lived in the house next door. They brought her homemade jam and asked about her day.
But subtle they were not.
Except they had been ever since she’d stopped going to the office. They hadn’t asked her a single question about why she spent all day in her rooms, or why she always looked perfectly groomed and never went anywhere. Ever since she’d moved in, they’d grilled her almost every day about what she’d done, who she’d seen. And they were passionate followers of her non-existent love life. But now? They didn’t ask. About anything.
Damn. She hated to leave this place, but she was going to have to downgrade big-time. A different neighborhood, a one-room apartment that suited her new life as a minimum wage employee in a hotel or coffee shop.
* * * * *
Dorothea and Deborah had been waiting weeks for Connie to tell them what had happened. They’d decided early on not to ask her, to let her come to them, but they’d had enough and were waiting in the front hallway to ambush her. They knew she’d lost her job, and they knew just what to do to fix it.
They weren’t witches for nothing.
“Connie?” Dorothea called, as her favorite tenant and the woman she’d come to think of as family tried to sneak down the stairs.
“Dorothea?” Connie squeaked, then paused, her face somber. “I was coming down to see you.”
Dorothea listened with her heart rather than her head and knew exactly what Connie was coming to tell her. She forestalled that conversation with an idea she and Deborah had conceived after speaking with Jamieson Smith. “Good, because I’ve got something I’d like you to consider.”
* * * * *
Connie twisted her hands in her lap. No service job was going to pay her enough to stay here, to pay her back taxes, to go back to the life she’d had just six weeks ago. She had to tell Dorothea the truth.
Holding out the letter with her notice and apology, she tried to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes.
Dorothea waved off the letter. “You’re not leaving,” she said, with a quick glance at Deborah, and Connie wondered yet again whether the women had a touch of the sight, because otherwise, how the hell did they know what Connie was going to say?
Half an hour later, Connie had a new job helping with some promotional work they were having done—at least they thought she did—and a reduction in her rent. And nothing she’d done or said could sway the two women.
But Jamieson Smith ?
She’d been drooling over him since she’d moved onto Courtwood Street, even knowing she’d never have a chance with him. The women—the many, many women—he dated? They looked like runway models. Rich runway models.
But what choice did she have? If the sisters had their way, she was going to be working with him on a promotion campaign for MatchMagic and, from the martial look in Dorothea’s eyes, Jamieson Smith would have no choice about hiring her. Didn’t matter how tough he was, no one could deny the sisters.
* * * * *
They had summoned him to another meeting. He hadn’t even had time to wrap his head around a campaign for a dating Web site—he, Jamieson Smith, the last man who knew anything about true love and romance—and yet here they were, demanding his presence already.
He laughed as he opened the door to MatchMagic. He could hardly wait to see what they had planned for him this afternoon. Just the thought of them, so much like his family, made him happy. Maybe not the work so much, but those three women? They were great.
What he hadn’t expected was to see the woman he watched walk by his home office every morning, the woman he’d lusted after for months. Oh, he knew he couldn’t have her—just that daily glimpse of her told him that she wasn’t his type. Too sweet, too short, too curvy. But there was something about her that tempted him, even though he was pretty sure she’d want a relationship . But he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t keep from making
But subtle they were not.
Except they had been ever since she’d stopped going to the office. They hadn’t asked her a single question about why she spent all day in her rooms, or why she always looked perfectly groomed and never went anywhere. Ever since she’d moved in, they’d grilled her almost every day about what she’d done, who she’d seen. And they were passionate followers of her non-existent love life. But now? They didn’t ask. About anything.
Damn. She hated to leave this place, but she was going to have to downgrade big-time. A different neighborhood, a one-room apartment that suited her new life as a minimum wage employee in a hotel or coffee shop.
* * * * *
Dorothea and Deborah had been waiting weeks for Connie to tell them what had happened. They’d decided early on not to ask her, to let her come to them, but they’d had enough and were waiting in the front hallway to ambush her. They knew she’d lost her job, and they knew just what to do to fix it.
They weren’t witches for nothing.
“Connie?” Dorothea called, as her favorite tenant and the woman she’d come to think of as family tried to sneak down the stairs.
“Dorothea?” Connie squeaked, then paused, her face somber. “I was coming down to see you.”
Dorothea listened with her heart rather than her head and knew exactly what Connie was coming to tell her. She forestalled that conversation with an idea she and Deborah had conceived after speaking with Jamieson Smith. “Good, because I’ve got something I’d like you to consider.”
* * * * *
Connie twisted her hands in her lap. No service job was going to pay her enough to stay here, to pay her back taxes, to go back to the life she’d had just six weeks ago. She had to tell Dorothea the truth.
Holding out the letter with her notice and apology, she tried to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes.
Dorothea waved off the letter. “You’re not leaving,” she said, with a quick glance at Deborah, and Connie wondered yet again whether the women had a touch of the sight, because otherwise, how the hell did they know what Connie was going to say?
Half an hour later, Connie had a new job helping with some promotional work they were having done—at least they thought she did—and a reduction in her rent. And nothing she’d done or said could sway the two women.
But Jamieson Smith ?
She’d been drooling over him since she’d moved onto Courtwood Street, even knowing she’d never have a chance with him. The women—the many, many women—he dated? They looked like runway models. Rich runway models.
But what choice did she have? If the sisters had their way, she was going to be working with him on a promotion campaign for MatchMagic and, from the martial look in Dorothea’s eyes, Jamieson Smith would have no choice about hiring her. Didn’t matter how tough he was, no one could deny the sisters.
* * * * *
They had summoned him to another meeting. He hadn’t even had time to wrap his head around a campaign for a dating Web site—he, Jamieson Smith, the last man who knew anything about true love and romance—and yet here they were, demanding his presence already.
He laughed as he opened the door to MatchMagic. He could hardly wait to see what they had planned for him this afternoon. Just the thought of them, so much like his family, made him happy. Maybe not the work so much, but those three women? They were great.
What he hadn’t expected was to see the woman he watched walk by his home office every morning, the woman he’d lusted after for months. Oh, he knew he couldn’t have her—just that daily glimpse of her told him that she wasn’t his type. Too sweet, too short, too curvy. But there was something about her that tempted him, even though he was pretty sure she’d want a relationship . But he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t keep from making
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