Ain't She Sweet (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers #2) - Whitney Dineen Page 0,10

wrong.”

“I’m not sure where you got your information, but Tara was the dumper, not the dumpee.”

“That’s not the word on the street. I’d really like to tell your daughter’s side of the story,” the reporter says hurriedly while typing something into her phone.

Gwen looks suspiciously at the woman and contrives to shut the door again, all the while saying, “That’s up to Tara. If you’ll excuse me ...”

“Well, thanks again for your help, and I’m sorry to ambush you. I just want to get the truth out and support women of all shapes and sizes ...” The slam of the door interrupts the rest of her sentence.

Gwen looks down at the card in her hands and learns the reporter isn’t legit like she was led to believe. Right there in black and white it says, Rachel Perry, The Tattler. As she tears up the business card, Gwen wonders, Why won’t these people just leave Tara alone? It’s not like she’s modeling anymore.

Tara

James is dawdling behind me on the way back to the lodge from the garden site. He’s moving as quickly as if he were on his way to have his legs amputated. “Hurry up, I have tons of stuff to do today,” I snap at him.

“I think I’ll just head home,” he says, veering his trajectory toward the parking lot.

“Get back here,” I order. “For some reason, your mom wants me involved in this garden. Being that she’s my boss, I’m going to do what she’s asked. Unless you want me to tell her you can’t be bothered consulting me, that is.”

“Are you seven years old? You’re going to tell my mom on me?”

He’s got a point. James definitely brings out the child in me, and not in a good way.

“The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can part ways,” I tell him. I don’t think I’ve ever annoyed a man as much as I do this one. Okay, there was that makeup artist who told me his makeup brush wasn’t a wand when I complained about how he applied my blush, but other than him, I usually get on pretty well with men.

“What kind of flowers do you want in the garden?” James asks like it’s causing him physical pain to do so.

“Obviously nasturtiums and roses, but I’d like dahlias, pansies, and violets, too.”

“Obviously …” he mumbles under his breath before asking louder, “What about hops?”

“I make a mean, stout brownie. I could use hops in it to add a sort of sedative effect.” Desserts tend to use a lot of things that are meant to soothe the palate after a big meal. Mint and lavender are two of the more common herbs, but hops would be a nice addition.

James interrupts my thoughts by asking, “Why did you come to Oregon?” He sounds perturbed again, or should I say, still.

“Clearly, because I somehow knew it would irritate you and I couldn’t help myself,” I fire back.

“Seriously,” his tone evens out to an almost conversational level. “You don’t seem the type to live someplace outside of the fast lane.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know plenty. For instance, I know you were on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition four times by the time you were twenty-five, I know you were engaged to Romaine Choate, and I know you can swear in French.”

“Caught that episode of Jimmy Fallon, did you?”

“I think the whole world watched that one.” His eyes twinkle with amusement.

“Part of the fun of being interviewed on late night television is the ability to be a bit salty. I simply took advantage of the situation.” Not to mention, Jimmy Fallon has a decent sense of humor about himself and he likes when people don’t fawn all over him. Although, I’m sure he would have forgiven me almost anything thanks to the dress I was wearing. Men seem to have a hard time concentrating when an attractive woman is practically painted into her clothes.

A whisper of a smile crosses James’s face before he says, “It takes talent to call someone an effing gasbag and have them laugh at it.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a fan.”

He rears up and stops moving as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Fan? No. I may have appreciated your physical attributes from time to time, but I was never a fan. Please disabuse yourself of that notion immediately.”

“Yet I recall your mom telling me that you hung my posters on your wall when you