The Perfect Wife. Judy Duarte

at least the handsome carpenter would fill her days for a while and make her smile again.

      Hopefully that would suffice until Carly could accept the fact that Greg was gone for good.

      True to her word—and what was becoming habit— Carly woke early on Monday morning. But instead of rolling over, socking her pillow and grumbling about the hour and the insomnia that had been plaguing her nights, she jumped right up and headed for the shower.

      The pounding spray of water felt good and refreshing, so she took her time lathering up with a new aloe-and-pear body soap she’d purchased on her last trip to the mall. Then she shampooed her hair and shaved her legs.

      After drying off with a white, fluffy bath towel, she took her time in choosing an outfit.

      Initially she pulled out several of her favorite slacks and tops, each one expensive, stylish and protected by a plastic dry-cleaning bag. But when she remembered Bo’s comment about her looking real and more attractive when she was dressed casually, she went back to the walk-in wardrobe. Digging through scads of hangers, she finally found a pair of jeans she hadn’t worn in ages, then pulled out about a dozen blouses until she spotted a simple white cotton T-shirt with a scooped neckline that ought to work.

      Next she blew dry her hair in a free and easy style, letting it curl at the shoulders, rather than sweeping it up in a neat twist or chignon like she usually wore.

      She was reaching for her makeup when her hand froze.

      Apparently Bo liked a simple, no-fuss woman.

      Well, that’s what he’d see today.

      Carly put on a light coat of mascara and applied a quick but neat layer of pink lipstick—minus a contrasting liner.

      When she entered the kitchen, a designer masterpiece that Emeril would love, she went to work mixing up a batch of zucchini muffins. As they baked, she squeezed oranges for juice, then ground fresh coffee beans and brewed a full pot.

      It was, she decided, a simple continental style breakfast that Bo wouldn’t be able to resist, even if he’d already eaten at home.

      But she’d no more than pulled the muffins out of the oven when she began having second thoughts.

      Guilty thoughts.

      What in the world was she trying to do?

      First she’d ordered a bookcase she didn’t need. Now she was trying her best to impress a man she had no intention of attracting.

      Before she could ponder her motives, the doorbell gonged throughout the house.

      Uh-oh.

      Bo wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Carly answered, but certainly not a gorgeous girl-next-door wearing denim and a heart-stopping smile.

      “You’re up,” was all he could manage to utter.

      “You said bright and early.”

      That he had. But last fall, when he’d brought a crew to work on various projects at the McMansion, Greg had asked them to start as late in the day as possible. And when they’d arrived, they’d all tried to tiptoe around the place until Carly managed to wake up and exit the master bedroom, all dolled up, with every hair in place and looking like a model ready to walk down a Paris runway.

      “Do you have time for coffee?” she asked.

      He’d planned to get a cup along the way, between this estimate and the start of another project down on Whistler Lane.

      He glanced at his wristwatch. He’d allotted an extra half hour at Carly’s, since he hadn’t expected her to be ready for him. And he didn’t need to ask if the coffee was ready. Heck, the fresh aroma wafting through the house was enough to tempt a tea-and-crumpets man to ask for an extra-large cup. “Sure. I’ve got a few minutes to spare.”

      Carly led him through the vast interior of the house and into the spacious kitchen, where the warm scents of sugar and spice accosted him, making him wish he’d grabbed a bite to eat on the way out of the house.

      “How about a muffin with that coffee?” she asked.

      “Sure. Thanks.” He watched as she puttered around in a pair of tight jeans. Funny, but he’d never expected to see her in denim. She’d always come across as the linen-and-pearls type.

      She’d also filled out some. In his opinion, she’d been too skinny before. But now?

      Dang. She ought to wear jeans more often.

      Moments later, Bo was seated on one of the pewter barstools that overlooked the kitchen work space, and Carly took the stool next to his.

      She wasn’t wearing much makeup today, which he found refreshing for a change. And revealing.

      He hadn’t noticed the light scattering of freckles on her nose before. And quite frankly, they lent a girl-next-door appeal.

      Her scent, something fresh and feminine, mingled with his aftershave and the coffee-and-spice aromas that could rival any bakery on a Saturday morning.

      “I didn’t expect to be fed,” he admitted.

      She tossed him a playful smile. “Consider it a bribe so that you’ll give me a better price on that bookshelf.”

      He chuckled. “If all my clients went to this much trouble, I’d be cutting deals and struggling to make ends meet.”

      They chatted for a while about a lot of inconsequential things, like the weather and how well the South Rosewood Razorbacks were doing this year.

      “My family is big on Little League,” he admitted, “even though my youngest brother is now in college.”

      “Do you have nieces and nephews who play?”

      “Nope. Not yet.”

      Carly placed an elbow on the black Corian countertop and studied him as if he were a novelty of some kind. “Then why the interest in Little League? I’d think men like you would be into professional sports.”