Rhonda Nelson - Getting It Now!

Philip shrugged, then continued. “You saw what happened on the show this afternoon. I burned a tenderloin, then had to kiss you because it was your fault.”

Carrie’s eyes widened. “My fault?”

His gaze met hers over the rim of his wineglass. “Yes, of course. I was distracted by your breasts.”

Carrie cocked her head and smiled. “Back to those again, are we?” She stood. “Do you mind if I work while we talk?” she asked, thinking that a change of subject was in order. Before she did something stupid like lean forward and kiss him again.

Philip swiftly swallowed the drink in his mouth, set his wineglass aside and hurriedly stood. “Better still, how about I help you?”

Carrie grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d hate for you to get distracted.”

“I should be fine as long as you don’t take off your shirt,” Philip said casually.

Carrie didn’t know what made her do it. But one second she’d been standing there fully clothed, and the next, she’d grabbed the hem of her shirt and slowly—deliberately—pulled it up over her head.

The die was cast.

Dear Reader,

Well, this is it—the last book in my CHICKS IN CHARGE series. I hope that you’ve enjoyed getting to know these feisty women—and their fantastic heroes—as much as I have. Saying goodbye to them brings a sense of accomplishment tinged with the ultimate regret that I won’t be hanging out with them anymore. Like all my characters, they’ve become friends of sorts, if only in my imagination. If you’re just picking up this book, then I hope you’ll visit eHarlequin.com and get the others. Getting It! was a January release, followed by Getting It Good! in February. Getting It Right! was on the shelves last month. (Noticing a theme here?)

During the holiday season it’s easy to get caught up in shopping, baking and various parties. I don’t know how it is at your house, but at mine the bulk—translate all—of the work gets firmly placed in my lap. I put up the tree, hang the decorations, do all of the shopping, wrapping and coordinating of schedules. I bake—and typically gain five pounds—and distribute all of our family Christmas cards. But somewhere in the midst of the madness, I always find a few hours to slip away and curl up with a good book. Here’s hoping you do, too, and that your season is brimming with lots of girl power and romance.

Happy reading!

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to the ultimate Chick in Charge, my phenomenal editor, Brenda Chin. I’m continually amazed and humbled by your infinite wisdom and unending enthusiasm for my work. You are, without question, the best editor any author could ever hope to have, and working with you is not only a dream come true, but a blessing that has enriched my life in too many ways to count. My sincerest thanks always.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

ONLY THE FOUNDING MEMBERS of Chicks in Charge wouldn’t think anything about hosting a baby shower at a bar, Carrie Robbins thought with a small smile as she watched her friend open yet another gift. Colored pacifiers floated in margarita glasses—the mom-to-be’s a virgin margarita, of course—and baby bottles doubled as candle holders, illuminating New Orleans’ Blue Monkey Pub with a properly festive glow.

Though hardly conventional, they’d rented the pub for the night and the small party was an unequivocal success. She popped a petit-four into her mouth and swallowed a sigh of satisfaction as the sugary pastry melted on her tongue.

And the food wasn’t half bad either, Carrie thought with a slightly smug grin.

“You’ve outdone yourself, darling,” Frankie said, polishing off another helping of blueberry bread pudding, one of Carrie’s signature dishes. “Let me pay you for the food.”

“Absolutely not.” One of the only perks to parading half-naked around the set of The Negligee Gourmet was the paycheck. She’d made a decent living prior to joining the lineup at Let’s Cook, New Orleans!, but the added cash and security she’d garnered through the slight change in profession had certainly had its advantages. Being able to cater Zora’s baby shower without sparing any expense was certainly one of them. Moving out of an apartment and into a house was another.

“Are you sure?” Frankie persisted. “I don’t—”

“I’m sure,” Carrie told her. She cocked her head, flashed an impish smile. “Cooking in the buff pays well.”

Frankie chuckled softly. “Stop belittling. You aren’t in the buff.” She frowned, evidently searching for a kinder description. “You’re merely…scantily clad.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “And painted and teased up like a porn queen,” she added dryly. She hadn’t counted on that part when she’d signed on with the network, otherwise she might have reconsidered…but she doubted it.

Frankie made a moue of understanding. “I do wish they’d lay off the makeup and the eighties hairstyle. You’re gorgeous without all of that.”

Her lips curled with droll humor. “I’ll be sure and pass your suggestions along.”

Not that they’d be heeded. None of hers certainly had. Evidently the male demographic liked sophisticated meals prepared by trashy-looking women. Red lipstick, electric-blue eye-shadow, false eyelashes and big-ass hair seemed to be the perfect combination. Carrie snorted. It invariably took her half an hour to remove the paint and get the various gels, sprays and tangles out of her hair.

Other than the regular trim to remove dead-ends, Carrie didn’t have what one could call a hair regimen. She washed, she dried, she brushed. Occasionally she’d braid, but that was the extent of her hair concerns.

As for makeup, she didn’t like the feel of it against her skin—too sticky—and other than a sheer gloss on her lips and the rare swipe of a mascara wand upon her lashes, she didn’t fool with it. Sitting for a full hour and a half while the hair and makeup people on set painted and poofed her was an excruciating waste of time.

But her friends had been right—it was definitely preferable to working for Martin. Calmly giving that sanctimonious, controlling, petty, ball-less bastard her two-week notice had been, unquestionably, one of the high points in her life.

Had his restaurant not enjoyed world-renowned success, she would have never tolerated his maniacal abuse for as long as she had. But despite his notoriously bad temper, or perhaps as a result of it, Chez Martin’s had been the best game in town and she would have been foolish to quit before something better had come along.