But…couldn’t it just be guilt at embarrassing her earlier? She looked again at that magnificent chest and said to herself, screw it! Whatever the motivation, maybe it would turn into something beautiful. Or perhaps she’d just have fun. Wasn’t it worth taking that chance? What did she have to lose?

  And maybe she had everything in the world to gain.

  A girl could dream, couldn’t she? Even her. Even with this contraption she huffed around in.

  So Julie wheeled herself over to the circle that had already formed, took the front row position Tony made for her, and once the show began, became thoroughly enthralled.

  “Come close,” Tony yelled to passersby, gesturing for them to come over. “Free Wi-Fi!”

  It was a totally nonsensical joke, yet she found herself laughing along with everyone else.

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  She...was...laughing!

  Laughing!

  How long had it been since she’d heard the sound of her own laughter?

  Too long.

  It hadn’t been eight months. That barren stretch hadn’t been entirely without a single smile, chuckle, or full-out laugh.

  But it had been close.

  She sure had enjoyed a more buoyant sense of humor back in the good old days. When it was so easy to be happy. When everything was so easy, though she hadn’t necessarily appreciated it.

  Yet now, after all the crap that had happened since the accident, she was laughing anyway to a stupid little quip like, “Come close! Free Wi-Fi!”

  She’d assumed her days of free laughter had been in her past.

  “Hello, my name is Tony Gianino,” he began loudly, spreading his hands wide in greeting before starting to juggle four simple bowling pins. “I’m an Italian from the North End whose given name is Anthony, but I go by Tony. I’m a walking stereotype. And like all Italian men, I’m a great lover.”

  The audience chuckled mildly and a couple hearty wolf-whistles rang out.

  “All true,” Tony said, still juggling. “Except the lover part.”

  Stronger laughter.

  He shrugged, still juggling. “Hey, no one’s perfect. I just need more practice.”

  He began to clap while continuing to juggle.

  “Like all magicians, jugglers, and con men, I need an assistant,” he proclaimed loudly. “I lost mine during the last performance, so I need an adult volunteer.”

  A few scattered hands shot up. Julie frowned. She thought she was supposed to be the assistant. What was going on here?

  But Tony shot her a glance and winked.

  “I am legally required to disclose that the assistant I just lost wasn’t my first,” he announced. “I’ve kind of had a string of bad luck.” He shrugged while keeping the pins moving. “I’ve lost five assistants in six performances. Hey, no one said juggling chainsaws is easy.”

  Julie laughed heartily, joyously along with the rest of the crowd.

  “So, I see no one is still willing to be my assistant,” he said.

  Picking up on what she thought was her cue, Julie shot her hand up and said, “I am!”

  “We have a sucker!” Tony said. “And what is your name?”

  “Julie.”

  Tony tightened the muscles in his magnificent chest, drawing her instant attention.

  “Um, Julie.” He pointed to his eyes. “Up here, Julie. My eyes are up here.”

  Everyone broke into laughter, Julie even more than most.

  And amazingly enough, she had a great, great time.

  * * *

  “You’re a natural,” Tony said after the show when the two were by themselves. The audience had dispersed, and the two had moved off to the side of the courtyard for a little more privacy.

  Julie beamed, feeling a warm glow inside. “Thanks. It was fun.” Remembering her food, she said, “I’ve got this lobster roll here that I better eat before the sun ruins it. And a Greek pastry.” She slid the lobster roll from its small white bag and held it out on a bed of napkins. “Would you like half?”

  “No, I’m all set. Go ahead and eat.” His left eyebrow raised. “Would you like to stick around for the next show? Be my assistant again?”

  “Um...” It sounded like fun, even though Julie was sure the jokes would all be the same.

  “I promise I won’t add the chainsaw trick,” Tony said, and flashed his killer smile.

  How could she say no? Good God, she loved to look at this man, and talking with him was even better.

  “And if you think you can put up with me, how about dinner and a movie some night next week?”

  Julie broke into a broad smile.

  Until she saw the creep in the hoodie.

  Sneaking up behind Tony.

  Only now, the creep had pulled a black ski mask down over his face and that oft-broken nose. And he held in his right hand a sawed-off baseball bat he’d just pulled out of the hoodie’s pouch.

  Almost in striking range.

  Julie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It felt as though all the air had been sucked out of her lungs.

  She pointed with her left hand, her free hand, the one not holding the lobster roll, but the creep had shifted his position to line up just behind Tony, who now blocked her view. She could barely see the creep at all.

  Tony looked at her with a curious, uncomprehending smile, and pointed to his bare chest as if to ask, “Me?”

  She couldn’t see the creep. Just his hand, clenching the sawed-off baseball bat. Drawing it out wide. Poised to swing.

  Julie drew back her own right hand.

  And with all her might, threw the lobster roll at Tony’s head.

  For a split second, his eyes widened. Then he ducked.

  The lobster roll hit the creep squarely in his ski-mask-covered nose. Behind the mask, black except for the newly applied white smear of mayonnaise, his dark eyes blinked. For a moment, he stood like a statue, his arm extended to strike, but frozen in position.

  Then he took a step forward.

  And swung.

  At Tony’s head. Arms. Chest.

  Each time, Tony stepped aside, dodging the blow or at least deflecting it. Each time, the creep moved in closer.

  “Help!” Julie screamed, her lungs finally cooperating, and belatedly she thought to throw the bag holding the container of Galactobouriko. It hit the creep on the side of the head, but stopped him no more than a split second.

  Tony lashed out with an acrobatic leg kick aimed at the creep’s midsection, but the creep was just fast enough to avoid it, stepping back then slamming the bat into Tony’s side.

  Tony fell to one knee with a gasp. No! yelled something inside Julie’s mind.

  She shot the wheelchair forward, screaming like a banshee.

  The creep froze.

  Narrowly missing Tony, Julie plowed the wheelchair into the stunned creep, slamming into his right leg and knocking the sawed-off bat to the ground.

  The creep, eyes wide behind the ski mask, turned and fled.

  * * *

  The police took their statements, but help from passersby had been too slow to arrive and the creep had gotten way. There’d be no tracking him down. There were any number of his kind in the city with oft-broken noses: true thugs, boxers and MMA fighters, and plain old-fashioned barroom drunks. None of whom was in short supply.

  It wasn’t until they were waiting in the hospital emergency room, waiting for Tony to get X-rayed, the smell of disinfectant in the air, that Julie remembered the blur of red.

  “I thought you were bleeding right from the start,” she said, as the waiting room TV droned on thirty feet away. “I thought he’d hit you.”

  “No,” Tony said, shaking his head and wincing. “Not till the end.”

  “But I saw red, I’m sure of it,” Julie said. “The more I think about it, the more sure I am. Right from the start. Just not the same color as your blood. Lighter and brighter.”

  “From the start?”

  “Yes!”

  “Red, but not the color of blood? Lighter and brighter?”

  “Yes. On his hands or wrist. Somewhere like that.”

  “Was there some kind of shape to the red?”

  Julie thought about it. “I guess so, now that I think about it. But I’m not really sure how to describe it.”

  “Try.”

  Julie closed her eyes and tried to bring up the image. “There was, kind of like a thin red line across the wrist. Then once when a sleeve of the hoodie slid up, I could see…I don’t know…I guess it was a shape with some kind of a sharp edge to it. Does that make any sense?”

  “An inverted triangle, perhaps?”

  “Yes! I think that’s right. An inverted triangle!”

  Tony closed his eyes and swore softly. “You mean, like half a diamond on a playing card?”

  “Now that you mention it, yeah.”

  “Paulie Numnuts,” Tony said softly.

  “Who?”

  “It’s a nickname. He’s a crook who fancies himself the King of Diamonds. He has a red diamond tattooed on his wrist. He fits your description. In his thirties. Scrawny. Had his nose broken more times than he can count.”

  “Why would he want to hurt you?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s connected. I’m not sure I want to know.”

  * * *

  Two nights later, Julie and Tony sat at a table in the back of a small North End Italian food restaurant. Not well known, it was located on a side street off the main drag, and in truth had a plain sort of ambience. Plain white tablecloths. Plain wooden walls. And a menu on plain white paper.

  But the smells of tomato and cheese had just about driven Julie mad until the food arrived. Then they were even more mouth-watering. And the taste was to die for!

  Best of all, though, was who she was eating the meal with, despite the crazy story he was telling her, one that had led to the ugly, purple-and-black bruises on his arms and side, covered now by a long-sleeved light blue shirt, but reluctantly shown to her earlier when he’d picked her up outside her apartment. They both considered him fortunate not to have broken any bones.

  “So it was all your mother’s fault?” Julie asked, incredulous.

  “Not really.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “Only because she talks too much and tries to run my life,” Tony said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She was complaining to one of her friends about how I was wasting my life being a performer,” Tony said. “I needed to stick to my real job, which is here.”

  “Here?”

  “This is my parents’ restaurant. I work here some to make ends meet and to help out, but they want me here full time, which means sixty hours a week. I give them twenty, so I can work on my show.”

  “Oh, I see,” Julie said, though she didn’t really.

  “My mother said to this friend that she was so upset with me, she’d do anything to get me to stop ‘this juggling nonsense.’ Those were her words. This juggling nonsense. It’s my dream, but to her it’s nonsense.”

  Julie nodded.

  “But the key word is actually ‘anything,’” Tony said. “When she said she’d do anything to get me to stop, she meant one thing. But after a friend repeated it to a friend who repeated it to another friend…well, by the time it got to Paulie Numnuts, he thought I needed the full Tonya Harding treatment.”

  “That’s sick!”

  “My mother was, of course, horrified,” Tony said. “She never meant that at all. She’s so horrified she actually hasn’t said a word to me about getting a real job for all of two days now.”

  “But this Paulie Numnuts guy sounds scary. How could he have put two and two together and gotten forty-nine?”

  “Paulie ain’t exactly Harvard material. He’s a graduate of the School of Hard Knocks. Well, maybe not a graduate. More like a dropout. But you get the picture.”

  Julie took another bite of her gnocchi. She didn’t want to ask the question, but had to. It might be insulting—she hoped he wouldn’t take it that way—but she had to know.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said tentatively, wondering if she should stop right there, wishing she could. But the cat was already halfway out of the bag. “Are you...connected?”

  Tony laughed heartily and shook his head. “About the furthest thing from it. Swear to God.”

  Julie breathed a sigh of relief. She knew instinctively that Tony was telling the truth. That he would always tell her the truth.

  “Now order a whiskey, Irish,” he said. “You’re gonna need it for when you meet my mother.”

  Julie felt her heart beat a little faster, and a warm glow filled her chest. “When is that going to be?”

  “She’ll be here in five minutes,” Tony said. “If that wheelchair of yours has a seat belt, you might want to buckle up.”

  Julie smiled. With Tony here, she could face anything. She hadn’t wasted a perfectly good lobster roll for nothing.

  Copyright © 2018 by David H. Hendrickson.

  Melinda Curtis is an award-winning, USA Today bestselling author of over 40 romance titles. She writes sweet romance for Harlequin, sweet romantic comedy, and fun, sexy sports romances. Sign up for her book release newsletter and download two free reads.

  CINDERELLA FELL FOR A FELLA

  by Melinda Curtis

  ONCE UPON A TIME

  Do you believe in fairytales and fairy godmothers?

  You should.

  If you come to the farmer’s market in Brody Falls, you’ll see an old woman sitting at a card table. She dresses in red. Magical apple red.

  In winter, she wears a woolen red cape. In warmer months, a red scarf flutters around her silver hair like silken butterflies. Her purse is a large red satchel with a crocheted rose hanging on the side (red, of course).

  Unlike other vendors, the woman in red offers no fresh produce or handmade goods. She hangs no professionally made banner and puts out no painted sandwich signs. She sits behind a simple card table with a piece of pink notebook paper taped to the edge. Her sign has two simple words on it: Love Advice.

  Young or old, no one in Brody Falls can remember a farmer’s market without her. Ignore her invitation if you like. She’ll remain a mystery. Those who’ve sat on her folding chair won’t discuss what’s been said.

  They don’t call her odd.

  They don’t call her old.

  They simply call her their Fairy Godmother….

  CHAPTER ONE

  They say that women who aren’t in love fill that void with chocolate and shoes.

  Cindy Carlisle was single, enjoyed gourmet chocolate, and owned too many shoes.

  Too many shoes? How could that possibly be?

  She had shoes for every occasion and situation. Power pumps for court. Flirty sandals for nights out with the girls (rare though they might be). Flip flops for bumming around. And boots and sling backs. And, oh, let’s not get started on sneakers. Cindy had more shoes than Kim Kardashian had thongs.

  Or maybe that was just the way it felt, because she was schlepping sixteen shoe boxes up the steps, over the stoop, between overgrown brambles, and through the door. Cindy had bungee-corded the boxes together, thinking it would be easier to move them out of her apartment in San Francisco, and into her new apartment in Brody Falls.

  In her end-of-the-move packing frenzy, Cindy hadn’t factored in her short arms, a narrow stoop with two-foot high, bramble-tentacled walls, or an apartment door that wouldn’t stay open. It’d been drizzling since dawn and to save herself more frustration, she’d tucked her glasses into the outer pocket of her blue jacket. Now the world looked like a runny watercolor painting.

  Cindy reached the front stoop without being snagged by thorny vines, adjusted her load, and reached for the door handle. It was wet and she couldn’t get a grip.

  This was her last load of boxes and her most drool-worthy—the five-inch gold Cleopatra gladiator heels, the spangly, bright-colored shoes from every time she’d been a bridesmaid, and her grandmother’s wedding shoes (a vintage pair of white satin pumps with rhinestone buckles).

  The spring drizzle turned into a steady rain, fat drops that threatened to drench Cindy’s boxes, her hair, her morale.

  I should never have left the city.

  But she’d had to. For her own sanity. After losing a heartbreaking court case, the odds of her making a difference in Brody Falls were ten times better than in a big city’s overworked court system.

  She gripped the door handle tighter, bending her knees, and trying to ignore the sharp digging of box edges into her arms. The old brass doorknob turned, but not far enough to click free of the latch.

  Something in her bundle shifted. Four boxes slid forward, threatening to dump onto the narrow porch, and a fall to ruin. The eggs Cindy’d had for breakfast shifted in her stomach as if they’d been pancake-flipped.

  A fuzzy figure ran down the interior stair toward her, hand to ear as if talking on a cell phone. She took a step back within bramble-striking distance, but the boxes shifted again and she lunged forward, pressing her stack against the door to straighten them out.

  The broad-shouldered, blurry figure on the other side of the glass had turned and was backing toward the door.

  “Hey,” she said, shuffling back a step on the stoop.

  The door swung open, bumping against Cindy’s load and forcing her closer to the low brick wall and the brambles.

  “I’m meeting him this morning, Dad.” A deep voice. A sexy voice.

  Clueless to a damsel in distress.

  He opened the door wider, nudging her closer toward trippable walls, a briar patch, and a short, painful fall.

  A thorn pierced her skinny jeans. And then another. “Ow.” It was soft as exclamations went, not her court-appointed attorney voice. And then she wobbled backward, teetering precariously above.