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“Bo…kiss me.”
His conscience, a small voice that had been banished to the far corners of his mind, begged him to stop. To remember who Carly was.
Yet he couldn’t seem to yield to common sense. Not yet. Not until he’d tasted her just this one time. But it had been Carly who came to her senses first, who’d placed her hands on his chest and pushed away slowly.
Her breath was ragged. “I wish we were anywhere but here.”
So did Bo. His bed at home would have been nice. But he couldn’t deal with the reality of what they’d done, the step they’d taken that would change their friendship forever.
Friends didn’t kiss each other like that….
Dear Reader,
When my editor asked me to write book two in Talk of the Neighborhood, I loved the idea of a series based upon the neighbors of Danbury Way. And I was especially pleased to create Carly’s story, since I’d gone through an unexpected divorce, too.
As someone who tried to make everyone happy—sometimes at my own expense—it was difficult to realize I couldn’t fix things, no matter how hard I tried. Yet the months passed, and the lessons I learned along the way made me a better, stronger person.
And you know what? It was all worth it in the long run, because I met my very own hero, a man who loved me enough to take on the responsibility of four children.
No, I’m not a perfect wife. And it’s been ages since I was a size three, but I’ve learned to be myself and not someone others expect me to be.
I hope you enjoy reading about Carly’s journey in The Perfect Wife. And I wish you all a happy-ever-after.
Love,
Judy
The Perfect Wife
Judy Duarte
JUDY DUARTE
An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy Duarte loves to create stories of her own. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous, but delightfully close family.
Judy makes her home in California with her personal hero, their youngest son and a cat named Mom. “Sharing a name with the family pet gets a bit confusing,” she admits. “Especially when the cat decides to curl up in a secluded cubbyhole and hide. I’m not sure what the neighbors think when my son walks up and down the street calling for Mom.”
You can write to Judy c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. Or you can contact her through her Web site at: www.judyduarte.com.
To my husband, Sal,
who encourages me to chase my dreams.
I love you, honey.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
When the doorbell rang, Carly Alderson was sitting cross-legged on the Italian leather recliner in the den, watching a made-for-TV movie about star-crossed lovers, sniffling back tears and popping the remains of a lemon-filled doughnut into her mouth.
As the elegant gong resonated through the custom-built, plantation-style home her neighbors referred to as the McMansion, she froze in midchew.
Oh, God. Make them go away.
She was so not up for visitors. Not today, and especially not now.
Half of her wanted to ignore the interruption, reach back into the Tasty Dream Donut sack for the last chocolate éclair, sink into the cushions and fall back into a fictional sorrow, rather than think about her own.
But the rest of her, which unfortunately included the eight-and-a-half pounds she’d put on since her divorce had been finalized, hoped it was Greg coming home to tell her he was having second thoughts. That he’d made a big mistake—a huge one—and that he couldn’t live without her.
News like that would be the first step in righting her world—the one Greg had sent spinning off its axis when he’d told her he didn’t love her anymore and that after seven years of marriage he wanted a divorce.
In a fit of bravado, Carly had thrown him out of the house, then had all the locks changed. That bold move, as well as taking back her maiden name, had been Carly’s way of letting Greg know what a divorce meant. That things were final. Kaput. Finished.
Of course, she’d only meant it as a bit of shock therapy, a way for him to see reason.
But so far, nothing had worked.
The gong sounded again, and nervous panic sent her heart rate thumping to beat the band.
What if it was Greg?
Needless to say, the desperate I-need-to-save-my-marriage part won out.
She stood, and when she glanced at the telltale bag in her hands, her breath caught.
Oh, God. She couldn’t let him find her pigging out. So she quickly shoved the incriminating sack, complete with the remaining chocolate éclair, under the chair cushion, a trick she hadn’t pulled in years.
Then she rushed into the guest bathroom that was right off the den to make sure she didn’t have any glaze or lemony goo smeared across her face. But as she looked into the mirror, she nearly collapsed in a frumpy heap on the hardwood floor.
Tear tracks had done a real number on her mascara, making her look like a raccoon with red-rimmed eyes, a pitiful little creature who was a far cry from the I’ve-got-it-all-together woman she really was.
Greg would probably think she was still pining over him, which had been true earlier this week. And yesterday afternoon. But the culprit this time had been a sad chick flick, a real tearjerker and…
The
