Connie twisted her hands in her lap. No service job was going to pay her enough to stay here, to pay her back taxes, to go back to the life she’d had just six weeks ago. She had to tell Dorothea the truth.
Holding out the letter with her notice and apology, she tried to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes.
Dorothea waved off the letter. “You’re not leaving,” she said, with a quick glance at Deborah, and Connie wondered yet again whether the women had a touch of the sight, because otherwise, how the hell did they know what Connie was going to say?
Half an hour later, Connie had a new job helping with some promotional work they were having done—at least they thought she did—and a reduction in her rent. And nothing she’d done or said could sway the two women.
But Jamieson Smith?
She’d been drooling over him since she’d moved onto Courtwood Street, even knowing she’d never have a chance with him. The women—the many, many women—he dated? They looked like runway models. Rich runway models.
But what choice did she have? If the sisters had their way, she was going to be working with him on a promotion campaign for MatchMagic and, from the martial look in Dorothea’s eyes, Jamieson Smith would have no choice about hiring her. Didn’t matter how tough he was, no one could deny the sisters.
* * * * *
They had summoned him to another meeting. He hadn’t even had time to wrap his head around a campaign for a dating Web site—he, Jamieson Smith, the last man who knew anything about true love and romance—and yet here they were, demanding his presence already.
He laughed as he opened the door to MatchMagic. He could hardly wait to see what they had planned for him this afternoon. Just the thought of them, so much like his family, made him happy. Maybe not the work so much, but those three women? They were great.
What he hadn’t expected was to see the woman he watched walk by his home office every morning, the woman he’d lusted after for months. Oh, he knew he couldn’t have her—just that daily glimpse of her told him that she wasn’t his type. Too sweet, too short, too curvy. But there was something about her that tempted him, even though he was pretty sure she’d want a relationship. But he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t keep from making certain that he was at his desk each morning at seven o’clock when she left for work.
He was obsessed by her… and that’s why he’d promised himself he’d never meet her in person.
The three witches—as he’d dubbed them to go along with the name of their Web site, and damn, that was a pretty good way into a spring promotion blitz—were waiting for him. This time, though, there were four women around the boardroom table, and his eyes—and his nose (she smelled like spring)—locked on the fourth one.
“Jamieson?” Delia’s voice jolted him out of his reverie.
He shook his head to clear the scent of Connie and focused on the witches. “Sorry, I had an idea for your promotion. Just let me jot it down.” He took out his notepad and wrote a few words down: Witch. Magic. Spring solstice.
When he looked up again, all four sets of eyes were on him. He felt his cheeks flush and couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. These women, especially that woman, were getting to him.
“Jamieson Smith, this is Connie Stanton. She’s going to be helping you with the promotion you’re doing for us. She’s spent years working as a technical writer and assistant. Add her services to your account.” Dorothea sounded as regal as a short, almost-seventy-year-old woman could sound.
He started to shake his head, but Deborah broke in before he could speak. “We have a feeling about this,” she said. “We want you and Connie to do this together.”
He frowned, and she said firmly, “Work it out.”
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