The Reluctant Cinderella

Maybe it was the wine….

But he knew it wasn’t. He’d been long-gone over the woman from the moment he’d glanced up from his computer and found her standing in the doorway to his office. There’d been no wine then. He’d been stone-cold sober.

Unbelievable. Unacceptable. And impossible.

He was never going to go out with Megan Schumacher. She was from the neighborhood, for pity’s sake. She lived three houses up from Carly….

No way. Couldn’t happen. If he and Megan started seeing each other, there would be talk. And Carly would be hurt even more than he’d already hurt her.

Greg would never go back to Carly. It was over between them and had been for a long time. He did, however, feel a certain…tenderness toward her. A certain responsibility. She was a good woman, just not the woman for him. Somehow, sweet Carly Alderson had turned out to be the perfect wife. Greg didn’t want perfect. He’d never wanted perfect. He’d grown up with perfect and it was a cold, sterile way to live.

He knew that Carly had yet to accept that it was over. But in time, she would. Until then, though, he owed it to her to stay away, to keep himself the hell out of her life—which meant not dating someone she considered her friend. Whatever had happened to him at the sight of sexy Megan Schumacher, it couldn’t be allowed to happen again.

Greg stood in the darkness of his apartment and stared out at the Manhattan night and considered calling Megan to tell her he’d changed his mind about using Design Solutions.

But no. That would not only be a bad business decision for Banning’s, it wouldn’t be right. Her work was top-notch. Her ideas were brilliant. She’d never been anything but strictly professional during the meeting and the lunch that followed. He was the one who’d come within an inch of stepping over the line.

Megan deserved this opportunity. And he had zero doubt that once his father and the others saw what she could do, she would get the contract. They’d be lucky to have her.

Uh-uh. It wasn’t Megan Schumacher’s fault that Greg Banning had gone crazy over her. It was Greg’s problem and he would handle it.

From now on, when it came to Megan, Greg was keeping his mind on business and business alone.

In Rosewood late that night, Megan lay in her bed and stared at the silvery half-moon out the window and thought the same things that Greg was thinking seventy-five miles away.

How could this have happened? She’d truly believed that the silly crush she’d once had on Carly’s husband was over. And yet, since she’d left Greg on the street outside the restaurant, she couldn’t stop thinking of him. His name played over and over in an endless loop inside her head: Greg, Greg, Greg…

Which was dumb, dumb, dumb. She didn’t need a boyfriend. She didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Her life was jam-packed and then some. She hardly had time to get her legs waxed. There wasn’t a minute left over for romance—especially not for a romance with Carly Alderson’s ex.

This was bad. Megan was way too attracted. Much more attracted than she’d been back when Greg and Carly were married. Then, it had only been a kind of now-and-then dreamy fantasy of what it might be like if…

And now? Well, to reiterate: Greg, Greg, Greg…

But it didn’t matter. This crazy feeling she had for him was going nowhere. When she saw him next Monday, she’d make sure it was business and only business.

Period. End of story.

“Pancakes, pancakes. I love pancakes….” Michael sang the words and then poked a great big wad of pancake, dripping syrup, into his mouth.

“Eeww,” remarked Olivia. “You’ve got syrup on your chin and it’s rude to sing at the table.”

“We’re not at the table,” Michael corrected with the pure and literal logic of a five-year-old, the words mushy with that mouthful of pancake. He swallowed. Hard. “We’re at the breakfast counter.” Angela’s roomy kitchen had an L-shaped eating area along one section of the main counter.

“It’s the same,” insisted Olivia. “The breakfast counter is the same as the table when it comes to singing—so you just quit it.”

“Pancakes, pancakes,” Michael sang some more.

“Mo-om. He’s sing-ing.” Olivia turned on her stool to stick her chin out at her mother, who stood by the electric griddle down at the end of the counter, flipping another batch of blueberry pancakes.

“Eat your breakfast, honey,” said her mother. “And Michael, stop singing and finish eating.”

“Humph.” Michael forked up another huge bite and shoved it in his mouth. Olivia flounced around to face front again and delicately picked up her own fork. Anthony ate in silence, staring at his plate.

The doorbell rang. Anthony’s head jerked up. “It’s Dad!” he crowed, brown eyes suddenly alight. “He’s early.” Jerome was due at ten to take the kids to the Catskills for the day.

“Dad!” echoed Michael around a half-chewed lump of pancake.

“Gross,” muttered Olivia.

And then, in unison, all three kids announced, “I’ll get it.”

“Stay put.” Megan slid her napkin beside her half-empty plate. “All of you.”

Olivia groaned. Michael shrugged. Anthony let out a big, fat sigh. But they all remained on their stools.

In the foyer, Megan pulled open the door and found Carly on the front porch looking absolutely gorgeous. Her blond hair fell in soft, perfect waves around her beautiful face, which glowed with just a touch of blusher and a dab of lip gloss. She was dressed in the spirit of the day, in trim, royal-blue capris and a curve-hugging white shirt. On her perfectly manicured feet she wore a pair of strappy red sandals. She carried a layer cake on a crystal cake stand.

The cake was almost as stunning as Carly, a good eight inches high and slathered in ivory-colored swirls of buttercream frosting, with an accurate depiction of an American flag drawn in colored icing across the top.

“Wow.” Megan was so impressed with the cake she almost forgot to feel guilty about going love-wacko over Greg. “That is beautiful.”

Carly blushed and smiled her prettiest smile. “I baked it for you and Angela and the kids. It’s a red velvet cake. And if I do say so myself, it is delish. Where I come from, we would always have red velvet cake on Independence Day.”

Megan ushered her inside and shut the door. “Come on back to the kitchen. We’re having blueberry pancakes. There’s plenty. Join us.”

“Oh. No. Really. I can’t. All I have to do is look at a pancake and I put on five pounds.”

Megan, who always did a lot more than look at her pancakes, only shrugged and offered, “Coffee, then?”

“I’d love a cup. Yes.”

They went on to the kitchen, where Angela spotted the cake and said, “Oh, Carly, you shouldn’t have….” Even the kids got all wide-eyed over it—well, except for Anthony, who only got wide-eyed lately when his mostly absent dad was at the door.

Carly took a stool, accepted a cup of black coffee and talked to each of the children in turn, asking them how they were doing and what their plans were for the day. Michael peppered her with a volley of questions. Olivia, whose rock collection was her pride and joy, solemnly explained that her grandpa had sent her a real quartz crystal, a big one, all the way from Arkansas. Even Anthony opened up to her a little. He said his dad was coming and they were going to the Catskills Game Park and maybe there would be fireworks after dark.

Carly was good with kids. Megan couldn’t help wondering why she and Greg had never had any.

Not that she would ask. Oh, no. Not going there. No way…

The kids finished their breakfast, cleared their places and ran upstairs to get ready to go. Angela served herself the final stack of flapjacks and sat at the counter while Megan got the coffeepot and gave all three of them refills.

Carly, sitting between Angela and Megan, sipped and said how good the coffee was, and asked Angela how her job managing that dentist’s office was going.

Angela said it was great. “And I get holidays. All the good ones. What more can I ask for?”

Regular support checks from Jerome would be nice, Megan thought. But of course, her sister would never say that.

Megan knew what was coming. After a moment, it did.