Harlequin Romance March 2021 Box Set Cara Colter (the mitten read aloud TXT) 📖

a pillow pressed to his face, making it hard to breathe. His name, written in Frances’s familiar looping handwriting—in fountain pen rather than ballpoint, because she’d had a thing for fountain pens and coloured inks—made him ache.

He wished he could sit in her living room just one last time to argue politics over a game of chess. That, of course, could never happen, and that letter addressed to him had been written in black ink, rather than a whimsical aqua or tangerine, as if to signify the formality of its contents. As if to symbolise death.

Stop being maudlin.

She’d give him a stinging set-down if she could see him now and be privy to his thoughts. But she couldn’t and she wasn’t. All that was left was her letter.

Darling Owen, you owe me nothing…

He owed her everything! Which was why he’d do what she’d asked rather than give Callie Nicholls a piece of his mind. He’d help this rotten woman however he could, keep an eye on her for as long as she was in New York—which he hoped to God wasn’t going to be too long—and he’d be neighbourly. Just as Frances had requested.

He might have more enthusiasm for a root canal treatment, but he’d do it anyway. For Frances.

The intercom on Mr Dunkley’s desk buzzed. ‘Ms Nicholls for her ten o’clock appointment.’

Owen’s gaze flicked to the clock. Ten twenty-five.

‘Send her in,’ the lawyer responded.

The door opened and a young woman burst into the room in a flurry of coat-shaking and swift gestures, and for a moment Owen had an impression of colour and sunshine and spring breezes.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ She unwound a startlingly pink scarf from around her throat. ‘New York is insane!’

The lawyer immediately leapt to his feet. Owen did the same, doing all he could to squash the defiance rising through him.

‘Does it ever get quiet here?’

He couldn’t help himself. ‘You’re late because of the noise?’

Blue eyes swung to him, a keen intelligence brightening them to the colour of a cobalt glass marble he’d once treasured as a kid.

The corners of a mobile mouth twitched. ‘My hotel is right next door to a fire station, and either there are a lot of fires in New York or there’s something wrong with their alarm. But, even given my disrupted sleep, I was awake nice and early—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

Bright-eyed? Tick. Bushy-tailed…? He refused to let his gaze drop.

‘The taxi driver I thought I’d been so lucky to hail dropped me three blocks away, swearing black and blue that your offices, Mr Dunkley, were just “right there”—he even pointed to a door—and then charged me twenty dollars for the privilege…which seemed a lot.’ She rolled her eyes and set her raspberry-coloured coat on the back of a chair. For the briefest moment her lips tightened. ‘I have a feeling I was just taken for a ride—literally.’

‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

She named a nearby hotel—budget and far from fancy. Not the kind of hotel Owen would want his sister staying at.

‘It would’ve been quicker to walk.’

Her brows rose at his tone and his shoulders knotted. He’d promised to be helpful. Sniping at her wasn’t helpful.

Pulling in a breath, he did what he could to temper his tone. ‘Your hotel doesn’t have the best of reputations. Other arrangements will have to be made for you.’

Those blue eyes narrowed. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ A small pointed chin lifted—a very determined chin—and a hand was thrust towards him. ‘Callie Nicholls.’

He clasped it. ‘Owen Perry.’ He released it again immediately, his hand burning.

‘The executor of my grandmother’s will?’

‘That’s right.’ His hands clenched. Why hadn’t she written Frances just one letter? Had it really been too much to ask?

‘Well, Mr Perry, let me assure you that I’m perfectly capable of making my own arrangements in regard to my accommodation. And whatever else I choose to do while I’m in New York.’

He’d just bet she was.

‘So, please, don’t trouble yourself on my account.’

She was welcome to stay in a dumpster for all he cared. Still…

‘Your grandmother would want you to be comfortable and safe for the duration of your stay.’

‘That can be solved easily enough,’ Mr Dunkley inserted hastily. ‘Ms Nicholls, please have a seat.’

They all sat.

‘I think it would be prudent for Ms Nicholls to stay in her grandmother’s apartment,’ said the lawyer.

‘No!’ Owen’s denial was instant, automatic and involuntary.

Both Mr Dunkley and Callie Nicholls stared at him. The non-existent collar of his woollen sweater tightened about his throat. It was just… He couldn’t imagine anyone else living upstairs. Didn’t want to imagine it.

Callie glanced at the lawyer, who swallowed and leaned towards Owen a fraction. ‘Why on earth not?’

If Callie moved in he’d no longer be able to go upstairs and sit in the half-dark to breathe in Frances’s familiar scent and just…remember her.

‘Well…?’ Callie prompted now, not unkindly, but with a perplexed furrow ruffling the skin between her eyes.

Damn it all to hell! This woman didn’t deserve to profit from Frances in death when she’d refused to come near her in life. He closed his eyes and bit back the howl that pressed against his throat.

This is what Frances wants.

That was what he needed to focus on. Not on how Callie had done Frances wrong.

‘The apartment hasn’t been touched in over eight weeks. It’ll need a thorough airing and cleaning before anyone can move in, and—’

‘All taken care of,’ Mr Dunkley said with forced cheer. ‘I took the liberty of hiring cleaners yesterday. The apartment is ready—’ he shrugged ‘—for whatever Ms Nicholls wishes to do with it.’

Owen ruthlessly pushed all sentimentality away. He couldn’t afford it at the moment. ‘How forward-thinking of you, Mr Dunkley.’

The salient fact was that as soon as Frances’s granddaughter signed the paperwork a significant portion of her grandmother’s estate would pass to her—including the apartment block her grandmother had lived in. It was a modest complex by New York standards—only eight apartments in total—but it was located in the heart of Greenwich Village, one of