Jennifer Greene: Trouble in Paradise

Dear Reader,

When I grew up, my image of “stepmothers” came from Disney movies, from Snow White to Cinderella and a ton of other fairy tales. The stepmoms always seemed to be “bad” in those old stories…but there was a divorce in my own family. I had a fabulous mom…but I also had a wonderful stepmom.

That was the motivation for me to write this story. I wanted to write about a stepmother who WAS a heroine.

When I wrote this book, the subject matter was new territory. Today, so many women go through this experience. By the time a couple are in their thirties, statistically there’s a pretty good chance that at least one of them is already divorced. In Trouble in Paradise, our heroine meets a wonderful man, falls in love and marries him…only to find that his kids aren’t excited about having a stepmother. She doesn’t just get her man. She gets his kids, their extended family, his ex-wife and all the history that can come with a wedding ring today.

I adore giving a heroine trouble. Lots of trouble. What love story would be any fun if it were easy?

The values in the book seem as relevant to me today as when I first wrote it, but today’s readers have more experience with just that kind of situation. I’m so glad Carina Press has given me the opportunity to share this book again with you…

I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to write me what you think!

Jennifer Greene

www.jennifergreene.com

Balancing a bulging briefcase and a precariously filled white paper bag, Griff pushed open the front door. He set down both burdens long enough to shrug out of his camel-hair sports jacket and hang it on a Victorian coat rack, the sole piece of furniture, as yet, in the hall. Silence and the smell of fresh paint greeted him, and he walked under the unique domed ceiling and past the round, leaded-glass windows in the dining room before entering the kitchen and again setting down the white bag-this time on a contemporary wood-topped counter.

Scraps of paper crunched under his feet, and like Hansel he followed the trail around the island counter in the huge kitchen until he came to a distinctly violet pair of corduroy pants and two slim bare feet.

The rest of Susan was hidden somewhere in the recesses of the deep bottom cupboard. Next to her toes lay a long roll of contact paper, a pair of scissors and a mound of discarded paper curlicues. Griff loosened his tie, leaned lazily against the counter and surveyed the view.

Susan’s fanny was a ten. There was no question about it. That particular slope from tapering waist to buttock to slim thigh should be licensed. Or taxed as a luxury item. His dark brown eyes narrowed, judiciously searching for a fault, and failing to find one. Griff had never really been all that hung up on fannies, but Susan’s was frankly difficult not to appreciate. Clearing his throat to alert her to his presence, he said gently, “Do not bump your head, sweetheart.”

He winced, hearing the immediate crack of bone against wood, followed by a muffled expletive not usually in his wife’s vocabulary. The corduroys backed rather gingerly from the cupboard, then a pinkish top emerged. The garment was old and frayed and clung faithfully to Susan’s high, firm breasts. Griff’s eyes lingered, waiting. Next came a tousled cap of brown curls, followed by a slim hand shielding a new bump on the skull and, finally, Susan’s heart-shaped face turned up to his, her big gray eyes distinctly annoyed. But not at him.

“How late is it?” she asked guiltily. “And you’re here, Griff. I thought you were going straight to the apartment after work.”

“Those were the orders,” he agreed. “You told me this morning, ‘Griff, we’ve worked on the house every single night for nearly two weeks. Tonight we’re going to eat at the apartment and just relax. Within a week, we’ll be able to move in here for good anyway…’”

One eyebrow flicked up at his teasing. “The shop wasn’t busy, and I thought I could sneak in a little more work before you got home. I don’t want the house to look like a disaster area the first time the kids see it, and with Tiger coming this weekend…”

He nodded sagely. “The kids will really worry about whether the cupboards are lined. Considering we haven’t got a stick of furniture in the place yet.”

Susan uncoiled and drew herself up to a standing position. “You should have told me before we were married that you had this incurably sassy side,” she told him gravely, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from his dark brown shirt. “Lining cupboards is very important. How do you think the dishes would feel on unlined cupboards?”

“I guess you’ll have to tell me,” Griff said, luxuriating in the sight of those big gray eyes with their short, dark lashes. Her cheeks were flushed, her soft lips bare of lipstick, and the cap of dark curls framed an incredibly creamy complexion. Not in any way strictly beautiful, Griff had told himself at their first meeting. Just… strictly beautiful.

“The dishes would be offended,” Susan explained to him, like a nursery school teacher talking to a four-year-old. “They know this is our new home. They have to live in the dark as it is. Did you ever think of that? How would you like to be a dish? The least we can do is offer them fresh, new paper to sleep on.”

For a pragmatic Norwegian, Griff seemed to thrive on her brand of nonsense. That private crooked smile of his came close enough so she could see the grainy lines of age and character on his square features before his lips touched down and settled on hers. His hands wasted no time; they never had. One pressed to the curve of her spine and the other splayed on her bottom, effectively pressing her full length to him. Like a fifteen-year-old boy, he was instantly aroused, the pressure of his male desire unmistakable against the fabric over her stomach. Just as instantly her breasts tightened, crushed against a loosened tie and broad chest. Anticipation danced happily through her veins, an anticipation Susan had never even envisioned in a man-woman relationship before she met Griff. Shy women could actually turn wanton, a revelation she was still discovering as she reluctantly pulled back from the peppermint taste of Griff’s mouth.

“I promised you I’d have a roast all ready at the apartment when you came home,” she said ruefully.

“You don’t think for one minute I believed you?” He motioned to the white paper bag on the counter.

Her eyes widened as she peeked in. “ War sui gui? Sweet and sour shrimp? And won ton soup, steamed dumplings… Oh, Griff!”

Griff built a fire in the library, and they ate the Chinese food in front of it. After the meal, Griff sat on the floor cross-legged in front of the fire, Susan’s head cradled in his lap on occasion. She kept popping up and down, roasting marshmallows on a twig. Images of Griff’s children, Tom and Barbara and Tiger, kept popping into her head just as sporadically. Those few outings before the wedding had seemed to go well, but a foundation for any real relationship could hardly be started with an afternoon’s romp in a swimming pool, or a couple of hours at a movie, or when that noisy clan got together for a dinner. The picture of those three pairs of eyes staring gravely at her during the marriage ceremony in the chambers of the justice of the peace still touched her heart. Yet suddenly Susan wondered if they hadn’t been too grave, especially Barbara, with her perpetual aura of anxiety. Darlings, I am not going to hurt you. She was just so impatient to have them here, with her and Griff, a family unit loving and caring for each other.