His Potential Wife. Grace Green

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СКАЧАТЬ Willow reflected unhappily, she’d have to admit as much to Dr. Galbraith in the morning.

      Fighting tears of misery and frustration, she stepped into the bath she’d run for herself in her en suite bathroom. Nothing was worth this hassle. The Galbraith children were monsters. They had absolutely defeated her attempts to get through to them and all day long had deliberately set themselves to provoke her.

      But she’d been determined not to let them get the better of her and she’d really believed she had come out on top…until after she’d finally managed to settle them down for the night and had retired to her own room.

      There, to her dismay, she had discovered that furtive little hands had been at work in her backpack. Oh, she could have forgiven the splodges of blue toothpaste gel squeezed over her best cream sweatshirt. She could even have forgiven the scarlet felt pen scrawls over every page of her new journal—a present from her mother. She could even have forgiven the broken chain of a favorite necklace. What she found impossible to forgive was the destruction of the last precious photograph of her father and herself, taken just weeks before he died.

      Someone—Lizzie?—had tugged the picture from its brass frame and crumpled it into a crackly ball.

      It was the final straw in a day straight out of hell.

      And she needed to talk to someone about it!

      There was a phone on her nightstand, and after her bath she put on her T-shirt nightie, and slumping down on the edge of the bed, called her mother and spilled out the whole dismal story.

      Gemma Tyler “tsked” in all the right places, and when her daughter was finished, said softly, “Willow, the first day on a new job is very often the worst.”

      “I know, Mom. But I’ve had first days on new jobs before and not one was a tenth as bad as today. These kids are monsters, they really are.”

      “Tell me about them.”

      Willow wriggled onto the middle of the bed and lying back on her pillows, stared up at the ceiling. “The eldest, Lizzie, is blond and a true beauty. Her sister, Amy, has the loveliest curly red hair and big blue eyes. And Mikey looks so cute he could model diapers on TV—”

      “They sound nice—”

      “Looks are only skin deep, Mom. Lizzie’s as hostile as she is beautiful, her sister shouts ‘Black!’ if I as much as think ‘White’…and Mikey…that child bellows ‘Not!’ at me every time he opens his little mouth!”

      “Ah.” Sympathy flowed across the line like a warm milk and honey drink. “I can see you have your work cut out for you. Tell me,” Gemma continued before Willow had time to tell her she was quitting in the morning, “just one thing. When you look at these three children—I mean, really look at them—do you see at least a kernel of good in them?”

      Willow crinkled her nose. A kernel of good? She wanted to say “No, absolutely not!” but she tried to be fair. And reluctantly she recalled that when she’d gone upstairs to check on the children during what she’d told them was to be their daily after-lunch “quiet time,” instead of finding Mikey in his crib where she’d settled him she’d found him in Lizzie’s room. Amy was there, too. The three were cuddled up asleep on top of Lizzie’s bed…and Lizzie had her arms protectively around her two younger siblings.

      The sight had touched something deep in Willow’s soul.

      But that had all gone by the wayside ten minutes later when the trio charged downstairs, squabbling and shoving and making so much racket they could have been an army.

      “Ye…es, Mom. I do think there might be a kernel of good in them.”

      “Then you mustn’t give up. These poor tots have lost their mother and it’s only natural they’d fight against anyone who tried to take her place. You must give them a chance to work through their grief. And you must find a new place, for yourself, in their wounded hearts.”

      Wounded hearts.

      Out of the blue, the words brought a tightness to Willow’s throat and tears to her eyes as she remembered how wounded her own heart had been after her father had died.

      And she knew, then, that she wouldn’t run away from this daunting task that fate had sent her. She would stay on, at Summerhill, for as long as these children needed her.

      “Good morning, Ms. Tyler.”

      “Good morning, Dr. Galbraith.”

      Scott leaned back against the counter, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, as he regarded his new employee who had just raced into the kitchen. She’d come to a breathless halt and was darting a panicky glance around the room, taking in the harvest table with its empty chairs.

      Flustered and flushed, she blurted out, “I’m sorry, I slept in and the children aren’t in their rooms and—”

      “Not a very good start.” He sent her a look of challenge. “I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence?”

      “No, of course not!” Her flush deepened. “I don’t know what came over me.”

      “Perhaps my children are too much for you. They tired you out yesterday?”

      She ran her hands nervously down the sides of her shorts. “The first day with a new family isn’t always easy. But your children are definitely not too much for me. Now if you’ll just tell me where they are—”

      “Relax.” He put down his mug and filled another one with coffee. “They’ve been fed and watered and they’re in the den, watching TV. Lizzie’s in charge. But you and I need to talk. Please sit down.”

      He saw wariness flicker in her eyes—wariness and anxiety.

      What a funny little creature she was, he reflected as he set her mug on the table. If he’d had to choose one word to describe her, it would be “forgettable.” Swiftly he ran a gaze over her and took in sandy sun-streaked hair scraped back in a neat ponytail. Eyes that couldn’t make up their mind if they were green or gray. Nice skin but without a scrap of makeup other than a touch of pink lip gloss. And under her white T-shirt and perky pink shorts, the slim figure of a teenage boy.

      As she slipped onto her seat and reached awkwardly for her coffee mug, he frowned. She hardly seemed the same person he’d had the altercation with in Morganti’s. Then she’d been all fire and spit and though she’d irritated the hell out of him, he’d had to admire her spunk. Now she looked ready to jump out of her skin.

      He dragged out the chair opposite hers and sat down. “Ms. Tyler.” He tried to keep the impatience from his voice. “Do you think I’m an ogre?”

      She blinked. “No, of course not—”

      “Ms. Tyler.” He rat-tatted the fingers of one hand on the pine table surface. “If we’re to have any kind of a working relationship, you’re going to have to be honest with me. I’ll ask you again, do you think I’m an ogre?”

      She met his gaze steadily. “No, Dr. Galbraith, I don’t.”

      “Well, good.” He leaned back in his chair. “So—” he quirked one black eyebrow СКАЧАТЬ