Wife and Mother Wanted

Things always went wrong at Easter.

Her parents had died at Easter when she was three, she’d been adopted out a year later to the family from hell, and she always seemed to hang onto some loser like Peter to avoid being alone with her memories around this time.

Yep, Easter stank—and it looked as if this year was no exception.

‘My daddy says to look under the nearest bush,’ a small, high-pitched voice said from somewhere over her new neighbour’s fence. ‘Though everyone knows it’s way too early for the Easter Bunny to arrive. He’s practising his hopping ready for next week.’

Carissa looked up and spied a splash of red in the towering eucalypt’s lower branches, the bright material ending above a set of scraped knees covered in a patchwork of Mickey Mouse sticking plasters.

‘Mmm, you could be right,’ Carissa said, hoping the pint-sized person to whom those legs belonged knew her way around trees. She’d hate for the little girl to take a tumble.

She’d heard about her new neighbours, who had barely moved in a week ago. A single father with a girl of about six. Though she’d been meaning to welcome them to the neighborhood, she hadn’t got around to it yet.

Or maybe it had something to do with the brief glimpse she’d caught of the father as he’d unloaded his car. Long, lean legs and a firm, cute butt in faded denim as he’d bent over his car boot had had her taking a second look—a long second look, which had almost culminated in her steering her car onto the lawn rather than up her driveway.

And, though she’d barely caught a glimpse of his face when he’d looked up to see what the commotion was about as she’d grazed a rubbish bin while over-correcting, that one illicit ogle at his posterior had sent her welcome committee plans up in smoke. She’d been way too embarrassed to face him after he’d witnessed her parking skills.

‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ Carissa asked, hoping to talk the little girl out of the tree and put a face to the stubby legs. ‘Mine’s Carissa.’

‘Molly Jane Elliott.’ The little voice pronounced it like a title bestowed by the Queen. ‘But you can call me Molly.’

Smiling, Carissa wandered over to the fence and peered into the tree’s lower branches, still unable to catch sight of the friendly little girl. ‘Pleased to meet you, Molly. Would you like to come down and meet Fred? He’s my favourite frog, but I have loads of others.’

Molly hesitated for all of two seconds before scrambling down in a flash of legs and arms, landing in a none-too-gracious heap at the bottom of the tree.

‘You okay, sweetie?’

Molly nodded and raised her head. ‘Yeah, that’s how I always land. I get a Mickey Mouse every time.’ She pointed to her knees and grinned, displaying a darling gap where a front tooth should be.

However, Carissa didn’t glance at Molly’s knees. Instead, she stared at the girl’s face in shock, seeing a startling resemblance to herself at that age: messy blonde curls, wary blue eyes and a defiant expression that warned Don’t mess with me. I may look little, but I’ve seen plenty.

‘You look kinda funny, Carissa.’ Molly had an adorable lisp, courtesy of the missing front tooth, and combined with her attitude, it had Carissa almost scrambling over the fence in her haste to pick up the pint-sized dynamo and cradle her in her arms.

‘That’s because I can’t find the Easter Bunny, remember?’

Nice save, Lewis.

That was all she needed—for Molly to go running to her dad and tell him about their nutcase neighbour, who stared at his daughter as if she wanted one of her very own. Which was totally true, of course. She’d give anything to have a family of her own: loving husband, delightful kids, white picket fence, the works.

Unfortunately, all she had was the fence, and that had taken a week of blisters and a cricked neck while she put the darn thing up and painted it herself.

Though one thing was for sure. When she had a family of her own they would love each other, support each other and be the exact opposite of what she’d faced growing up.

‘Oh, yeah.’ Molly stood up and dusted off a red cotton pinafore that had seen better days. ‘But you said you had some frogs for me to see?’

‘I sure do. Though maybe you should ask your dad before coming over to play?’

Molly shook her head, blonde curls bouncing around her chubby face, defiance in her blue eyes. ‘Uh-uh. He’ll just make me go inside, like he always does.’

Great. Now what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t encourage the child to leave her back yard without permission, but she didn’t want to disappoint Molly either. She’d had enough of that emotion growing up, and there was something about this child that begged her not to dish out more of the same.

As if on cue, a loud voice bellowed from the rear of the rundown house next door. ‘Molly Jane. Time for lunch. Inside. Now.’

No please. No coaxing. No gentle words of love.

Yeah, she knew exactly what that felt like and it still hurt twenty years later.

‘Don’t want to.’ Molly yelled back, and folded her arms and stamped her foot while Carissa bit back a grin.

Oh, yeah, looking at Molly was like taking a step back in time and seeing a mirror image of herself at that age. And her heart went out to the little girl all over again.

The town gossips had said Molly’s father was a single dad, and she’d assumed that meant he was divorced. From Molly’s scruffy appearance and rebellious attitude, it looked as if the girl hadn’t had her mother’s influence in quite a while.

Was that why Mr Elliott had moved out here? To get away from an ex? In that case, he was selfish. Because anyone could see this little girl needed a woman’s touch. And if he’d deprived her of her mother, well…a guy like that needed someone to talk sense into him. And she knew just the person—with enough firsthand knowledge of what it was like to grow up without a loving mother—to do it.

‘Molly! I said now!’

Trying not to grimace at the man’s impatient tone, Carissa said, ‘Molly, why don’t you go have your lunch and I’ll talk to your dad? Maybe you can come over later?’

Some of the tension eased out of Molly’s shoulders. ‘Really?’

Carissa smiled and nodded, hoping she could talk the ogre into letting his daughter come and spend some time with a stranger. Not that she intended to be a stranger for long.

‘Really. Now, run along.’

Molly sent her a brief, beatific smile before racing across the yard to her back door. ‘Dad! Dad! Carissa wants to talk to you. She’s got loads of frogs and everything! And she’s looking for the Easter Bunny. And she said I can come over and play with her after my lunch. What’s for lunch? Will it take long? I wanna play.’

Molly’s words spilled out in a rush and Carissa saw a man’s shadow bend down to the little girl before she ran inside. Then the man straightened and stepped out of the doorway.

Oh, boy.

Carissa’s breath hitched as she caught her first fronton glimpse of the ogre.

Tall, lean, fighting machine sprang to mind as the man exited the doorway and loped across the back yard towards her. Tension radiated from him in waves, as if he had a surplus of energy coiled tight within, and his body language—folded arms, perpetual frown and compressed lips—read I’m in a bad mood, so lay off.

Never mind that the folded arms displayed a great set of biceps at the edge of his short-sleeved black T-shirt, or that the colour of the T-shirt heightened his dark, brooding good looks. This guy had ‘bad attitude’ written all over him, and she’d dealt with his kind before.

‘Mr Elliott. I’m Carissa Lewis—your neighbour.’

He halted about two feet in front of her and the rest of what she’d been about to say died on her lips as she struggled not to gawk. If she’d thought he looked impressive strolling across the lawn, it had nothing on the man close up.

Sure, the frown was still there, and the lips had thinned further into disapproval, but those eyes! Dark brown, the colour of melted chocolate—the same colour she happily drooled over every night when she dipped ripe strawberries into the mix of milk and bitter chocolate in her fondue pot, her latest eclectic buy.

Their unique colour was accentuated by the longest set of eyelashes she’d ever seen on a guy, giving him a sexy look at odds with the crinkle between his brows—the one that looked like a permanent fixture.

‘The name’s Brody,’ he all but barked. ‘You shouldn’t get my daughter’s hopes up like that—saying she can come over and play.’

Hating that he had her on the back foot already, she said, ‘I said that she should discuss it with you first, but I’d love to have her over.’