Blame it on Cupid by Jennifer Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

completely forgotten the clock, and he had one of those stomachs. The kind that went with a six-one, hundred-and-ninety-two-pound man. The kind that needed filling or he got real, real cranky.
    Whistling up a storm, he took the porch steps two at a time, grabbed the mail, and shucked off his shoes inside the door. He flipped on lights, shocked to discover no one had done the laundry or picked up after him this morning. Of course, he had Hire-A-Wife coming on Monday, but somehow it always seemed a surprise, what complete chaos the house could turn into before they got here.
    After the divorce, he’d changed some things in the house—like redoing the kitchen in chalk and stone. Maybe it wasn’t “decorating” on a woman’s terms, but smooth surfaces sure seemed easier to clean up. Still whistling, he flipped on the kitchen light and opened the freezer. Ages ago, he figured he needed both a fridge and freezer in the kitchen, because almost everything he ate came out of the freezer. Today that meant lasagna, garlic bread, and a cherry-berry pie with—he checked—half a container of Cool Whip to put on top.
    Of course, it all had to be cooked—but that just meant throwing it all in the oven—except for the Cool Whip. Baking Cool Whip was not a good idea. It was the kind of lesson a guy only had to learn once. He got it all going, then scrounged around for some cashews to stave off imminent starvation. He punched on the kitchen TV and had just popped the lid on a soda—hadn’t had a single bite of food or sip yet, not even one!—when he saw her.
    It had to be past ten. The night was a pitchy, witchy black, with one of those moaning winds that whispered through the trees. A full moon kept sneaking around the clouds now and then, though, so he could see her clearly enough.
    She was sitting on her back porch. On the cold cement. She had her head in her hands, in a posture that sure looked as if she were crying her heart out.
    She’d left the back door gaping open behind her. What was with that woman and doors?
    He chomped down on the salty cashews, chewing furiously. Moonlight shined on her head as if her profile were illuminated with silver dust. Even though she was outside, it was unlikely anyone could see her but him. All the bushes and landscaping around the house sheltered the back porch from view.
    But he was stuck being able to see her. Far, far too clearly. None of his business, he told himself, and chewed another handful of cashews even more furiously. He didn’t do the white-knight thing, not for anyone, not anymore. How could it possibly be his problem, that a stranger decided to have a boo-hoo fest in his vision?
    He grabbed the soda bottle, then chunked it back on the counter. It was colder than ice out there. She didn’t even have a hat on, for Pete’s sake.
    As far as he could tell, she didn’t have the sense God gave a goose.
    He yanked on a jacket and stomped outside. The closer he got, the more the view deteriorated.
    She wasn’t a good crier. She was one of those throw-her-whole-self-into-it criers. Yesterday, he’d adjusted to the idea of having a flaky neighbor on the grounds that she was damn beautiful, and a guy was generally willing to tolerate a lot when the view was soothing.
    But that deal was off. Her face was all blotchy. She was gasping for air. Eyes getting all swollen.
    And that was before he was stuck seeing her up close.
    â€œHey,” he said. And then wanted to wince. Maybe he wasn’t feeling particularly happy, but he hadn’t meant to sound like a bear growling at her.
    Her head jerked up as if someone had slapped her. “Oh. You. Good grief. I didn’t realize anyone could see me. I’m fine—”
    Yeah, right. She was “fine” like cats flew. He wanted to suggest that she go back inside to cry her eyes out— after closing the damn door. But it seemed even he couldn’t be quite