Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) (30 page)
Read Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) Online
Authors: Stephie Smith
Tags: #sexy cowboy, #sexy doctor, #humorous chick lit mystery, #Jane Dough, #Humorous Fiction, #wacky family
I
couldn’t believe it was all over. I had saved my house and I hadn’t needed a man to do it. Not if you didn’t count Hank and Richard’s labor, Hank nudging me into action by telling me off, Bryan’s aiding and abetting, and all those men with the equipment and brawn to dig out the pond. I
hadn’t
sunk to marriage, anyway, and that’s what counted.
It only took me two days to get over my near death. I’d never actually fainted before, and I wouldn’t recommend it, unless, like me, you have a hunk, or two, to catch you as you fall.
As it turned out, Angie had been instrumental in saving my life. She’d had a premonition and told Hank, who had searched Sue out when he couldn’t find me. Angie was my new best friend. One of them anyway. Sue hadn’t moved away, even though she and Mark were going strong. And Mark had already come back once for a weekend visit, so it was almost as though he’d never left.
In fact, when it came to friends, I had more than my share. Lots more. Probably that’s what happens when a whole town comes together to help someone out. Sort of like a barn raising in the olden days.
Hank spent a week fixing up the pond, and I spent that week watching Hank. Few sights are as entertaining as Hank sans shirt with all those muscles rippling while he digs holes in the earth. The idea of making our own boulders had seemed pretty lame at first, until Hank explained about the difference in cost, how we could make them the size, shape, and color we wanted, and how we were helping to conserve natural rock.
When I’d felt a twinge of guilt over the fact that I was just standing around watching him work, I’d put forth an effort to dig a hole. I gave up when I couldn’t get the dang shovel to go into the ground, even after jumping up and down on it.
“It’s not my fault,” I told Hank as I abandoned the tool. “I can’t get any leverage because the handle is way too long for someone my height. I guess they don’t make shovels for women.”
Hank snagged the shovel and smiled. “You’re only half right, Janie. They don’t make
women
for
shovels.”
I felt better about my lack of participation after that, and I had to hand it to him, he sure knew how to do things right. Now I had a beautiful pond with natural-looking rock, a waterfall, and various types of water plants, not to mention the tadpoles and minnows and other small fish. And as far as I knew, I didn’t have an alligator.
When I really thought about it, which I seemed to do a lot, I had to admit that my life had turned around in just four months. I had the house I’d always wanted, inside and out, I was learning how to deal with my family with honesty—if I didn’t count Mom—and I had two equally awesome men in my life. Of course, I hadn’t done the deed with either of them yet, but that would certainly change. Which one would it be? I honestly didn’t know. I was hoping for both; I was such a slut.
What more could a girl ask for? Nothing, except maybe for her writing career to get back on track. Which reminded me …
I put a call through to Rose as I moseyed to my mailbox. I had a new idea for a romance and couldn’t wait to fill her in. As usual, it took a few seconds for my idea to make it through her smoke-clogged brain.
“Two heroes?” she asked. “As in a ménage à trois?”
“No. Yuck. Not two heroes at the same time. I mean in the same story but not together at the same time.”
“Let’s start over. You have a great idea for a new romance with an adventurous heroine and two heroes. Now, exactly how is that going to work? Does she pick one to live with happily ever after? What happens to hero number two? And why does she even need him if she’s gonna pick hero number one?”
“Why does she have to pick?” I asked. “Why can’t she keep both? One could take her out to dinners and shows and fly her to Atlanta—er, I mean, take her to London balls—and the other would be more of an estate type, digging holes for the boulders—”
“Boulders? What boulders? Why is he digging holes for boulders? Jane, are you on drugs?”
“No! Of course I’m not on drugs. I just think women have probably always wanted to have two different men, especially if each of them is so …
special.
” I was saying
special
but I was thinking
sexy.
“Why can’t a woman have two men?”
“Are we still talking the Regency era?”
“Of course! You know how I love the Regency era.”
“Then she has to pick one to marry. You know, because of the babies they’re gonna have while they’re living happily ever after.”
“She doesn’t want babies yet. She doesn’t even want a husband yet. She just got her house looking the way she wants it—”
“Her
house? Women didn’t own property in England, men did. And if she doesn’t want a husband, she has no business being in a historical romance.”
Rose let out a long, exasperated sigh, probably accompanied by a mess of smoke. “Look, Jane. I gotta get on a conference call, but I’m gonna call you back on this later tonight. In the meantime, try to come up with a
Regency
plot between one hero and one heroine, because I gotta tell you, I don’t think I’m gonna go for two heroes.”
I shrugged, hung up, and slipped my phone into my pocket so I could grab my mail. I’d been getting a bit of it since the last article,
Romance Writer Gets Her
Man
Men!
The article had carried the full story of how I’d taken down the land development gang after they’d tried to run me out of my home, and it had been so flattering that I’d actually read it. Twice.
It also outed Hank as J.T., who’d been annoyed at first but after deciding he could capitalize on it to bring business to his newly formed naturescaping company, quickly got over it. Turned out he’d left tennis looking for something meaningful to do with his life, and he found it while helping me out. He would take on landscaping projects for wealthy people, maybe even naturescape golf courses and resorts, but he’d also do inner city parks and other projects pro bono, his way of sharing his blessings.
The article sported flattering photos of me standing with Bryan at a fund-raiser, both of us dressed to the hilt, of me standing with Hank by the pond, both of us almost naked, and of me standing over Fireplug with a pistol. I still didn’t know how Bryan and Hank met—each had smiled cagily at my question and then changed the subject—but I wasn’t worried. I’d worm it out of one of them eventually.
I ripped open an envelope and unfolded the letter inside. I scanned the first page quickly and then started over again, reading more slowly, since I was pretty sure I must have lost my mental faculties. But no, the letter really did say what I thought it said. Some crazy woman wanted to hire me to find her a husband—one who did housework. Yeah, right. Dream on, lady.
I was about to crumple up the letter when I saw the amount she was offering to pay: $5,000 when they said, “I do.” The little voice in my head said,
Hang on, there. Don’t do anything hasty. Maybe you should think about this.
But I couldn’t … could I? I mean, $5,000. That was robbery, especially since I didn’t believe in marriage. Well, that wasn’t true. I believed in marriage, I just wasn’t ready for it myself. But there was no reason I couldn’t help someone else find true love and all that crap, right? After all, I
was
trying to be a better person. I’d given up lying, maybe I
should
take up robbery … er,
helping.
Helping is good,
said my little voice. And I’d promised to listen to that little voice. Sometimes that little voice came up with some pretty good ideas. I was thinking this could be one of those times.
THE END
************
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S
tephie Smith was born in Parkersburg, West Virginia, the fifth of six girls. Early years were spent making mischief and, in general, driving her parents crazy while the family migrated between Ohio, West Virginia, and Florida. Her family moved so often—18 times before Stephie finished sixth grade—that some people suspected they were running from the law.
Stephie left home at 14, finished high school at 16, and enlisted in the Air Force at 18, graduating with honors from the USAF Schools of Electronics and Instrumentation. After attending several colleges and universities around the county (switching majors from Chemistry to Art to English to Psychology but never figuring out what she wanted to be when she grew up), she followed her sisters to east central Florida and settled there. She remains there today writing historical romance, humorous women’s fiction, and computer how-to books. You can contact her through her website
StephieSmith.com
. She loves to hear from readers.