Wife for Hire - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,4
you’re going to go running after every skirt in Skogen while I sit home playing the pitiable wife. I have some pride, you know.”
Yes sir, she was definitely going to make his life hell, Hank thought. She was going to sink her teeth into this wife thing. She was going to make him put down the lid on the toilet seat and stop putting empty milk cartons back in the refrigerator. And worse, she was going to tie him in knots. She was going to stand naked in his shower with a big Hands Off tattooed across her delicious bottom. She was going to show up for breakfast every morning in a T-shirt and no bra, and his insides were going to turn to liquid. He had to be crazy to even consider this harebrained scheme.
“One more question,” Maggie said. “Why did you come to New Jersey for a wife?”
“Last year I attended a six-week workshop on entomology at Rutgers. I figured I could say the romance started back then. And I’ll be honest with you, I want someone who is far enough away not to be a burden or embarrassment when this arrangement is terminated.”
“Lucky me.”
Damn. Now she sounded mad. “No need to take it personally.”
She sank her teeth into her burger, and chewed it vigorously. She didn’t like being dumped into the possible burden category. It was practically implying that she would fall in love with him, or be a social buffoon.
“Why would you automatically assume your hired wife would be a burden or an embarrassment.”
“It’s just a worst-case scenario.”
“Well, I can assure you, I won’t be a burden or an embarrassment.”
“Does that mean you still want to be my wife?”
“I suppose so. As long as I don’t have to iron.”
“I’ve hired a house keeper. She’s a little old, but she seems capable enough. She answered an ad I ran in a Philadelphia paper.”
Now that it was settled, Maggie felt a rush of excitement. She was going to live in Vermont, and she would have time to write her book. Her eyelid had almost entirely stopped twitching, and the soles of her feet practically buzzed with the desire to get moving.
“When would you like me to start my wifely duties?”
“How soon can you get packed?”
She thought about it for a minute, calculating what had to be done. She had to notify utilities, the phone company, the newspaper boy. It might take a while to sublet her apartment, but she could put it in the hands of a realtor. “A week.”
A week seemed like a long time to Hank. She could change her mind in a week. She could find another job. She could fall in love and get married to someone else. “I’m kind of in a rush to get a wife on board,” he said. “Do you suppose we could shorten that to tomorrow?”
“Definitely not.”
“You aren’t one of those stubborn redheads, are you?”
She hated being called a stubborn redhead—mostly because she knew it was true. “I’m not a stubborn redhead,” she said. “Tomorrow is totally unreasonable.”
“Okay, day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll need three days minimum.”
“Fine,” Hank said. “Three days.”
Chapter 2
It was raining when Maggie and Hank reached the Vermont state line at four in the afternoon. Two hours later Hank left the smooth superhighway running north-south and turned onto a secondary road. The secondary road quickly narrowed, winding its way around foothills, slicing into the heart of tiny towns and national forestland.
Water sluiced off the side of the shoulderless road, and rain ran in rivulets down the windshield of the old maroon pickup. Maggie anxiously squinted through the steamy windows, eager to take in all of Vermont.
It didn’t matter that it was pouring buckets, that the sky was leaden, that the pastureland had been churned into viscous mud by the holsteins standing in small, sullen herds. It was all new and wonderful to her. No Markowitz Coat Factory, no little brick houses with jalousies, no one watching from parted drapes to see what crazy Maggie Toone was up to.
“Are we almost there?” she shouted over the clattering engine and drone of rain on the roof.
“Two miles down this road and we’ll be in Skogen. Then it’s just three miles farther.”
They hit a pothole and Maggie braced herself against the dashboard. “I think you need new shocks.”
“I needed new shocks a year ago.”
“And do you think the motor sounds funny?”
“Valves,” he said. “The valves are shot.”
“I should have brought my car.”
“We’ve been all through that. You drive a sports car.