The Reluctant Cinderella. Christine Rimmer

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      “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

      The damning words just sort of popped out, and Megan couldn’t regret saying them.

      Greg asked, “And is that such a bad thing?”

      “No.” She traced the handle of her mug with a finger. “Yes. Oh, I don’t know.”

      He chuckled. “Well, at least that’s one thing you’re sure about.”

      “You think this is funny?” she chided. “Because it’s not—not in the least.”

      “I know.” His voice was soft and low. Intimate. Tender. “I’ve been thinking….”

      She had to swallow before she could speak. “About?”

      “You.”

      Dear Reader,

      Don’t you just love it when the nice girl finishes first? I do.

      Take Megan Schumacher, She’s about the nicest woman on Danbury Way. All the women of the neighborhood like Megan. Everyone trusts her. They tell her their secrets. They cry on her shoulder when things go wrong.

      But the real truth is, Megan, like most of the women of Danbury Way, has a few secrets of her own. Like that crush she had on sweet Carly Alderson’s ex, Greg Banning. Now, there’s a secret that will never be revealed. Because Greg’s a total hunk and would never in a million years be interested in nondescript Megan.

      Or would he? Mwahaha.

      Welcome to Danbury Way, where everybody knows everybody’s business—and talks about it. A lot.

      Best always,

      Christine Rimmer

      The Reluctant Cinderella

      Christine Rimmer

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHRISTINE RIMMER

      came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma. Visit Christine at her new home on the Web at www.christinerimmer.com.

      For my fellow authors on this project.

       As always, it was a joy working with you.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter One

      “Aunt Megan, I really, really need to go,” Olivia whispered anxiously.

      Bent over to child level as she dumped the dishwasher detergent in the tray, Megan Schumacher snapped the tray shut, straightened to push the start button and shoved the door into lock position. Inside, the whooshing started. She edged the box of detergent onto the crowded kitchen counter and turned to look fondly down at her niece.

      “Powder room.” Megan pointed the way. “Quick.”

      Blond curls bounced as the little sweetie shook her head. “Someone’s in there.” She wrinkled her button nose in childish disgust. “Being sick. And there’s someone upstairs in our bathroom, too.” She meant the bathroom she shared with her brothers, Anthony and Michael. “Crying.”

      Great. “What about your mom’s bathr—”

      Olivia cut her off with a snort of wounded frustration. “Anthony’s in there. He yelled at me to go away.”

      Anthony, the oldest of Megan’s sister’s kids, was nine. He’d developed a bit of an attitude lately. If he wasn’t silent and sulky, he was ordering everyone to leave him alone.

      Olivia rolled her blue eyes. “Aunt Megan. Come on. I need to use your bathroom.”

      “Well, sure. Why didn’t you just say so?”

      Olivia let out a pained sigh. “Is it open?”

      “You bet. Need help?”

      The little girl drew herself up and spoke with great dignity. “Thank you. No. After all, I am seven.” Then she whirled and took off for the kitchen door that led to the breezeway and the backyard entrance to Megan’s apartment over the garage.

      “She’s a cutie, that one.” Marti Vincente, who lived next door, pulled a tray of stuffed miniature portobello mushrooms from the oven. The neighbors took turns hosting the annual Danbury Way early summer block party, but Marti and her husband always provided most of the food. The stuffed mushrooms looked as delicious as everything else Marti and Ed had brought over to Angela’s bright kitchen that day.

      Slim, stylish and attractive, Marti worked full-time at the restaurant she and Ed owned. She was up close and personal with all that wonderful food on a daily basis—and she couldn’t weigh more than one-ten. How fair was that?

      Megan looked down at her own baggy orange T-shirt and frayed jeans. Beneath the comfortable old clothes, she was no Marti Vincente. And she probably never would be.

      “Mushroom?” Marti offered. “I’ve got some that are slightly cooled right here….”

      Megan needed no more urging. She popped one of the delicious morsels into her mouth and groaned in delight. “Incredible.” Through the window over the sink, she could see the neighbors gathered in groups under the shade of the patio cover, chatting and laughing, sipping iced drinks and chowing down on the Vincentes’ delicious finger food.

      Angela was out there, too, weaving in and out among her guests, carrying a trayful of Vincente delicacies. Since her sister was busy, that left Megan to check on Olivia’s story of sickness and sobbing in the bathrooms. Resigned, Megan swallowed the last of that to-die-for mushroom, thanked Marti and headed off down the back hall.

      She found Rebecca Peters hovering by the door to the powder room.

      Rebecca was subletting the house on the other side of the Vincentes. She wore a skinny, strappy sundress in her trademark black, with the usual four-inch designer heels to match. Rebecca was so not the suburban type. No one in the neighborhood could understand why she’d moved to Rosewood, which was an hour-and-a-half train ride north of New York City and about as suburban as any town could get.

      Her worried frown had Megan asking, “What’s up?”

      Rebecca’s frown deepened. “I think Molly’s in there….”

      Molly owned the house at 7 Danbury Way. Happily single, she put most of her energy into her mega-successful consulting firm.

      “Is she sick?” Megan asked softly.