first time he’d used his money and influence to try to make amends for something he’d done wrong.
But then, when she’d boarded her flight home and found herself seated next to a fascinating neurosurgeon—a man who had been obviously (and flatteringly) interested in getting to know her better—she’d begun to suspect something more inexplicable was afoot. Not even Damon Torrance could cajole a man like Lance, the neurosurgeon, into spending more than an hour talking with her ... and then inviting her to dinner after they landed.
By the time Natasha had agreed to that date, then retrieved her luggage—and her Civic from long-term airport parking—she’d fully expected fate to catch up with her. Surely the universe would teach her a lesson, right? She’d been too lucky so far.
She’d even spontaneously tried out a slot machine at McCarran International Airport—and been rewarded with a nearly thousand-dollar jackpot on the spot. There was no way Damon could have had anything to do with that. That was just good fortune.
It was, she figured, good fortune that she’d inevitably be made to pay for, one way or another. With that thought in mind, Natasha warily pulled onto the freeway. By accepting a free week’s hotel stay, gambling and winning, spending an enjoyable morning being flirted with, and making an actual date for the following week, she knew she must have already used up her meager share of good luck. Half expecting her car to pull its usual unreliable routine, she listened carefully to the engine as she merged into the whizzing San Diego traffic.
Oddly, her Civic practically purred along. No blowouts. No scary “check engine” lights. No weird noises. What’s more, other drivers graciously allowed her into their lanes. Once, when she accidentally cut off another driver, the man waved off her mistake with obvious goodwill. That made her do a double take.
Polite drivers. Huh. What in the world was going on here?
But the oddities had just kept coming after Natasha arrived home to her duplex apartment. She expected the yard to be overgrown with weeds and in dire need of a trim; as the head of her household, Natasha didn’t have the luxury of offloading yard work to a “honey-do list,” the way other women sometimes could. Instead, she saw as she wheeled her luggage up the walk, her green grass and borders of geraniums looked like something out of House Beautiful magazine. Puzzling over that, Natasha inhaled the welcome, briny scent of ocean air. This couldn’t be Carol’s work; her mother-in-law was wonderful in many ways, but she hated gardening and was too thrifty to pay to have it done.
“Oh, hey, Natasha.” Her neighbor, Kurt, lifted a pair of long-handled gardening shears in a welcoming gesture. He’d obviously been out working in his yard. “You’re home.”
“Yes, I just got back. I couldn’t wait to get here.”
“Your yard looks incredible,” Kurt said with obvious admiration. His own green thumb was legendary. “New gardeners?”
“I don’t know. Carol might have hired someone.”
It had seemed like a good guess. But later, Natasha had found out that her mother-in-law didn’t know who’d tidied and trimmed their yard, either. “I guess it was garden pixies.”
“‘Garden pixies’?” Natasha had repeated dubiously. But as her unlikely good fortune had continued to pile up, “garden pixies” had seemed as likely an explanation as anything else.
The next day, Natasha’s habitually hopeless weekly purchase of a “lucky” lottery scratch-off ticket had actually won almost fifty dollars. Her favorite boutique in La Jolla had called to say they had received a pair of shoes she’d ordered weeks earlier—and they were now on sale at forty percent off.
Her “good mornings” to her neighbors had been greeted with grins and chatty conversations. Her veterinarian had informed her that her dog, Finn, a golden retriever/bulldog mix, was in perfect health ... and
But then, when she’d boarded her flight home and found herself seated next to a fascinating neurosurgeon—a man who had been obviously (and flatteringly) interested in getting to know her better—she’d begun to suspect something more inexplicable was afoot. Not even Damon Torrance could cajole a man like Lance, the neurosurgeon, into spending more than an hour talking with her ... and then inviting her to dinner after they landed.
By the time Natasha had agreed to that date, then retrieved her luggage—and her Civic from long-term airport parking—she’d fully expected fate to catch up with her. Surely the universe would teach her a lesson, right? She’d been too lucky so far.
She’d even spontaneously tried out a slot machine at McCarran International Airport—and been rewarded with a nearly thousand-dollar jackpot on the spot. There was no way Damon could have had anything to do with that. That was just good fortune.
It was, she figured, good fortune that she’d inevitably be made to pay for, one way or another. With that thought in mind, Natasha warily pulled onto the freeway. By accepting a free week’s hotel stay, gambling and winning, spending an enjoyable morning being flirted with, and making an actual date for the following week, she knew she must have already used up her meager share of good luck. Half expecting her car to pull its usual unreliable routine, she listened carefully to the engine as she merged into the whizzing San Diego traffic.
Oddly, her Civic practically purred along. No blowouts. No scary “check engine” lights. No weird noises. What’s more, other drivers graciously allowed her into their lanes. Once, when she accidentally cut off another driver, the man waved off her mistake with obvious goodwill. That made her do a double take.
Polite drivers. Huh. What in the world was going on here?
But the oddities had just kept coming after Natasha arrived home to her duplex apartment. She expected the yard to be overgrown with weeds and in dire need of a trim; as the head of her household, Natasha didn’t have the luxury of offloading yard work to a “honey-do list,” the way other women sometimes could. Instead, she saw as she wheeled her luggage up the walk, her green grass and borders of geraniums looked like something out of House Beautiful magazine. Puzzling over that, Natasha inhaled the welcome, briny scent of ocean air. This couldn’t be Carol’s work; her mother-in-law was wonderful in many ways, but she hated gardening and was too thrifty to pay to have it done.
“Oh, hey, Natasha.” Her neighbor, Kurt, lifted a pair of long-handled gardening shears in a welcoming gesture. He’d obviously been out working in his yard. “You’re home.”
“Yes, I just got back. I couldn’t wait to get here.”
“Your yard looks incredible,” Kurt said with obvious admiration. His own green thumb was legendary. “New gardeners?”
“I don’t know. Carol might have hired someone.”
It had seemed like a good guess. But later, Natasha had found out that her mother-in-law didn’t know who’d tidied and trimmed their yard, either. “I guess it was garden pixies.”
“‘Garden pixies’?” Natasha had repeated dubiously. But as her unlikely good fortune had continued to pile up, “garden pixies” had seemed as likely an explanation as anything else.
The next day, Natasha’s habitually hopeless weekly purchase of a “lucky” lottery scratch-off ticket had actually won almost fifty dollars. Her favorite boutique in La Jolla had called to say they had received a pair of shoes she’d ordered weeks earlier—and they were now on sale at forty percent off.
Her “good mornings” to her neighbors had been greeted with grins and chatty conversations. Her veterinarian had informed her that her dog, Finn, a golden retriever/bulldog mix, was in perfect health ... and
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