommend?” Paula was sixty-five, and dressed like she came from the Mad Men secretarial pool. Julia could make a fortune selling Paula’s wardrobe. Today’s vintage ensemble was a white dress with large red roses, scoop-necked and belted. “Are you to do yoga? Dancing lessons? Teeth whitening?”

  Julia flipped to the beginning. “Lesson #1: Greet every man with a continental kiss. Coming and going.”

  “Smoochy air kisses?” Paula flitted over to a display of specialty bras that hadn’t seen a customer since prom season ended, and spaced the hangars evenly to showcase each colorful, satin cup.

  Julia nodded. “Lesson #2: Put your house in order by hiring Jacks of all trades.” She’d already called in an electrician and a plumber. The electrician was married and disqualified from her list. The plumber’s butt crack made it impossible to put him on her list. But there you have it. She’d kissed two more frogs. “Lesson #3—”

  “Hello.” A tall man filled the doorway. His maroon T-shirt said he was from Green Gardening, which she’d called for a bid on landscaping in front of the shop and in back. His eyes gave away he was shy and single. Those sky blue orbs shied away from a display of revealing prom dresses, bounced off the rack of bullet bras, and landed gratefully on Julia.

  She’d meant to laugh when their eyes met, but the laughter died in her throat. His eyes were a soft blue, his hair a soft brown, his left hand ringless. And it didn’t look as if butt-cracks would be an issue.

  The eggs sighed.

  “Lesson #1,” Paula sing-songed as she joined Julia behind the counter.

  “Of course. Where are my manners?” Was that a French accent coming out of her mouth? Julia tip-toe ran to the man in her man-meeting high heels and air kissed his woodsy smelling cheeks. “I’m Julia.”

  “Hank.” He stared at her as if she’d tried to sell him parachute pants from the retro rack. “I’ve seen your front—”

  “Indeed,” Paula intoned in a raised brow kind of voice.

  “—Can you show me your back?”

  “I love a man who doesn’t waste time,” three-times divorced Paula murmured. “My current husband proposed to me the night we met.”

  The eggs applauded in admiration.

  “We’d like to hold fashion shows out here.” With a don’t-scare-him-away scowl toward Paula, Julia led Hank to the back sun-baked terrace. The small garden behind the shop was an overgrown jungle. There was a flagstone patio (fighting cracks of their own), a fountain with a frog centerpiece (and frogs living in the sludgy water), vines crawling around the fountain, and hip-high weeds in what had once been flower beds. “Let’s start with the fountain. I hate the frog. His tongue is out and he’s about to eat a dragonfly.” Belatedly, Julia realized the logo for Green Gardening on his chest was a leaping frog.

  As if on cue, a frog surfaced in the murky green water and croaked.

  “Had this place long?” Hank touched a vine trailer blowing in the weak breeze, and then snapped off the tops of several blades of wild grass.

  “I bought Consignment Couture a few months ago.” Back when she’d thought she had all the time in the world for her happily-ever-after. “I’ve been making changes inside and haven’t had a chance to work outside.”

  “The weeds are taunting you.” His voice. It filled the overgrown space and made it seem not so much a lost cause.

  “It’s not personal,” Julia said.

  A frog croaked his disagreement. Hank raised an eyebrow. Even the eggs were quiet.

  Julia’s gaze drifted to the fountain. “They aren’t taunting. They’ve just had time to sprawl.” While Julia focused on making her social life not non-existent.

  He brushed his hand through the tops of the high grass. Something moved at his feet and slithered onto the flagstone.

  “Snake!” Julia did a modified version of the potty dance, backward and in heels.

  Hank hunkered down by the slithering thing, picked it up and brought its face too close to his. “Common garden snake. Eats mice. And frogs.” He put the snake back in the grass.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Julia rushed up to him, clinging to a nicely muscled bicep. “Aren’t you going to take it away?”

  “You haven’t hired me.” Hank named an astronomical figure the electrician would’ve blushed at.

  “That’s highway robbery.” That would eat into her in vitro budget.

  Julia wasn’t totally naïve. No one was going to fall in love with her and agree to father her baby in the next three months. She’d settle for strong liking and a sperm donation without any strings.

  “Snakes. Vines. Frogs.” Hank shrugged. “Untrippable patios. Special lighting.”

  Julia countered with a figure a thousand dollars less.

  Hank dropped his jaw nearly to his chest and stared at her over the top of his mirrored sunglasses. “This job requires two pairs of hands for five days. I’ve got a pair.” He paused, staring at her in the same assessing way he’d done the snake. “The only way you’re getting a discount is if you provide the extra pair of hands.”

  “My hands? In that snake infested patch?” Oh, no. Oh, no-no-no.

  Hopeless, the eggs murmured.

  “Yes, your hands,” Hank said. “Yes, in your snake infested weed patch.”

  Julia hated snakes. She hated frogs. She hated weeding.

  But there was the potential income from fashion shows, and the fact that he was bartering. She thrust out her hand. “Deal.”

  He was eyebrows-to-heaven surprised. It took him a moment to name a start date. She double-air kissed him, and then those dark brows inched higher toward the fringe of brown hair on his forehead.

  After he left, Paula shook her head. “You don’t strike me as the weeding type.”

  She wasn’t. “Lesson #3: Accept all offers involving bartering.”

  “That’ll make you very busy.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  She’d kissed him.

  In theory.

  Four times.

  Meant nothing.

  But still...She’d kissed him.

  It’d been a long, long, exponentially long time since a woman had kissed Hank, especially a beauty with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

  Hank Green had to get out and date more. Although he had too many problems to think about dating.

  There were weeds for one, at too many clients’ homes. And a tree that needed trimming over at the courthouse. And lawns. Lots and lots of lawns. But he always made time in his growing gardening business to speak with potential clients.

  Potential clients weren’t usually as pretty as Julia. She had all her teeth, which was more than Mr. Dartmouth could say. And she had eye-catching curves, which was more than Miss Olive could say. And she had spunk, which was more than the glazed-eyed public servants at city hall could say.

  And she’d kissed him.

  He’d had a tooth filled before he stopped at Consignment Couture. Half his face was numb, so he’d tried not to talk too much and drool all over himself. He’d probably come across as a half-wit, especially when she’d dismissed the beautiful fountain for having a frog’s tongue. In his experience, frogs were good luck for business. Hank was going to make sure she fell in love with that frog before the project was over.

  He pulled into the driveway of Brody Falls Daycare.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Kimmy ran to Hank as soon as he entered. She wrapped her arms around his legs and squeezed, angling her pixie features up to him. “What’s for dinner? Did you run out of gas today? My shoes make farting noises.”

  “Kim.” Miss Clark’s severe tone cut through his four-year old’s excited ramble. “Your outside voice is for outside.”

  “She always says that,” Kimmy whispered, grabbing Hank’s hand in her smaller one and tugging him to the door.

  The late summer afternoon heat hit them like dragon’s breath, hot and muggy.

  Kimmy skipped next to him. “I bit my tongue at lunch today. Gideon said if I s
tick my head underwater, I could hear goldfish talk.” Kimmy’s little hands fanned out from her ears like moving fish gills. “It would be cool to go underwater and talk to sharks, even with my sore tongue.” Kimmy lowered her hands and her voice. “Don’t eat me, Mr. Shark, or I’ll bop you in the nose.” She giggled.

  And so it went, non-stop (Kimmy would make a good comedienne if she could learn to pause for the ba-da-bum). All the way home. All the way through dinner. All the way through PJs and brushing teeth. Kimmy was the most exhausting part of Hank’s day. And the most satisfying. She’d talk like a runaway train. And then once those teeth were brushed and she was tucked into bed, it was time for a story. She hardly ever made it to page two before falling asleep.

  And then, while he was reading her Where the Wild Things Are and feeling like life couldn’t get any better, Kimmy asked, “When is Mommy coming home?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Hank pushed a wheelbarrow through the side gate of Consignment Couture the following Monday to find his extra pair of hands totally ill-equipped to help him.

  Julia sat in a white plastic chair, her head thrown back to catch the sun’s rays, leaving her long blonde hair flowing behind her. She wore gray plaid shorts and a black tank top that clung to every curve and slope of her body. When she saw him, she leapt up and hurried over, all those golden locks swinging halfway down her back and her blue eyes shining with welcome. Clients didn’t greet him with half the enthusiasm she did.

  Kiss. Kiss.

  The air over his cheeks felt warm. The blood in his veins ran hot.

  “You can’t work dressed like that.” Like she was going to meet a date in the park. Instead of shaving money off his bid, she’d be adding to it.

  “These are my weeding clothes.” She glanced down at herself, presumably at her mouthwatering hint of cleavage, shorts that showed off her tan, shapely calves, and the cheerful, flowery Vans on her small feet.

  Hank spun away, stalking back to his truck. It didn’t take him long to return.

  “What’s this?” She stared at the items he’d thrust into her hands—a Green Gardening T-shirt and a pair of work gloves.