Stacking the Deck (A Betting on Romance Novel Book 2)(82)
“How do we know they’re having over the moon sex?” Claire wanted to know.
“I suppose you could ask her,” Ruth said.
“Yes!” said Lydia. “Ask her.”
“Ask her. Right. I’ll just walk up to my grandniece and ask if she’s having over the moon sex with my best friend’s grandson.”
“Or, you could call her, I suppose.”
Claire gave Lydia a look. “And I start this conversation how?”
“Why don’t you ask Trish?” said June. “She’d probably know.”
Claire shook her head. “Listen to us. It’s not fortune telling cards that are bringing these two together, it’s a bunch of meddling old women. I’m not asking anybody anything. Let’s play cards.”
“I didn’t bring any pictures,” Lydia said. “I want to talk about Liz and Carter.”
“Me, too,” said June.
“Me, too,” said Ruth.
Claire sighed. “Fine. But if we’re going to meddle, we need to do it right. We need to plan ahead. Lydia, bring me my calendar from the fridge. Now, if I invite them all to my birthday next month, that will bring them together again in a few weeks. And, Ruth, if you hold your annual Fourth of July barbecue, I can be sure to get Liz back from Chicago. I can always pretend they overlooked something with my heart and she needs to come home while she still can…”
All three of them looked at Claire, aghast.
“What? I could have been dying today! I’m not waiting around for things to work out on their own. Who’s with me?”
Lydia picked up another cherry tomato. “I suppose I did see an adorable vintage teddy come into Second Chances yesterday. If you can get Liz to the shop, I’ll point it out to her…”
“Now, we’re talking,” Claire said. She looked up at June and Ruth expectantly. “Any ideas?”
“Short of locking them in a room together, I’ve got nothing,” said June. She set the cake in the middle of the table.
Lydia set the plates and utensils next to the cake and sighed. “I miss over the moon sex.”
They were all silent a moment.
Claire picked up a knife. “I nearly died tonight. I’m eating dessert first…”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
____________________
THE NEXT MORNING, Liz watched from her bedroom window as Carter’s truck pulled out of the driveway. She caught herself humming a chipper tune, turned and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Her hair was softly tousled, her eyes bright, her skin luminescent. She looked thoroughly kissed, thoroughly pleased with herself—and thoroughly self-delusional.
Wasn’t it pure and utter folly to become romantically involved with Carter McIntyre? Reality would come crashing into her idyllic dream-world sooner or later like it always did. Six weeks? What would that prove? That she was more infatuated with him than ever?
Liz let out a shaky breath and hugged her bathrobe around her more tightly. Infatuated, hell. She was solidly, undeniably in love with the man. She could try to rationalize it every which way but Sunday, but the truth was she was head over heels. And, worse than the puppy-love of her youth, the feelings she had for him now were far more intense—and far more dangerous to her heart.
Liz impatiently yanked on a T-shirt and sweats, shoved a brush through her tangled hair and stalked to the kitchen where she cracked the slider open a bit to get fresh, head-clearing morning air to her brain.
She was smarter than this. And yet, here she’d gone from being a sucker for Grant—and nearly ruining her career in the bargain—to falling into bed with a man notorious for being irresponsible.
What was she thinking?
Liz snapped the coffee filter into place and punched the ‘on’ button. She couldn’t get side-tracked. Last night she’d been weak, distracted by all that had gone on with Aunt Claire. She’d been emotionally vulnerable, that’s all. And Carter had been so...
Enough. That was yesterday. And, er, this morning. Today was different. Today she would get back on track.
Sure, he was gorgeous. There was no denying that. And attentive. Entertaining. Generous. But, he was flawed, too. Irreverent. Habitually tardy. Perhaps not enough to have him hanged, but surely enough to give her second thoughts.
She’d simply have some coffee, put her attention back on her to-do list and put fanciful notions of a long-term relationship with Carter McIntyre on the shelf where they belonged.
Liz stared down at the legal pad on her kitchen table and tried to concentrate.
It read: Clean House.
Exactly, she told herself, straightening purposefully in her chair. She needed to clean house. Sure, she needed to scrub walls and floors, the oven and sinks, but, more importantly, she needed to take stock of where she was and what she was doing. Like Aunt Claire said, she needed to make a new plan.
What, for instance, had made her so ridiculously susceptible to believing Grant wanted more than he did? Was she that short on prospects she needed to lunge for the first eligible bachelor to show an interest? Was she going to be forever haunted by the dreamy memory of a stolen kiss, forever measuring every man to that impossible yardstick?
Or, was something more at work?
“Work,” she mumbled as she stared off into the distance, her to-do list forgotten. It surprised her to realize she missed being at work about as much as she missed Grant. Which was to say—not much at all. Both represented security, responsibility, a sense of what she was supposed to do with her life. Somehow though, at work and with Grant, she’d fallen into a routine that felt safe, sensible, predictable...