claim to the house. What
in God’s name had she been thinking?
What? Why? Because her life in Houston had stopped working. She’d needed a change and needed it badly. But she hadn’t bargained
on feeling so … so … What did she feel?
Jillian sighed. Well, there was nothing to do but make the best of the situation. She’d clean the house, that was a first
step. And she’d start by throwing away the piles and piles of magazines and newspapers stacked all around the living room.
Apparently Tucker Manning was something of a pack rat.
She rummaged through the kitchen, found black plastic garbage bags, and returned to the living room. She picked up a stack
of magazines.
Architectural Digest
mostly. She tossed them into the garbage bag and then reached for another handful.
Her gaze fell on the cover. There was a picture of Tuck looking quite debonair in a tuxedo. He was winking, arms folded across
his chest, biceps bulging at the seams of his suit, a sly grin on his face.
The caption read
manning magic.
This
was the scruffy naked bum she’d found sleeping on the couch in her house?
Unbelievable.
Correction. It’s not officially your house yet.
Fascinated to uncover this new information, she sat cross-legged on the floor and flipped to the page with the article about
the brilliant young architect the media had dubbed the “Magic Man.” He designed classrooms so conducive to learning that test
scores and grades shot up in students who attended classes in a Manning school.
The article heaped praise on his talent, citing him as one of the most influential young architects of his generation. There
were detailed photographs of the learning centers he designed and pictures of his exclusive Manhattan loft. According to the
piece, he dated starlets and heiresses and traveled the world.
Why had he given it all up to live like a vagrant in Blake’s summerhouse? Yes, he’d lost a wife, but that was two years ago.
Why hadn’t he gone back to his former life?
Jillian flipped back to the cover and saw the magazine had come out four years earlier.
“Wow, you’re a lot more complicated than appearances led me to believe, Tucker Manning,” she muttered.
“And you’re a lot snoopier than you look,” growled Tuck from the living room archway.
Startled, Jillian let out an “Eeep” and tossed the magazine in the air.
Glowering, Tuck “Magic Man” Manning marched across the living room and scooped up the magazine from the fireplace hearth where
it had landed. “Mind your own damn business. And keep your hands off my magazines.”
“Why are you so testy?”
“Um … let’s see. I have some strange woman claiming to have inherited my house. You think that has anything to do with my
sour mood?”
“So get another place and leave this one to me. According to that magazine, you’re rolling in dough.”
“Not anymore,” he snapped.
“Went bankrupt, did you?”
“What part of ‘mind your own business’ do you not understand?”
“So you’re the Magic Man.”
“Don’t go there.”
“Imagine,” she teased. “I’ve seen the Magic Man in his BVDs.”
He snorted. “Only because you were breaking and entering.”
“Door was open, no breaking involved. I was merely entering. And in case you’ve forgotten, I was operating on the assumption
that it was my house.”
“As if you’d let me forget that.”
“What happened to the tux?”
“Huh?”
“The tux you were wearing on the magazine cover. What happened to it?” she asked.
“I sent it out to have it cleaned along with my Rolls-Royce.”
“What would
Architectural Digest
say if they knew how truly crabby the Magic Man could be. Not so magical after all.”
He chuffed out his breath. “I’m not that guy anymore, so can we just drop the whole thing?”
“Aw, but we were just getting to know each other.”
“You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Thanks for
in God’s name had she been thinking?
What? Why? Because her life in Houston had stopped working. She’d needed a change and needed it badly. But she hadn’t bargained
on feeling so … so … What did she feel?
Jillian sighed. Well, there was nothing to do but make the best of the situation. She’d clean the house, that was a first
step. And she’d start by throwing away the piles and piles of magazines and newspapers stacked all around the living room.
Apparently Tucker Manning was something of a pack rat.
She rummaged through the kitchen, found black plastic garbage bags, and returned to the living room. She picked up a stack
of magazines.
Architectural Digest
mostly. She tossed them into the garbage bag and then reached for another handful.
Her gaze fell on the cover. There was a picture of Tuck looking quite debonair in a tuxedo. He was winking, arms folded across
his chest, biceps bulging at the seams of his suit, a sly grin on his face.
The caption read
manning magic.
This
was the scruffy naked bum she’d found sleeping on the couch in her house?
Unbelievable.
Correction. It’s not officially your house yet.
Fascinated to uncover this new information, she sat cross-legged on the floor and flipped to the page with the article about
the brilliant young architect the media had dubbed the “Magic Man.” He designed classrooms so conducive to learning that test
scores and grades shot up in students who attended classes in a Manning school.
The article heaped praise on his talent, citing him as one of the most influential young architects of his generation. There
were detailed photographs of the learning centers he designed and pictures of his exclusive Manhattan loft. According to the
piece, he dated starlets and heiresses and traveled the world.
Why had he given it all up to live like a vagrant in Blake’s summerhouse? Yes, he’d lost a wife, but that was two years ago.
Why hadn’t he gone back to his former life?
Jillian flipped back to the cover and saw the magazine had come out four years earlier.
“Wow, you’re a lot more complicated than appearances led me to believe, Tucker Manning,” she muttered.
“And you’re a lot snoopier than you look,” growled Tuck from the living room archway.
Startled, Jillian let out an “Eeep” and tossed the magazine in the air.
Glowering, Tuck “Magic Man” Manning marched across the living room and scooped up the magazine from the fireplace hearth where
it had landed. “Mind your own damn business. And keep your hands off my magazines.”
“Why are you so testy?”
“Um … let’s see. I have some strange woman claiming to have inherited my house. You think that has anything to do with my
sour mood?”
“So get another place and leave this one to me. According to that magazine, you’re rolling in dough.”
“Not anymore,” he snapped.
“Went bankrupt, did you?”
“What part of ‘mind your own business’ do you not understand?”
“So you’re the Magic Man.”
“Don’t go there.”
“Imagine,” she teased. “I’ve seen the Magic Man in his BVDs.”
He snorted. “Only because you were breaking and entering.”
“Door was open, no breaking involved. I was merely entering. And in case you’ve forgotten, I was operating on the assumption
that it was my house.”
“As if you’d let me forget that.”
“What happened to the tux?”
“Huh?”
“The tux you were wearing on the magazine cover. What happened to it?” she asked.
“I sent it out to have it cleaned along with my Rolls-Royce.”
“What would
Architectural Digest
say if they knew how truly crabby the Magic Man could be. Not so magical after all.”
He chuffed out his breath. “I’m not that guy anymore, so can we just drop the whole thing?”
“Aw, but we were just getting to know each other.”
“You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Thanks for
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