No Foolin' (Willowdale Romance Novel) by Lisa Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

pose for the press.
    Kate looked down at her clothes, the same ones she’d been wearing the day before. “I really need something else to wear. I’ve got nothing with me, no shampoo, none of that stuff.” She felt dizzy just realizing the scope of this whole set-up.
    Teague stood and ran his hand through his hair. He was already dressed in another pair of jeans and a form-fitting t-shirt, somehow looking even hotter than the day before. “Photographers are camped out at the end of the driveway, and if we go out they’ll follow us on our shopping spree. That might raise some suspicions. So, I’m going to have some things delivered to us.” He pulled out his wireless. “What size are you?”
    Kate gritted her teeth. She was a fine size back home, but about seven sizes too big for Hollywood. “I’m a six,” she lied. She bit her lip. “Or maybe an eight.”
    WHY DO THEY ALWAYS care so much about the damn number on the tag? He saw the uncomfortable look on Kate’s face. She was not happy with all this. Hell, who would be? He thought she looked great like she was, all curves and softness. Skeletal was not his type, and that’s what most of the women out here looked like. There’s nothing sexy about a pointy hipbone jabbing your thigh when you’re getting busy, that’s for sure. He dialed his stylist and asked her to bring a wardrobe over for Kate. “And we’ll need some red-carpet stuff, too.”
    “This for your new gal I saw in the papers today?”
    “Yes. Bring a few things for her to try. I want her to be comfortable. She wears a six.”
    “Maybe get some eights too,” Kate called from across the kitchen. “Just in case small town sizes aren’t .  . . so small.” Her face was turning red and Teague thought she looked darling. Darling? What the hell kind of word was that? Damn, he was infected with a little bit of Willowdale. He sat at the big, long island in the middle of the kitchen and drummed his pen on the counter.
    “Eights?” Justine asked over the phone. “The designers don’t have sizes that big hanging in their sample racks.”
    Teague looked out at his pool and imagined that beautiful size-eight body in a bikini, lounging by the water. Maybe one strap sliding down her shoulder and him tugging the bottom off in the deep end .  . . He shook himself from his daze. He needed to keep this strictly business like he’d promised—for both their sakes.
    He cleared his throat. “Tell the designers she’ll probably be the most photographed woman at the festival. They might want to come up with something in her size.”
    Kate sat on a stool with crossed arms, jiggling her foot. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she stuck out her tongue at him. She did not look happy.
    Justine let out a long, slow sigh over the phone. “And you want me to bring in someone to do hair and makeup. I’m not asking, I’m demanding.”
    “Sure. But here’s the thing .  . . we have to sneak you guys in here. The press is camped out at the end of my driveway. They’ll be all over anyone coming in or out.”
    “Then explain to me how we’re going to get in.”
    Teague smiled as the perfect solution hit him, one that just might make Miss Panties-In-A-Snarl over in the corner drop the glower. “I’ll send someone to get you.”
    THE PHOTOGRAPHERS swarmed the Fantasy Florist delivery truck as it pulled through Teague’s gate three hours later. The deliveryman carried in two big vases filled with deep, red roses. Kate gasped, trying so very hard not to be impressed that she almost missed the small army following the florist, weighed down with shopping bags, makeup kits and styling tools. She plucked a card from one of the vases—probably Waterford. She knew this was just a ruse, but still, four dozen roses in crystal vases from the baddest bachelor in the world would send a shiver through any woman’s nether regions.
    She opened the tiny envelope. Kate, I’m so glad you came into my life.