Joan Kilby - In His Good Hands

Renita wasn’t the type to flirt or flaunt her body, yet that’s exactly what she was doing.

Thanks to his ex-wife, he was all too familiar with the body language of a woman on the prowl. Renita was preening, touching her hair, pushing her arms together and leaning on the table to emphasize her cleavage.

She was also drunk. When she raised her glass she nearly missed her mouth then giggled when a few drops of sparkling wine fizzed down her chin. No wonder she was acting this way. She didn’t know what she was doing.

Her admirer immediately topped up her glass from a bottle on the table. Clearly he expected the evening to end with Renita in his bed.

Brett carefully set his beer on a nearby table.

Not bloody likely, mate.

Dear Reader,

Are you a couch potato or a fitness freak? Or are you somewhere in between? I fall into the “in between” category. I go to the gym regularly and walk almost every day. Even so, I struggle to keep my weight under control. Part of the reason is that I love to cook and, naturally, to eat. I enjoy little indulgences like a piece of chocolate or a glass of wine.

To me, achieving a healthy, happy lifestyle comes down to finding a balance, where feeling fit gives as much pleasure as having a nice meal. Health versus appearance; appearance versus personality; these are some of the other issues I’ve explored in the second book of the Summerside Stories trilogy, In His Good Hands.

Renita Thatcher is a couch potato trying to change her ways with the help of gym owner Brett O’Connor, who also happens to be her unrequited high school crush.

I hope you enjoy reading Renita’s story and can identify with her journey from the couch to the gym.

I love to hear from readers. You can find me at www.joankilby.com or write to me c/o Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, ON, Canada M3B 3K9.

Joan Kilby

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Joan Kilby goes to her local gym several times a week for Body Balance—a combination of Tai Chi, pilates and yoga. And yes, there is a cappuccino machine where she and her friends hang out after class. Melbournians love their coffee! Like the hero in this book, Joan is mathematically challenged. Unlike the hero, she knows better than to mess around with large sums of money. Joan’s husband and three children help keep her sane while she’s writing. And her dog, Toby, takes her for a walk every day.

To my gym/coffee buddies

Madeline, Deb, Anne, Carolyn and Sandy.

Thanks for the laughs and the friendship.

Saturday wouldn’t be the same without you.

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 FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

RENITA THATCHER TUGGED AT the jacket of her blue silk-blend suit, struggling to fasten it across her stomach. Cripes, if she got any bigger she’d have to wear a tent to work. Usually she left the jacket open, but a button had popped off her blouse.

Of all days—

Her office door burst open. Poppy, her young assistant, announced breathlessly, “Brett O’Connor’s here.”

“Already?” Renita sucked in her gut, tightened what stomach muscles she possessed, and squeezed the button through the hole. “Give me two minutes, then show him in.”

Poppy left, closing the door behind her. Renita whipped a compact out of her top drawer and checked her hair, tucking a wavy dark strand behind her ear. She tried taking her glasses off. Nope, she was blind without them. Baring her teeth in the tiny mirror, she made sure there were no lipstick smears or sesame seeds from her breakfast bagel.

She put away her compact and took several deep breaths to slow her tripping heart, coaching herself not to get anxious over this meeting. Her high school crush on Brett O’Connor was ancient history. Anyway, he’d never been interested in her that way, so his visit was nothing to get excited about.

Sure, she was curious about why he’d returned to Summerside, but her biggest concern right now was that a) her jacket button didn’t pop and b) she didn’t reveal by a single word, gesture or look that she’d ever had the slightest hint of romantic feelings toward him.

Professionalism, that was the key. She was no longer a nerdy, chubby fifteen-year-old infatuated with the school jock who’d broken her heart. She was a businesswoman and the loans manager at Community Bank, just doing her job.

Poppy knocked. Renita’s mouth felt as dry as the paper she was clutching in her damp palms as a prop. Poppy opened the door, ushering in Brett O’Connor, who was gorgeous as ever in a casual suit jacket over an open-necked shirt and designer jeans. He carried a manila envelope.

At the last second Renita remembered the jar of jelly beans and whisked it off her desk and into a drawer.

“Hello, Brett.” She rose, grateful that her voice, at least, was cool and calm. The sight of his thick, sun-streaked hair and slightly crooked nose transported her straight back to grade eleven, when a passing glance from him in the school corridor had been enough to send her into dreamy reveries.

Not now, though. No way.

She extended a hand. “How are you?”

“G’day, Renita. It’s been a while.” His clasp was firm, almost painful, as if he didn’t know his own strength, and his blue gaze so direct it was like a stab to the heart. “What is it, thirteen years?”

“Something like that.” She gestured to a chair. “Tell me, what can I do for you?”

He sat, but instead of getting down to business, he leaned back and shook his head. “I can’t get over it. You’re exactly the same.”

“Gee, thanks. And here I thought I’d improved.”

He flashed her his easy grin. “You always had a wisecrack for every occasion.”

“No, I only speak the truth,” she deadpanned. “Everyone just thinks I’m joking.”

“What I meant was you look fabulous.” When she raised her eyebrows skeptically, he insisted, “Honestly, you do.”

“Don’t flatter me, Brett.” Renita knew she was well-groomed, pretty but not beautiful. Most of the time she thought she looked just fine—well, except for the extra weight. But she didn’t believe for one second that Brett, who was used to being mobbed by half-naked football groupies, could possibly think she looked fabulous.

“You look…real,” he amended, having the grace to appear sheepish at being called on his sincerity.

“Real. Yep, that’s me.” Real meant eyeglasses, hair with a mind of its own, jackets that strained at the buttons.

She searched beneath his gorgeousness for signs that he’d aged badly from the debauched life he must have led as a professional football player. Not to mention Australian rules football was a rough sport. Brett had been hot in high school. Hotter still during televised football games, with his cheek smeared with dirt and his muscles—all sweaty and glistening—exposed by his sleeveless jersey and tight shorts. But apart from a small white scar across his right eyebrow, laughter lines around his eyes and mouth and the way his lanky frame had filled out with solid muscle, he looked pretty much the same as he had at seventeen. Sexy and athletic.