1-900-Lover. Rhonda Nelson

the time she’d inadvertently pulled a tampon out of her purse and tried to write a check with it.

      Or the time she’d accidentally crammed a straw up her nose and caused it to bleed.

      Or the time she’d shut her own ear in the car door.

      She was constantly getting herself into situations that made her want to shrink out of existence, or at the very least out of someone’s immediate memory. She routinely fell, got choked…something all the time. Humiliating? Yes, every last event.

      But nothing—nothing—in her past or present memory could compare to the absolute mortification of this moment.

      She wanted to die.

      Truly, desperately wanted to die.

      Because the hunk leaning against her fence had apparently heard every last syllable of her most recent conversation, from the first Oh, God to the final Oooohhhh, and every dramatic pant, wince and groan in between.

      Heat scalded her cheeks, and if she hadn’t already turned around to face him, she would have pretended to be deaf, maybe even blind. Anything to avoid this panic-stricken oh-shit-not-again scenario. Rowan tried consoling herself with the old whatever-doesn’t-kill-you-will-make-you-stronger adage—her normal pep-me-up cheer—but for whatever reason, the message fell flat this time.

      Though it took every iota of willpower she possessed and because she was the mistress of her world, Rowan stood, dusted her hands off and reluctantly began to make her way across the yard. And the closer she got, the more humiliated she became. Her heart sank and she swallowed a whimper.

      Naturally, he had to be gorgeous.

      The guy had been a hunk from a distance—casually messy blond hair, a great smile, broad shoulders and nice legs. But up close, he was downright devastating. His hair was sun-bleached, a dark tawny color around his ears and nape, but several shades lighter on top. His face was lean and tanned, with a mouth slightly fuller than average and a pair of light brown eyes that offset the alpha bone structure with just a hint of boy-next-door. It was a face that said, “Best friend or worst enemy? You choose,” and the compelling combination made a shiver dance up her spine.

      “Can I help you?” Rowan finally managed.

      “I’m Will Foster,” the guy told her. His smile faded and, unfortunately, a less pleasant look claimed his intriguing features.

      So, worst enemy, was it? Rowan thought. Interesting.

      “I’m here because your number showed up on my phone bill this month,” he continued, his otherwise nice voice throbbing with barely suppressed outrage. He crossed his arms over his well-muscled chest and an irritating smirk ruined the look of that gorgeous mouth. “But I didn’t call you.”

      “If that’s the case, then you’ll need to contact the phone company,” Rowan replied, automatically offering the most expedient solution to his problem. Her nature, she couldn’t help it. She could plant a whimsical garden, draw, paint and create different types of funky art, but put a problem in front of her and she’d find the most efficient answer. She was an anomaly, a right-brained thinker with left-brained tendencies.

      The left brain kicked in when she belatedly realized that he shouldn’t even be here. How had he gotten her address? Her name? A finger of un-ease prodded her spine. “How did you get my address, Mr.—”

      “Foster,” he reminded her tightly. “And I did contact the phone company. They told me your number had been dialed from my house, which meant the thousand-dollar charges were correct.”

      Rowan scowled, baffled. “If the charges were correct, then what are you doing here?”

      This was over the line, she thought, instinctively backing away from him. If there’d been a problem that the phone company couldn’t resolve, then why hadn’t he simply called? Why had he gone to the trouble to track her down? Common sense told her she should be alarmed, but the intense irritation stiffening every muscle in her body negated the logical emotion. Her eyes narrowed. Of all the damned nerve…

      “I’m here because you had phone sex with my nephew,” he retorted angrily. “My underage nephew.”

      Rowan’s first impulse was to deny the charge—she knew perfectly well that she hadn’t had phone sex with a minor…but she had talked to one.

      The flash of insight jimmied an exasperated grunt from her throat and she managed a slight smile. “You’re Scott’s uncle, aren’t you?” She’d been expecting this. Not this as in a visit, but at least that explained why he’d gone to the trouble to find her. She relaxed marginally. Things were beginning to make sense.

      His lips twisted into another annoying smirk. “I’m impressed, Ms. Crosswhite. For a thousand dollars you should remember his name.”

      The smart-ass was making it damned hard to forget her self-righteous anger, Rowan thought, heartily annoyed. Pity she couldn’t forget how gorgeous he was. “I remember his name because he called me several times.”

      “I know.” He fished what she recognized as his phone bill from the back pocket of his shorts and ran an eye over it. She watched in a sort of drunken fascination as his lips moved, counting off the calls. “Six times, to be precise.”

      Rowan pushed her hair over her shoulder and assumed a negligent pose, struggled to detach her gaze from those distracting lips. “That sounds about right.”

      “Did you realize that he was underage? Or did you just not care?”

      Rowan knew that he had every reason to be upset, particularly since he was laboring under the mistaken assumption that she’d had phone sex with his nephew. Nevertheless, she didn’t appreciate the sarcasm or the censure, and she sure as hell didn’t appreciate being tracked down at her house, having her privacy violated.

      “Yes, I knew he was underage—”

      His lips curled without humor and he rocked back on his heels. “Then you just didn’t care. But you will care, Ms. Crosswhite, when his parents prosecute you.”

      Rowan felt her eyes widen. “You’re probably right. However, being as I’ve done nothing to be prosecuted for, then I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?”

      “Phone sex with a minor—”

      Her patience snapped and she barely stifled the urge to scream. “I didn’t have phone sex with your nephew, Mr. Foster,” Rowan all but growled. “I helped him with his science homework.”

      For a split second his face went comically blank, then a smug disbelieving smile drifted over his too-gorgeous lips. “And what were you doing with Roy, I wonder?” he drawled lazily. “Teaching him the difference between a consonant and a vowel?”

      Renewed embarrassment flooded her cheeks and while she had appreciated the fact that he owned a sense of humor, she didn’t appreciate it being at her expense. Rowan pulled in a deep calming breath and called upon her past experience with irate parents to see her through this provoking scene. She’d dealt with enough of them over the years to handle this, she told herself. One of them had to remain professional, and clearly it wasn’t him.

      “Have you spoken to Scott?” she asked, striving for a calm she didn’t feel. “Have you asked him what happened?”

      “No, I haven’t.” A muscle jumped in his tense jaw. “Since I’ll have to tell his mother first, it’s not a conversation that I’m looking forward to.”

      “Well, you can handle that however you want to,” she retorted, “but as for my part, I have proof that I didn’t have phone sex with Scott, Mr. Foster.” And she did, thank God, Rowan thought, immensely relieved.

      A perplexed line emerged between his brows. “Proof?”

      “I have a record feature on my phone. For safety reasons,” she clarified at his astounded look. Honestly. “Kooks, weirdoes, harassment—”