It ought to start with a girl. The best ones always do. She
ought to be kick the lid off your coffin gorgeous. She ought to be
in hot water right up to her cute
little . . . ears. She shouldn’t quite
know why, or maybe she just won’t say why the guys with the
bent noses are after her. She ought to have eyes full of mischief
and not be afraid to get mischievous with the right guy.
That’s the way it ought to be. But this time it started
with three darling gremlins, any one of whom could sprain
a set of male eyeballs at thirty paces.
Oh. I’m Garrett, aka Mr. Right. Although a jealous
acquaintance might lie about it, I’m six feet two inches of
handsome ex-Marine. Yeah, sure my face has a few nicks and dings
but those just add character. They let the frantic cutie in the
deep gravy know she’s found a stand-up guy. Or maybe, a guy
too dim not to lead with his chops.
Dean, my cook and housekeeper and Door-Answerer General and (a
legend in his own mind) majordomo, was out. I had to answer the
tap-tap-tapping myself. It was noon. I’d been enjoying my
first cup of tea. I was still a little tousled, wearing my charming
rogue look. I had treated myself to a late nap in celebration of
having survived an infestation of Great Old Ones, olden gods more
like world-devouring termites than the woosie celestial accountants
populating today’s Dream Quarter.
