Kristan Higgins - Fools Rush In

We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, haven’t we? Things we don’t want to confess to friends or parents or children. My obsession with Joe Carpenter was one of those things. It was bad enough to have been secretly in love with a man for more than half my life, but resorting to stalking at twenty-nine and a half was really embarrassing. Still, one does what one must.

Millie Barnes has concocted a foolproof plan for winning the man of her dreams. Or is she just a fool in love?

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ed Higgins, a great storyteller and great father

who loved Cape Cod above all other places.

Thanks, Dad.

Without my agents, Maria Carvainis, Donna Bagdasarian and Moira Sullivan, being published would remain an elusive dream, like donating a kidney to Bruce Springsteen or cooking Thanksgiving dinner. I am endlessly grateful for their excellent representation.

Deepest thanks and appreciation to my editor, Abby Zidle, a funny, kind and wicked smart person whose suggestions and guidance made this a much better book.

The people of Cape Cod have always been gracious, welcoming and helpful, kindly overlooking my lifelong love of the New York Yankees. Thank you for making the Cape our second home.

Personal thanks to fellow writer Rose Morris for her immeasurably kind soul and helpful input; to Carolyn Wallach for unhesitating honesty and generous praise; to Heidi Gulbronson and Pam Boynton, brave enough to read the first draft and say nice things anyway; and to my wonderful family: Mom, Hilary, Mike and Jackie, my truest friends.

Prologue

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

I’M A STALKER. THE GOOD KIND.

Well, I was a stalker. It’s been a while. Even so, it’s hard to admit that you’ve followed, eavesdropped, spied, lurked, skulked and bribed in the name of love. But I’ve done all of those things—rather well, I might add. Perhaps you know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter how old you are, what level of schooling you’ve had or where you live—stalking is innate to the female psyche. We’ve all been there.

In my case, I stalked Joe Carpenter from the age of fourteen and a half until I went away to college. I knew where my subject lived. I knew his middle name, his mother’s name, his sister’s name, his dog’s name. I knew what kind of truck he drove, his favorite color, the names of his past four girlfriends, his favorite beer, where he went to happy hour on Fridays, which songs he played on the jukebox. I knew where he worked, how he took his coffee and the grade he got in third-year Spanish. There wasn’t much I didn’t know about Joe Carpenter.

While I didn’t quite meet the legal definition of stalking, I did drive by Joe’s house once or twice. Maybe more. (It was more.) I’d been known to “run into” him, a calculated maneuver executed with military precision and made to look quite accidental. It took years of training to reach the level of “coincidence” I developed. I probably shouldn’t be proud of that. Still, a talent is a talent.

It started in freshman biology at Nauset High School in Eastham, Massachusetts. Joe’s seat was diagonally in front of mine, and in order to look at the blackboard, I had to look past Joe. And I couldn’t. Not many women could look past Joe, even when he was fourteen years old. Then I discovered that his locker was three down from mine, and the stalking began.

Joe might mention to a friend that he was going to the beach after school, and I’d show up, too, crouching illegally in the terns’ nesting area so as not to be discovered, watching Joe frolic with the in crowd. I’d see his mom’s car at the store as my dad drove me home and suddenly blurt the need for tampons, knowing that feminine hygiene products would ensure that my father remained in the parking lot. I’d skulk through the aisles, hoping for a glimpse of Joe Carpenter. I’d ride my bike around town looking for Joe, stopping once I saw him to check the air levels in my perfectly inflated tires, carefully not noticing him, simply lurking in his golden presence.

Joe became, ironically, a carpenter, known professionally as Joe Carpenter the Carpenter. Thanks to my years of research, I knew what others, too sidetracked by his beauty, might have missed—Joe was honest, humble, hardworking and sweet. He performed anonymous acts of kindness, took pride in his work and treated people with benevolence and good cheer. He even adopted a three-legged dog. And yes, Joe Carpenter was gorgeous.

He had the kind of looks that made breathing irrelevant. A smile from Joe could cause waitresses to drop coffee carafes, sending splinters of glass skittering across a restaurant while they stared dreamily at my subject. Cars had collided when he jogged across an intersection; rooms had fallen silent at his entrance. And God in heaven, if he took off his shirt when he was outside working…Tourists had been known to stop and photograph the beauty Joe provided. Forget Nauset Light, take a picture of that!

Not a woman alive could remain unaffected by Joe’s looks. Dark blond hair, streaked with lighter gold from his hours in the sun. Clean, strong bone structure. Pure green eyes framed by impossibly long, thick golden eyelashes. Dimples. A slightly lopsided, boyish smile. Perfect teeth. Of course, Joe knew he was beautiful—a person couldn’t look like that and not be aware of the effect he had on others. But he never flaunted it. Usually a little scruffy, he didn’t seem to care too much about his appearance. His hair was often tousled, as if recently from bed. He was frequently unshaven. Clothes rumpled. Effortlessly, magnificently appealing.

Joe and I were both native Cape Codders, both in the same school year. We weren’t friends, though we might have said hello to each other a few times in high school. (It was three times, and these slight acknowledgments in front of our peers caused bursts of giddy joy and acne as my hormones surged with the thrill.)

And then came The Time—the monumental event that ensured Joe’s status in my heart forever more.

In sophomore year of high school, our class made the trip to Plymouth Plantation required of all New England schoolchildren, by civic pride if not by law. With the curious mix of ennui and exuberance typical of fifteen-year-olds, we spent an hour on our rattling, fume-ridden bus before slouching through the streets of the historic village. Despite the fact that my peers were sullen and bored, I couldn’t help but be charmed by “Obadiah,” the period-garbed man who was roasting bluefish over an open fire. He offered me a taste. I accepted. He gave me another. I ate that one, too, delighted at his interest in me, ignoring the fact that he made his living by schmoozing tourists.

On the bus home, as kids tossed wads of paper back and forth, shrieking like enraged chimpanzees, that bluefish made itself known to me. My best friend, Katie, asked me if I was okay; apparently, I was more than a little green. I answered by throwing up on my shoes. Ah, bluefish. I’ve never been able to eat it since.