“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had a hard time keeping my eyes off you tonight.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m having a difficult time believing you would be interested in me.”
Hannah couldn’t be more wrong. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re smart and savvy and pretty damn brave to raise a child on your own and finish college at the same time.”
Logan could … all night. “You’re a survivor and very beautiful, although you don’t seem to know that. And that’s not only hard to find in a beautiful woman, it’s appealing.”
“Right now I’d like to kiss you,” he blurted out before his brain caught up with his mouth. “But I’m not going to.”
“Why not?” she asked, looking thoroughly disappointed.
“Because if I kissed you, I might not want to stop there.”
* * *
From Single Mum to Secret Heiress is a Dynasties: The Lassiters novel— A Wyoming legacy of love, lies and redemption!
From Single Mum
to Secret Heiress
KRISTI GOLD has a fondness for beaches, baseball and bridal reality shows. She firmly believes that love has remarkable healing powers and feels very fortunate to be able to weave stories of love and commitment. As a bestselling author, a National Readers’ Choice Award winner and a Romance Writers of America three-time RITA® Award finalist, Kristi has learned that although accolades are wonderful, the most cherished rewards come from networking with readers. She can be reached through her website at www.kristigold.com, or through Facebook.
To my fellow Lassiter authors, particularly Kathie DeNosky, my good friend and brainstorming buddy. I can always count on you to have my back, as long as you’ve had your coffee. Couldn’t have done this one without you.
What a way to begin the end of April—with limited funds and leaky plumbing.
Yet Hannah Armstrong couldn’t quite believe her sudden change in fortune. Twenty minutes after placing the 5:00 p.m. service call, and hearing the dispatcher’s declaration that they would try to send someone out today, her doorbell sounded.
She left the flooded galley kitchen and carefully crossed the damp dining-room floor that was littered with towels. After entering the living room, she navigated another obstacle course comprised of a toy plastic convertible painted shocking pink, as well as a string of miniature outfits that would be the envy of the fashion-doll world. “Cassie, sweetie, you have to pick up your toys before you can spend the night with Michaela,” she called on her way to answer the summons.
She immediately received the usual “In a minute, Mama,” which came from the hallway to her right.
Hannah started to scold her daughter for procrastinating, but she was too anxious to greet her knight in shining tool belt. Yet when she yanked the front door open, she was completely taken aback by the man standing on her porch. The guy had to be the prettiest plumber in Boulder. Correction. All of Colorado.
She quickly catalogued the details—a six-foot-plus prime specimen of a man with neatly trimmed, near-black hair that gleamed in the sun and eyes that reminded her of a mocha cappuccino. He wore a navy sports coat that covered an open-collared white shirt, dark-wash jeans and a pair of tan polished cowboy boots, indicating she’d probably pulled him away from a family function. Or quite possibly a date since he didn’t appear to be wearing a wedding band.
“Ms. Armstrong?” he asked as soon as she stepped onto the porch, his voice hinting at a slight drawl.
Considering her ragtag appearance—damp holey jeans, no shoes, hair piled into a disheveled ponytail and a faded blue T-shirt imprinted with Bring it On!—Hannah considered denying her identity. But leaky pipes took precedence over pride. “That’s me, and I’m so glad to see you.”
“You were expecting me?” Both his tone and expression conveyed his confusion.
Surely he was kidding. “Of course, although I am really surprised you got here so quickly. And since I’ve obviously interrupted your Friday-night plans, please know I truly appreciate your expediency. Just one question before you get started. What exactly do you charge after normal business hours?”
He looked decidedly uncomfortable, either from the question or her incessant rambling. “Anywhere from two-fifty to four hundred regardless of the hour.”
Ridiculous. “Isn’t that a bit exorbitant for a plumber?”
His initial surprise melted into a smile, revealing dimples that would make the most cynical single gal swoon. “Probably so, but I’m not a plumber.”
Hannah’s face heated over her utterly stupid assumption. Had she been thinking straight, she would have realized he wasn’t a working-class kind of guy. “Then what are you? Who are you?”
He pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and offered it to her. “Logan Whittaker, attorney at law.”
A slight sense of dread momentarily robbed Hannah of a response, until she realized she had no reason to be afraid of a lawyer. She gained enough presence of mind to take the card and study the text. Unfortunately, her questions as to why he was there remained unanswered. She’d never heard of the Drake, Alcott and Whittaker law firm, and she didn’t know anyone in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
She looked up to find him studying her as intently as she had his card. “What’s this about?”
“I’m helping settle the late J. D. Lassiter’s estate,” he said, then paused as if that should mean something to her.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone named Lassiter, so there must be some mistake.”
He frowned. “You are Hannah Lovell Armstrong, right?”
“And your mother’s name is Ruth Lovell?”