Life According to Lucy. Cindi Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ about a cruel dog? And it wasn’t an ice cube, but a cold, wet nose. The pup sat on Lucy’s pillow and wagged its tail, the doggy equivalent of a grin on its face. “What are you so happy about?” Lucy snapped.

      “Woof!”

      She figured that remark had something to do with breakfast. Not bothering to look in the mirror, she ran a brush through her hair and pulled on the shorts and T-shirt she’d worn last night. Every time she’d seen Mr. Polhemus, he was in the same stained coveralls and dirty ball cap, so he wasn’t likely to notice what she had on.

      When she staggered into the kitchen, her dad was sitting at the table with a guy who had broad shoulders and thick blond hair. The stranger was laughing at something her dad had said and didn’t see her coming in. She froze in the doorway. Why hadn’t Dad mentioned Mr. Polhemus had brought a man with him? A man who might possibly notice her wrinkled shirt and rat’s nest hair, not to mention her leg stubble.

      She backed toward her room. She’d just duck in, change clothes, wet her hair and blow it dry again, shave her legs, put on makeup—

      “Lucy! What are you doing back there? Come on out and meet Greg.”

      Her legs moved automatically as she stared, goggle-eyed, at the man with her dad. He had on more clothes today, but there was no mistaking those broad shoulders and that smile. “Greg? You’re Greg Polhemus?”

      He smiled and stood. “If it isn’t Miss Nothing.”

      He actually stood up. Her mother would love that. Of course Lucy had known that already, hadn’t she? But where was the real Mr. Polhemus? “What happened to the old man in the coveralls?” she blurted.

      His smile faded. “That was my dad. He died last year.”

      Okay, could they just rewind and start over? She gulped. “I’m sorry.” That’s the way she liked to start every day—shoe leather for breakfast.

      She dropped into a chair and the dog immediately vaulted into her lap. “Cute dog,” Greg said.

      “Uh, yeah.” She rubbed the dog behind the ears. Anything to keep from looking at him. “Yeah. She showed up last night. I think she’s lost.”

      He leaned over and patted the dog’s flank. He smelled like Irish Spring. The dog’s tail beat against Lucy’s side. “Maybe somebody dumped her,” he said.

      Some man, she thought. She scratched the pup’s chin. “I guess if no one claims her, I’ll keep her.” After all, we women have to stick together.

      She stifled a yawn and risked a peek at Greg. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a total geek. He hadn’t given her too hard a time about yesterday. At least not yet. And he did have nice hair and bronzed muscles and all…He looked up and caught her staring. She fought back a blush. “Do you always start work so early?”

      He shrugged. “You said it was an emergency.”

      “Well, yeah. It’s my mom’s roses. They’re dying.”

      “What’s wrong with them?”

      “I don’t know. That’s why I called you.” She was easily annoyed in the morning. Especially when she was operating on only four hours sleep. “Or rather, I called your dad.” She frowned at him. “Do you know anything about roses?”

      He stood, towering over her. “I know everything about roses.”

      She bit back a groan. Lord save her from arrogant men!

      GREG FOLLOWED Lucy out into the backyard. She wasn’t exactly what he’d expected from Barb Lake’s daughter. Barb had been the stereotypical suburban housewife, in sweater sets and khakis. Her daughter looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of some hip fashion mag. Or rather, she looked like a model who’d slept in her clothes. She’d obviously just rolled out of bed. The thought sent a kaleidoscope of erotic images whirling through his brain.

      He focused on her cute little bottom as she picked her way along the garden path. She was acting all bent out of shape because he had shown up instead of his dad, but he figured it was mostly a face-saving move, considering the last time he’d seen her she’d been literally tossed out on the curb.

      He dragged his gaze away from her to study the yard. Sun glared off the oyster-shell paths and heat radiated off the fence boards. The thermometer on the wall showed eighty-two degrees.

      Then his gaze landed on the roses and his stomach twisted. The bushes looked as if they’d been attacked by locusts. The canes drooped and drifts of yellow leaves decorated the mulch. Barb must be turning over in her grave. The old man was probably spinning right along with her. He moved closer and broke off a remaining leaf and examined it, then dug down into the mulch with his fingers. Lucy fidgeted beside him, like a patient waiting to hear the worst.

      He moved to another bush, and then another, shaking his head and making clucking noises under his tongue. This was bad. Really bad.

      “Well? What’s wrong?” Lucy blurted.

      He straightened and turned to her. “More like what isn’t? You’ve got black spot, aphids, powdery mildew, root rot and rust.” He ticked the maladies off on his fingers.

      She blinked at the pathetic plants, her mouth trembling. He braced himself for tears. Did he have a clean handkerchief anywhere?

      “Can’t you do something?” she asked.

      He looked at the roses again and sighed. “Maybe. It’ll take a lot of work.” Just what he needed. More work.

      “That’s okay.”

      Sure. A babe like her probably had a social life. “Um, what I meant to say is it will take a lot of my work.”

      “Oh.” She traced a dollar sign in the oyster shell with the toe of her sandal. “Are you expensive?”

      “I can be.” He grinned, unable to resist adding, “But then, I’m very good.”

      She jerked her head up to stare at him and he gave her a lazy, half smile. Maybe trying to resuscitate Barb Lake’s roses wouldn’t be such a hardship. Especially if he could talk her daughter into working with him.

      A noise in the bushes distracted them both. That little dog of hers was digging furiously in one of the beds. “Looks like the pup’s ready to get started,” he said.

      “Hey! Get out of there!” She lunged and the dog darted away.

      “What are you going to call her?” Greg asked.

      She brushed aside the shower of leaves that had drifted onto her arms and shoulders when she’d gone after the dog. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

      “You found her in the garden. It ought to be something to do with gardening. How about Rose?”

      She wrinkled her nose. “Rose doesn’t sound like a dog’s name.”

      He looked around, seeking inspiration on the shelves outside the potting shed. Ortho—no. Daconil—He didn’t think so. Mille fleur fertilizer…He grinned. “How about Millie?”

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