Rent A Millionaire Groom. Judy Christenberry

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      “Well, he’s your typical Hollywood hunk.” Elise hoped that would satisfy her friends. She should’ve known better.

      After staring at her, Phoebe nodded her head and said, “I can’t wait to meet him. Are you going to introduce him to Daisy afterwards?”

      “No! Actors aren’t—stable. I mean, their jobs aren’t stable. That wouldn’t be good for a prospective dad, you know.”

      “She’s right,” Daisy agreed, which settled Elise’s nerves. “They’re always gone. And they’re notorious for having affairs with the women they work with.”

      Elise didn’t like that thought. Not that it was any of her business what James did when he made movies. If he made movies.

      Desperate to end the conversation before she revealed too much to herself as well as to her friends, she stood. “Look, I need to get ready. He’s going to be here at seven.”

      “Want to let me do your makeup?” Phoebe asked.

      Phoebe was a makeup consultant as well as a college student, a “retread” college student as she called herself, and she frequently offered to do Elise’s makeup. Elise always refused.

      “This isn’t a date, Phoebe, but thank you. It’s research. That’s what James called it.”

      “Okay, come on, Daisy, and I’ll tell you about the guy I found for you today over dinner at The Prickly Pear.” Phoebe stood and offered a hand to pull Daisy to her feet.

      Daisy joined Phoebe. “I wish you were coming with us, Elise.”

      “When I get in, I’ll call you to find out what the two of you decided about the latest husband prospect for Daisy. With that book to help us, I’m sure you’ll be married and expecting soon, Daisy.”

      “I hope so,” Daisy said with a sigh.

      JAMES COULDN’T BELIEVE how much he was looking forward to his evening with Elise. Dr. Elise Foster. His friends would laugh if they realized he was dating an egghead, an intellectual.

      Not that he was dumb, but he’d made his money understanding popular culture. His ad agency had done some of the most successful ad campaigns in the past few years. That was a long way from Shakespeare, or maybe he should say Molière, the French answer to the famous English playwright.

      And Bobby would probably come unglued. James was pretty sure Bobby had taken French with Elise. He remembered now his brother talking about a beautiful French teacher. And Elise was beautiful, in a quiet way. Bobby had only stayed in the class one semester. Studying verb conjugations wasn’t his cup of tea. He’d only wanted to pick up the proper accent.

      That probably explained why Elise hadn’t remembered his brother.

      He dressed carefully, sticking with jeans and a casual shirt, topped by a linen sports coat. He took the check Elise had given him and tucked it in his breast pocket. His good luck charm.

      Earlier, he’d convinced his housekeeper to swap cars with him for the evening. She hadn’t wanted to drive his Mercedes, but she’d promised to visit her sister. If he turned up in the sleek black car, Elise would smell a rat for sure. So tonight, he was driving MaryBelle’s inexpensive sedan.

      He reminded himself to talk MaryBelle into allowing him to get the car tuned up for her. It was an older model car, and the rough sound of the engine had him concerned for MaryBelle’s safety. His housekeeper was an energetic sixty-year-old, who could cook and clean like a demon. But she knew nothing about cars. If it broke down with her, she’d be stranded.

      He parked in front of the condominiums where Elise lived. Mesa Blue. It actually had a front lawn, an unusual feature in Phoenix. Elise had said it got its name from the swimming pool, the center of the complex. Its tile bottom was a deep blue.

      He approved of the well-lit area. It looked safe to him. Funny, he’d never evaluated the security of his dates’ homes before. It was probably because he’d been thinking about MaryBelle’s safety. Yeah, that was it.

      He found her apartment on the second floor, apartment 2D, and knocked. His heart rate sped up as he heard footsteps approaching.

      When the door opened, he caught his breath.

      Gone was the staid suit, the prim hairdo. Elise was dressed in jeans, as he was, topped by a green short-sleeved sweater with a modest V-neck. Her light brown hair was down, curving around her face, and she looked like a college student herself.

      He found himself leaning forward, as if to kiss her hello, and stepped back. “Ready?” he asked hastily.

      “Yes. Do you want to come in for a drink?”

      “If you don’t mind, no. I’m starving.”

      She immediately stepped out of her apartment and locked the door behind her. “Of course. Where shall we go?”

      “I’ve found a place I think you’ll like. I wanted somewhere quiet so we can talk. Some of these places have the music turned up so loud you can’t hear yourself think.”

      Some of the tension he’d noted on her face eased. “I know what you mean. I thought you might prefer those kinds of places. You’re—you’re younger, I suppose.”

      “Actually, I’m not as young as you might think,” he admitted, avoiding her gaze. “I came back to ASU after trying my luck on the job market. I discovered I’m more interested in creating drama than I am in acting.” At least, that’s what his brother Bobby had told him when Bobby had made the decision to return to college after a couple of years in Los Angeles.

      “Really? Do you write plays?”

      “I’m working on a couple. Nothing that’s been bought yet.”

      “That’s wonderful, James,” she said eagerly.

      He wasn’t sure why that news pleased her so, but he had no objection to making her happy. She was practically beaming at him.

      “You prefer a playwright to an actor?”

      Her cheeks flushed and she looked away. “It just seems more—more interesting, actually. One of my friends is creative. She has a gallery nearby called Native Art. But her greatest happiness comes when she creates her own art.”

      “Hey, I’ve been in that store. She has some nice stuff. And she’s done some of it?” He put his hand on her back to guide her down the stairs, liking the warmth of her, a soft floral scent drifting to his nostrils.

      “Actually, no. She creates pottery for her friends, but she won’t put her own work in the store. She doesn’t think it’s good enough.”

      “Creative people are often unsure of themselves.” He dealt with employees like Elise’s friend. Brilliant people, but their mood swings sometimes made them difficult to work with.

      “Are you?”

      It took him a minute to figure out what she was asking. “Uh, I suppose we all are unsure of ourselves sometimes.”

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