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 on Snowbound 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
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