Married By Morning

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She refused to answer the question. Besides, she hadn’t met a nice guy—just a guy with nice looks. “We have a meeting with the people from Lawford Community Bank in six minutes. I think we need to focus on that.”

“No, we don’t. They called five minutes ago and rescheduled for next Tuesday. Something about a surprise audit.” Reilly crossed to a carafe sitting on the credenza behind his desk and poured them each a cup of coffee, handing one of the white mugs to Daphne. He perched on the edge of one of the desks. “So now we have some time and you can answer my question. Did you meet someone?”

“No.” Daphne let out a laugh at the absurdity of the thought before taking a sip of the steaming brew. “Definitely no.”

Reilly grinned. “I’d say definitely yes. The lady doth protest too much.” Daphne turned away and got busy hanging her purse on the coat tree by the door. “I wish you’d quit going to those Shakespeare in the Park productions. It gives you too many ideas. I swear, you’re like a walking romance novel.”

“Et tu Brute?” Reilly placed a hand over his heart and did his best to look stricken. “I thought you liked my poetic interpretations of the bard.”

“Not when you’re interpreting up the wrong tree.” Daphne crossed the room, pulled her swivel chair up to her desk and began going through her stack of messages, the pile of pink While You Were Out papers fluttering like a skinny deck of cards. Satisfied there were no immediate emergencies, she laid the stack aside for later and then smoothed her hand over the oak top of the antique desk.

It had been her grandfather’s and had survived everything from the Great Depression to Grandma Williams’s Stickly phase.

But most of all, it was the only thing she had left of the man who had inspired her, until he’d died when she was twelve. He’d been the one who had indulged her imagination, who hadn’t scoffed at time spent staring off into space or drawing impossible inventions. He’d been the only one to encourage her to follow her dreams and find her niche, wherever it might lie.

Every morning when she sat down to work, she felt as if his spirit were welcoming her to the day. For that, Daphne treasured the desk.

“He wouldn’t want you to be a work hermit, you know,” Reilly said quietly, reading her mind. He pulled a chair up beside hers. “You’re always here or off on some trip, helping a client.”

“That’s my job.” She pressed the power button on her computer and waited for the PC to turn on.

“Yeah, but it’s not your life. Your grandfather always wanted more for you.” Reilly had never met her grandfather but had heard enough of Daphne’s stories that he seemed to almost know him.

“I do, too, have a life. Or at least I used to before Jerry and I broke up.”

Reilly laid a hand over hers. In the three years Reilly had worked for her, he and Elton had become her friends, complete with their Cher CD collection and miniature white poodle. It made for a warm workplace, and gave her a shoulder when things got too heavy for Daphne’s own. There were many days when she was grateful she had hired the artistic and talented Reilly.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said, sincerity clear in his voice.

“How do you know? It just happened last night.”

“Jerry was here first thing this morning. He stopped by to give you this.” Reilly dropped a brochure for the creativity center onto her desk.

It had the symbol for Jerry’s family foundation at the bottom. The words “Sponsored By” had been crossed out with a huge red X.

Well, that made it clear where he stood. Once again, Daphne was glad she was rid of a man like that. “I can’t believe he did that. What a total jerk.”

“Ditto,” Reilly said. “What you need is a nice guy. Preferably one with a whole lot of money he’s looking to donate.”

Carter Matthews had been nice, her mind whispered. Gave you a ride to work, even though he was late.

And he was cute. Very cute.

Daphne ignored her mental mutiny, double-clicked on Outlook and pretended to be interested in her schedule for the day. With the rescheduling of the Lawford Community Bank meeting, her day was depressingly empty. Too much time on her hands to think. To Daphne, being idle was never a good thing.

“What are you going to do about the funding for the creativity center?” Reilly asked. “Weren’t you supposed to break ground on the thirtieth?”

“I’m going to call everyone I know. I’m sure at least one of the corporations we’ve worked with will put some money in.”

“And do you have a backup plan?” Reilly asked, concern clear on his face. “Times have been tough in the last few years, so donations are harder to come by.” He sighed. “I tell you, what you need is a rich man with nothing to do with his money but give it to you.”

“I know one of those. Sort of.”

A bad idea, considering how her mind brought up the image of Carter’s eyes and that stubborn lock of hair again. She shook herself. All she needed was more than a granola bar for breakfast and Carter Matthews wouldn’t get to her so easily.

“Really?” Reilly propped his chin into his hands, his ever-observant eyes watching her. “Who?”

“Carter Matthews.” She turned away before Reilly—who she was sure was secretly psychic—could read anything in her eyes. “He gave me a ride to work today. After he totally screwed up my love life.” She put up a hand at Reilly’s question. “Don’t ask. It’s a long story.”

“Ah-hah!” Reilly leaped to his feet and pointed at her. “That’s what you were hiding this morning when you came in. You like him.”

Reilly and Elton had made it their personal mission to see Daphne married—as soon as possible, so she could produce some small children for the childless couple to spoil. Reilly had never seen what he called “long-term breeding potential” in Jerry and had been on her case to find someone better.

She understood his concern, but had resisted his attempts to fix her up. A man only complicated matters. Jerry had been the perfect boyfriend—undemanding, and with few expectations.

Then why had that relationship left her feeling about as fulfilled as a Twinkie? Where the thought of Carter Matthews left her with the fullness of a seven-course meal?

“I met him, but don’t go calling the preacher,” she cautioned. “He’s not someone I’d ever date—just a guy who owes me. Big time.” She didn’t tell Reilly the details. If she did, he’d feel inclined to put in his two cents—whether she wanted them or not.

When she’d hired Reilly Muldoon, she’d told him she wanted him to be an active voice in the company. She should have clarified how active that voice could be.

“Uh-huh. And this Carter—someone you aren’t interested in at all, despite the fact that your face lit up just talking about him—you’re really not interested in him?”

Her face had lit up? Jeez. She really needed more food in the morning.

“Not one bit.”

Reilly wagged a finger at her. “I know interest, and honey, you have it all over your face. I say you should call him. Make the first move. Go after what you want.”

“Reilly…” She gave up the admonishment and rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And in my opinion—”

She put up a hand to stop him. “Which I didn’t ask for.”

As usual, Reilly went on, ignoring her. “If this guy had any brains at all and an ounce of testosterone, he’ll be knocking on your door with wine, roses and a smile.”

“He’s a playboy, Reilly. A six-foot-tall, walking nightmare.”

“So you noticed his height?” Reilly asked, grinning. “Anything else?”

“No, nothing. Now leave me alone.”

“You never know.” Reilly tick-tocked his finger at her. “This playboy might just be the one.”

“The one for what?”

“The one to win your heart.” He clutched his own chest and let out a dramatic sigh.

That would never happen. Daphne had made sure that particular piece of her anatomy wasn’t up for grabs.

CHAPTER THREE

CARTER sat at his desk, holding the latest toy prototype for the Christmas catalog and let out a gust of frustration. At this point, he almost preferred the cat disaster.

Almost.

“This is what I pay you guys to come up with?” Carter turned the twelve-inch doll over. “An action figure that cleans?”

Paul Simmons, the former assistant head of the toy team, newly promoted to head designer after Jim’s quick exit earlier today, sat back in the opposite chair and gestured toward the skinny, apron-clad male figurine. The doll carried a feather duster in one hand and a blue spray bottle in the other. “That’s not just any action figure. It’s SuperClean Man,” he said, clearly proud of his team’s creation. “He can sweep a floor in one fell swoop. Leap over three filled water buckets in a single bound and stop a speeding muddy dog with his bare hands.”

Carter held himself back from rolling his eyes. A good CEO would show support for his staff. Get right behind them with window cleaner and a good rag. “I thought we decided to come up with a toy that would make little boys aspire to big things. A role model of sorts.”