Rent A Husband by Sally Mason Read Free Book Online Page B

not.”
    “I think The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is very underrated.”
    Brontë is even more impressed. “Gosh, so do I!”
    The man sticks out a hand and says, “I’m Billy Bigelow.”
    She shakes the huge hand and this touch seems to send him into a spin—literally—he rotates 360 degrees, scratches his head, and then decides to sit.
    Before Brontë can warn him, this huge wonderful man has planted his backside in the cream cake.
    He shoots to his feet, twisting to see his butt.
    “Oh, hell.” Then he shrugs. “Still want the job?”
    “Yes. Very much.”
    “When can you start?”
    “Greensleeves” trills as the door opens and a couple of very tanned women in tennis togs come in and head for one of the tables in the coffee shop.
    Brontë lifts two of menus from the counter—something about this man has stirred a boldness in her—and says, “Right now.”
     

15
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Carlotta McCourt and Jenny Johnson from Jenny’s Fashions (Santa Sofia’s smartest boutique) take their seats in the coffee shop.
    Carlotta, still flushed and pumped from beating the slightly younger and taller Jenny in straight sets over at the country club (the two of them pausing between points to watch the tables and bandstand and paraphernalia being delivered for tonight’s Spring Ball) looks around in the hope of spotting Darcy Pringle and her mystery man, but the bookstore is empty of customers.
    A girl she has never seen before, a strange, pale creature with the face of a horse and a thicket of wild hair, comes over carrying menus.
    “Where’s Darlene?” Carlotta asks.
    “I have no idea,” the girl says.
    Carlotta sighs. “God, how boring. That means I’m going to have to break you in.”
    “Sounds painful,” the girl says, deadpan.
    Carlotta searches her face for signs of insolence, but finds none.
    Finds nothing, in fact.
    What a blank slate she is.
    Carlotta launches into a detailed description of how she wants her coffee and her croissant, the instructions so intricate and pernickety they have reduced many waitresses to tears.
    But this girl writes nothing down.
    “Have you got that?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t see a notebook.”
    The girl taps her unruly mop. “All up here. I have an eidetic memory.”
    “A what?”
    “What’s commonly known as a photographic memory. I forget nothing.”
    “Well, you get my order wrong and you won’t be forgetting me, you hear?”
    “I also have perfect pitch. That means my hearing is remarkably developed.”
    “You getting fresh with me, missy?”
    “Oh no, ma’am.” And she’s gone.
    Jenny shakes her head. “Where does Poor Billy find them?”
    “Poor Billy is an idiot.”
    “What was he doing at Darcy’s house last night?”
    “God, I wish I knew. But even more I wish I knew who the guy was who spent the night.”
    Jenny leans forward, whispering. “Tell me about him again.”
    And even though Carlotta, in the locker room at the club, had regaled Jenny with the events of last night, she describes the man again, in great and fulsome detail.
    “He sounds gorgeous.”
    “He was,” Carlotta says, batting her false eyelashes.
    “You’re sure he didn’t slip next door with that Eric character?”
    “No way. Eric went home on his little old lonesome.”
    “How absolutely intriguing.”
    “Isn’t it just?” Carlotta says. “Tonight is going to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. I would not miss it for the world.”
    The girl arrives with her coffee and Carlotta, ready for battle, sips at it.
    “Is it to madam’s satisfaction?” the girl says.
    To Carlotta’s annoyance the coffee is perfect.
    “It’s okay.”
    With just the hint of a curtsey the girl is gone.
    “I don’t like her,” Carlotta says.
    “She’s creepy.”
    “She won’t last.”
    “No.”
    “Nobody can take working for that bozo for too long.”
    And as they watch, Billy, on a low ladder stacking a bookshelf, forgets that he is suspended in the air and steps