Love Letters, Inc. Read Online Free Page A
Author: Ec Sheedy
wondering how much body surface they actually covered.
Yeah, he was warm all right.
She gave him a thoughtful look, then let out a breath. "Sure. Just a minute." She got up from the sofa and headed through a door he assumed led to the kitchen.
Kent leaned back against the big soft chair, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was tense. Overtired. That was it. And too damn long without a woman. He must be, if he was susceptible to Rosie O'Hanlon. A woman in a foolish business who wore checkered socks and broken glasses. What the hell was the matter with him?
She came back and handed him a tall glass of water with ice and a twist of lemon. "Are you all right?" She eyed him warily before going back to perch on the edge of the sofa.
"Fine. Sorry. I'm not usually so scattered."
She stared at him a second, then stood as if she'd made a decision. "I think you need to eat. I'm going to make us lunch," she announced. "You sit there and relax. It won't take me a minute."
"No, thanks. I'd better go." He started to get up. He didn't need lunch, or more time with this woman. He needed to leave. He only wished he'd been listening when she'd told him her idea about stopping the letters. Irritated with himself, he decided he'd call her later, say he wanted to go over it. She'd repeat what she'd told him and that would be that.
"Sit!" she ordered, peering at him through her ridiculous glasses. "It's almost twelve-thirty. You have to eat. I have to eat. We'll eat together."
Font groaned from the doorway and whomped his tail on the hardwood floor. "Yes, and you too, Font," she added.
"Look," Kent protested. "You don't have to do this."
"I know." She gave him a direct look and a sunny smile that hit his chest like a medicine ball. "I want to. And I'm predicting if you don't eat now, you'll skip lunch entirely. Right?"
He nodded. "It's been known to happen."
"I'll bet." She shook her head as if she disapproved, then headed toward the doorway she'd used to get the water. When she was through it, she popped her braced head back out. "You're in luck, Summerton, my cooking is even better than my love letters."
When she was gone, Kent sank back into the chair, his gaze on the empty doorway. A line from one of her letters jumped to mind. "I'm hot, so fiercely hot! And I need you. Deep. In the moist place only you can know. Only you can have. Only you—"
Don't even think about it, Summerton. She's not your type. Not even close. He liked organization, ambition, focus. Unless he guessed wrong, that didn't describe O'Hanlon. He hoisted his flattened resolve upright. He'd eat lunch and get out of here. That'd be the end of it.
A cold nose nuzzled his hand, then lifted his hand from the arm of the chair; the nose was Font's. Kent smiled and stroked the huge dog's bristly gray head. "It's a good thing I didn't bring Lacy, big guy. She'd have been a goner." And one of us is enough for one day, he added to himself.
Rosie was back, standing in the doorway, wiping her hands with a tea towel. "Lunch is ready. Is eating at the kitchen table okay?"
"That'll be fine." He pushed himself out of the chair and followed her into the kitchen. For the first time he took a good look around the house.
From the outside, the place had looked like an old, turn-of-the-century farmhouse, complete with peeling paint, gabled windows, and wide, uneven stairs leading to a wraparound porch. Inside, it was painted and papered into a cheerful home. Kent half expected to see a dozen kids stream in the front door and demand milk and cookies. But she had said Miss, meaning there was no Mister O'Hanlon kicking around. Okay, so he was glad. Didn't mean a damn thing. Font followed him into the big kitchen.
"Sit over there," she instructed breezily, pointing to a chair at a round oak table in the kitchen's alcove. He took the seat and Font collapsed at his feet. Kent reached down to rub under his ear and was rewarded with a groan that said, "I'm yours for life."
"I
Yeah, he was warm all right.
She gave him a thoughtful look, then let out a breath. "Sure. Just a minute." She got up from the sofa and headed through a door he assumed led to the kitchen.
Kent leaned back against the big soft chair, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was tense. Overtired. That was it. And too damn long without a woman. He must be, if he was susceptible to Rosie O'Hanlon. A woman in a foolish business who wore checkered socks and broken glasses. What the hell was the matter with him?
She came back and handed him a tall glass of water with ice and a twist of lemon. "Are you all right?" She eyed him warily before going back to perch on the edge of the sofa.
"Fine. Sorry. I'm not usually so scattered."
She stared at him a second, then stood as if she'd made a decision. "I think you need to eat. I'm going to make us lunch," she announced. "You sit there and relax. It won't take me a minute."
"No, thanks. I'd better go." He started to get up. He didn't need lunch, or more time with this woman. He needed to leave. He only wished he'd been listening when she'd told him her idea about stopping the letters. Irritated with himself, he decided he'd call her later, say he wanted to go over it. She'd repeat what she'd told him and that would be that.
"Sit!" she ordered, peering at him through her ridiculous glasses. "It's almost twelve-thirty. You have to eat. I have to eat. We'll eat together."
Font groaned from the doorway and whomped his tail on the hardwood floor. "Yes, and you too, Font," she added.
"Look," Kent protested. "You don't have to do this."
"I know." She gave him a direct look and a sunny smile that hit his chest like a medicine ball. "I want to. And I'm predicting if you don't eat now, you'll skip lunch entirely. Right?"
He nodded. "It's been known to happen."
"I'll bet." She shook her head as if she disapproved, then headed toward the doorway she'd used to get the water. When she was through it, she popped her braced head back out. "You're in luck, Summerton, my cooking is even better than my love letters."
When she was gone, Kent sank back into the chair, his gaze on the empty doorway. A line from one of her letters jumped to mind. "I'm hot, so fiercely hot! And I need you. Deep. In the moist place only you can know. Only you can have. Only you—"
Don't even think about it, Summerton. She's not your type. Not even close. He liked organization, ambition, focus. Unless he guessed wrong, that didn't describe O'Hanlon. He hoisted his flattened resolve upright. He'd eat lunch and get out of here. That'd be the end of it.
A cold nose nuzzled his hand, then lifted his hand from the arm of the chair; the nose was Font's. Kent smiled and stroked the huge dog's bristly gray head. "It's a good thing I didn't bring Lacy, big guy. She'd have been a goner." And one of us is enough for one day, he added to himself.
Rosie was back, standing in the doorway, wiping her hands with a tea towel. "Lunch is ready. Is eating at the kitchen table okay?"
"That'll be fine." He pushed himself out of the chair and followed her into the kitchen. For the first time he took a good look around the house.
From the outside, the place had looked like an old, turn-of-the-century farmhouse, complete with peeling paint, gabled windows, and wide, uneven stairs leading to a wraparound porch. Inside, it was painted and papered into a cheerful home. Kent half expected to see a dozen kids stream in the front door and demand milk and cookies. But she had said Miss, meaning there was no Mister O'Hanlon kicking around. Okay, so he was glad. Didn't mean a damn thing. Font followed him into the big kitchen.
"Sit over there," she instructed breezily, pointing to a chair at a round oak table in the kitchen's alcove. He took the seat and Font collapsed at his feet. Kent reached down to rub under his ear and was rewarded with a groan that said, "I'm yours for life."
"I