Cara Colter - Husband By Inheritance

“To be honest,” he said, in a stage whisper “I think I’d rather look after the car than her.”

“You don’t have to do either. I’ll take her out for breakfast. We don’t need to trouble you any—”

“Nooo,” Belle wailed. “Me like here.”

“I guess, you would, you little minx. Don’t you dare push that away! You love Sugar Pups!”

“Don’t,” Belle said mutinously.

And while Abby tried to do the impossible, reason with someone who had not yet fully developed reasoning skills, Shane picked her keys up from where she had left them on the table the night before and went out the door, whistling, one of those aggravating men who took control of everything.

Her feminist heart was appalled of course.

But her human one admitted wanting nothing more than to be looked after every now and then.

He felt, as he went down the walk, as though he had been hit over the head with a sack of bricks.

First, twenty pounds of tiny female wrapping him around her little pink finger with complete ease, and then her mother coming in to finish the job.

How on earth could a woman look that good first thing in the morning?

Her hair going every which way, her blouse with the buttons done up crooked, her jeans all rumpled and so ridiculously large they were ready to fall off.

And she looked like a damned beauty queen.

Like with a flick of her finger, she could have had him pouring cereal for her, too.

He recognized this feeling as one he did not like and would not tolerate.

Shane McCall would not be vulnerable. Isn’t that why he was here? In a little town where he didn’t know a soul, and planned to keep it that way?

Correction: didn’t know any girl souls.

He’d known Morgan for years, from when they had worked together on a temporary assignment on a drug smuggling case in Portland. Morgan had moved back here, to his hometown of Miracle Harbor, to get married and have babies. Morgan had invited him to come for dinner one night. Meet his wife, his kids.

The wife he might have been able to handle, but kids?

He couldn’t be around kids.

He didn’t want to feel things. Guys talked about basketball scores and work. Kids related on a different level entirely. And women, well, he wasn’t even going to go there.

An old pal on the Drug Unit, Drew Duarte worried about him, had pulled him back from a life of complete loneliness and despair by begging him to help out with training. So he did specialized training sessions a few times a year, which is why he ran and lifted weights. He wasn’t letting any young buck ten years his junior run him into the ground. Now, Drew had him taking it a step further. He was working on a chapter on drug detection procedures for a Federal enforcement agency training manual.

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