Monahan's Gamble

Cullen narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Gee, they can get one of those down at Huck’s Pawnshop for twenty bucks. Thirty if they want one that’s not hot.”

“A wedding ring with a husband attached,” Sean clarified—not that any clarification would be necessary if it weren’t for the fact that he was sitting at a table with his four moronic friends and relatives.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry, but Huck doesn’t include that kind of service with his pawn,” Cullen said. “A man has to draw the line somewhere.”

Sean sighed impatiently. “You know what I mean,” he said evenly. “Women—all women—want to get married. They want to find that one special someone and settle down forever, then milk the poor sap for everything he’s got—socially, financially, emotionally, spiritually, you name it. Women want to be wives. That’s all there is to it.”

There wasn’t a single comment from anyone present at the table for a moment, then, “Stand back, everybody,” Finn said mildly, “I think his brain is about to blow.”

Sean growled under his breath. “Look, all I’m saying is that if Autumn Pulaski has this ridiculous rule about not dating anybody for more than a month—”

“A lunar month,” Cullen reminded him.

“A lunar month,” Sean said through gritted teeth, “then she’s only doing it to rouse more interest.”

Finn eyed him levelly. “You know, Sean, I think I speak for everyone here when I say, ‘Huh?”’

The other three men nodded their agreement.

Sean rolled his eyes. “Autumn wants to make herself seem more appealing, in order to snag a man,” he said. “She thinks that if she has this no-dating-after-a-month—”

“A lunar month,” Cullen corrected him again.

“—rule,” Sean continued, ignoring his younger brother, “then it’ll just make guys that much more determined to date her for more than a lunar,” he said before Cullen could interrupt him, “month.”

“So you don’t think she’s serious when she says she’ll never date a man for longer than four weeks?” Ted asked.

“Of course she’s not serious,” Sean said with much conviction.

Ted eyed him curiously. “Then…why hasn’t she ever dated any man in Marigold for more than four weeks?”

Sean shrugged. “She hasn’t met the right guy, that’s all,” he said. “That’s another reason she’s got this alleged rule. So she can let the less-desirable guys go without a messy confrontation.”

“And you think you’re the right guy,” Charlie assumed.

“I’m certainly a damn sight better than any of you mooks,” he said smugly. “And Gordon.”

“Yes, well, you always were a legend in your own mind,” Finn remarked mildly.

“I’m serious,” Sean insisted. “Autumn Pulaski only has her cockamamie lunar-month rule because she knows it will just make guys that much more determined to go out with her. Then, when she finally reels in the one she wants, she’ll have the guy so bamboozled, she’ll be able to wrap him up in silver wedding paper with a big, white bow.”

Cullen studied him with much speculation. “So what makes you think that you could, in addition to dating her for more than four weeks, avoid being so bamboozled and wrapped up like a wedding gift yourself?”

“Like I said, I know women,” Sean reiterated matter-of-factly. “I’m hip to her game before we even start to play it. I will come out the winner. In more ways than one.”

“You really think so?” Finn asked.

Sean nodded. “Hey, if there’s anybody out there who can last longer than a lunar month with Autumn Pulaski,” he said with a smile, “I’m the man.”

Finn chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, eyeing Sean with much consideration. Then, right when it occurred to Sean, at the very back of his brain, that he might have just steered himself toward a deadly cliff—but much too late for him to backpedal out of the fatal fall— Finn uttered the words that, for thirty-four years, had tolled the death knell for Sean’s good sense:

“Prove it, little brother,” Finn said knowingly. “Prove it.”

Autumn Pulaski was wrestling with a large mass of dough, one that would eventually be a nice loaf of seven-grain onion dill, when she heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door in the shop area of the Autumn’s Harvest Bakery. Normally that door would still be locked this early in the morning, but she’d brought some things in through the front earlier and had neglected to lock up behind herself. It had hardly seemed necessary, because few people in Marigold, Indiana, were even awake this time of morning—particularly on a Saturday. And those who were awake were almost certainly not out and about. And those who were out and about were either working themselves, or were on their way to go fishing.

“We’re not open yet!” she called out toward the shop. “Come back at seven!”

But instead of hearing the tinkle of the bell as her 6 a.m. customer left, Autumn heard silence instead, indicating the visitor was still out in the shop. She was more curious about that development than she was concerned for her safety. This was, after all, Marigold, Indiana. In other words, Small Town, U.S.A. The only crimes that occurred here were crimes of fashion.

Plus, she wasn’t alone in the bakery. She was working with two of the teenage girls she’d hired for the summer, not to mention Louis, who always came in to help her in the mornings. And Louis was six foot seven, had shoulders the size of the Hoover Dam and forearms as big as a Bekins truck. His long, gray beard was braided down to nearly his very ample waist, and a tattoo on his right bicep read, quite simply, Raise Hell. Nobody, but nobody messed with Louis.

And nobody made better cream puffs, either.

Autumn sighed heavily and jerked her head to the side, pitching her long, fat, auburn braid over one shoulder. She wiped her hands on her white apron, tugged the sleeves of her white peasant blouse down over her elbows, and did her best to straighten the white kerchief she had tied around her head, pirate-style. And she abandoned, for now, the heap of seven-grain onion dill that taunted her, and went out to the shop to assess the situation.

Immediately she wished she had stayed in the kitchen and sent Louis instead. Not because of any threat to her personal safety—well, not any criminal threat at any rate. But because Sean Monahan stood front and center in the middle of her shop, looking adorably sleep rumpled and half dozing, his slumberous blue eyes even sexier than usual. And all Autumn could think was, Oh, no.

Of course, she thought further, finding one of the Monahan brothers in her immediate sphere of existence was bound to have happened sooner or later. This was, after all, Marigold, Indiana, where everybody knew everybody, and everybody met everybody just about every day. She only wished this episode could have happened a lot later than it had.

Then again, she thought further still, she supposed she should be grateful this encounter had taken two years to occur, even if she had made every effort to ensure that such a meeting never took place. Because the last thing Autumn wanted or needed was to have a handsome, charming, eligible man in her immediate sphere of existence. Her entire move from Chicago to Marigold had been driven by just that need. Or, rather, that lack of need. Or something like that.

Two times—two times—Autumn had found herself involved in relationships with handsome, charming, eligible men, men who had promised to love her and honor her and cherish her, in sickness and in health, till death did them part. Unfortunately, the men in question had just never made those promises at the altar. They’d said they would make those promises at the altar, but neither of them— neither of them—had shown up at the respective altars where they had been scheduled to appear.

Fool her once, shame on them, Autumn reasoned. Fool her twice, shame on her. Fool her three times, and it was going to be necessary for her to enter a convent. Which would pose problems on a variety of levels, not the least of which was the fact that Autumn wasn’t Catholic. She was an Emersonian Transcendentalist. So the nun thing wasn’t really going to be doable. Therefore, she was just going to have to make sure there wasn’t a third time. She’d entertained a lot of possibilities about how to ensure that, and had decided on the one plan that had sounded best—moving to a small town where there were no handsome, charming, eligible men to sidetrack her, and doing what she’d always dreamed about doing: opening her own bread bakery.

So that was why Autumn had fled to Marigold—to follow a dream, and to get away from men like Sean Monahan. She had reasoned that small-town life would be a hugely welcome change from the big-city lifestyle she had embraced for so long. She had also thought that a small town like Marigold would be infinitely safer than big-city living. Not because of the crime factor—though, granted, Marigold’s nonexistent crime rate was a nice by-product of her change of venue. But more because small towns were supposed to be utterly bereft of handsome, charming eligible men—unlike Chicago, which had seemed to be overflowing with them.

Autumn needed a respite—a nice, lo-o-o-ong respite, like maybe for the rest of her life—from handsome, charming, eligible men. Marigold, Indiana, had seemed like the kind of place that would have almost none. Small towns were supposed to drive young singles away in, well, droves. Instead, no sooner had she unpacked her belongings and opened her bakery than she had wandered out into the town itself to make friends…only to discover that Marigold, Indiana, was overflowing with handsome, charming, eligible men, from the head of the Chamber of Commerce—who, thankfully, was happily married—right down to the local mechanic—who, wouldn’t you know it, was not.

And right at the top of that pile were the Monahan brothers—all five of them. Five of them, she marveled now as she gazed anxiously at Sean. As if one wouldn’t have been overwhelming enough for the universe—or, at the very least, for Autumn Pulaski. Each one of them had piercing blue eyes and dark, silky hair and finely chiseled features. Each one was a piece of Greek-god artwork just waiting to be worshipped. Each one was handsome. Each one was charming. Each one was eligible.

Damn. Just her luck.

“Hello,” she said to Sean now, trying not to notice his piercing blue eyes or his dark, silky hair or his finely chiseled features.

But doing that left her nothing to focus on except for his Greek-god-artwork physique, and that was no help at all. Clad in lovingly faded, form-fitting Levi’s and an equally faded and form-fitting black T-shirt, his entire body fairly rippled with muscle and sinew and, oh, my stars, it was just too much for Autumn this early in the day, before she’d even had her second cup of coffee. Looking at Sean Monahan was making her feel sluggish and indolent and warm, and very much in the mood to return to her bed. Except…not alone. And…not for sleeping.

“Can I help you?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as sluggish and indolent and warm as it—and the rest of her—felt.

Belatedly she realized she probably shouldn’t have asked the question at all. Not only did it offer him an opportunity to say something flirtatious—and everyone in Marigold knew that flirtatious was Sean Monahan’s natural state—but there was nothing for her to help him with. The store wasn’t open yet. There was no bread to sell. Then again, knowing what she did of Sean Monahan, which was surprisingly a lot, considering the fact that she’d never met him formally—or even casually—he probably wasn’t interested in her bread, anyway.

But before she could make clear the fact that she had nothing to offer him—nothing of the bread persuasion, at any rate—Sean smiled at her, and her entire body went zing. Truly. Zing. She’d had no idea that the human body could, in fact, go zing, until now. But that was exactly what Sean’s smile did to her. Because it was the kind of smile a man really shouldn’t smile at a woman unless they were extremely well—nay, intimately—acquainted.

“I just wanted to get a big, strapping cup of coffee,” he said, cranking up the wattage on his smile to a near-blinding setting.

Oh, Autumn really wished he hadn’t said the words big and strapping, because, inevitably, they drove her thoughts—and her gaze, dammit—right back to that Greek-god-artwork body of his.

“My coffeemaker went belly-up on me this morning,” he continued.