Chapter One

CELESTE HARTE GLARED at the twenty-nine candles on her birthday cake. She'd squandered her last fourteen birthday wishes asking for a fairy tale romance, and her life still read like an instruction manual. The frog she'd hoped would turn into a prince—God rest his soul—had been a cheating toad. Leaning her hands on her glass-topped kitchen table, she puffed out her cheeks and blew. I wish I'd meet a man who would turn my life into a sizzling romance novel. "Easy." Marianne Joest raised an auburn brow as she swiped cream frosting from her blouse with a manicured nail. Closing her eyes, she sucked her fingertip. "Mm. Next best thing to an orgasm."

"My life is half over, I haven't made love in I-can't-remember-when, and you talk about orgasm?"

"Half over?" Marianne snorted. "And I thought Susan was the drama queen." She cut two slices of cake and handed Celeste one.

Celeste shook her head. "It's loaded with fat."

"Dammit, Cee. This is carrot cake, a vegetable with frosting. You're thin enough no matter what Harry said, and twenty-nine isn't the beginning of menopause." Reaching into her oversized straw bag, Marianne pulled out a bottle of chilled champagne and two crystal glasses. She popped the cork on the bubbly. "It's time to…live."

Cee dipped a finger into a fat icing rose and savored its creamy sweetness. She could always count on Marianne. Champagne, cake, and a silver-wrapped package with a violet bow, their boutique's signature wrapping. Her best friend, business partner, and next-door neighbor knew how to make an occasion special. "I wish I could find a man with as much romance in his soul."

"You can't find a plum between the oranges and escarole at the market. Or one of those boring women's thingies. And that guy you went out with the other night…" Marianne closed her eyes and faked a snore.

"He was an old friend, and safe." Cee made a face. "I went out with him once and that was enough."

"That said, let's drink to men you'd like to see again and again." Marianne filled their champagne glasses and raised hers. "Exciting, romantic, dangerously handsome men."

Cee downed her champagne and stared into the moisture at the bottom of her glass. Does such a man exist? If so, would he look twice at me? The bubbles danced and swirled in her head, creating a warm glow that pooled down low.

If I find Mr. Romantic, I'll make sure he does…

JOHN REACHED FOR Isadora, pulling her into his arms, crushing her to him.
"No," she whispered. "Not yet."
He wanted her so badly, he almost dropped to his knees to beg her to make love. "Why?"

Nick Dennis waited for Isadora to answer. His fingers itchy on the keyboard, he stared at his computer screen and silently begged her to say something. She refused to cooperate. He beat a rapid tattoo on the scarred tabletop. Why wouldn't Isadora make love? She needed a convincing reason to keep John waiting. He was an intriguing hero, whom Nick understood completely, but Isadora was an unfathomable woman who was starting to tick him off.

He rose to pour himself another cup of mud. The trailer was so cramped, he could have reached the coffeepot without moving. Hell, he could cook, write, and use the john at the same time. But he needed to stretch. Isadora was pissing him off, not letting him inside her head. The women in the mysteries he wrote were all action and thought with their bodies, like the women he dated. Romantic heroines needed depth, or so the pink-paged writer's manual he'd surreptitiously purchased said.

He should never have made that fool bet, but he'd thought a love story would be a cinch to write. "Piece of cake," he told his cousin Dell.

Nick paced six steps and bumped into the bed. He needed a bigger place to live, but the trailer was a loaner, his only cost the lot rental, and he liked the view. From the table where his computer sat, he could gaze down on the mirror-blue lake. From the open window over his bed, he could smell the fragrant pines, and at night, count stars and listen to crickets chirp.

Tearing his eyes from snowy white sails and glistening blue lake spray, Nick applied butt to chair. He could write and sell a romance novel by summer's end. He could win a year's free lodging in Dell's cabin on the other side of Neuman Lake. It was still early June, and he had until August 31.

Nick slammed his mug down on the table. Coffee slopped over the edge onto the printout of Chapter One. Wiping it up with paper towels, he knocked over the cup. Brown liquid ran across the table and onto the floor. "Damn."

He opened the tiny closet to look for a rag, and a mop fell out and rapped him on the shoulder. An old Halloween mask hit him in the head. Rags fell at his feet, along with a bunch of other crap. The mop looked new. So he swabbed the floor with a raggedy pillowcase he could pitch.

Copyrighht © 2005 Betty Jo Schuler