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From The Twelve Brides of Christmas ! - a short story
She eyed him, curious about her future stepfather. He was a man any red-blooded woman would notice in a crowd—well over six-feet tall with an athletic build. Eyes as green as the hills of Ireland offset hard, striking features. She guessed his age to be late twenties to early thirties. For heaven’s sake, her mother had really done it this time. Talk about robbing the cradle.
His gaze took her in from head to toe, the sardonic tilt of his mouth speaking volumes. He’d been expecting a younger version of her mother. Instead, he got tattered jeans and a windblown mane of sable hair—not tight, leather pants and blond, rasta braids extending to her butt. Even her cornflower blue eyes were different than her mother’s mysterious brown ones. Poppy was also tall and curvy whereas Fin was shorter and what she liked to call streamlined, although some would argue she was built like a boy.
“You’re on private property.” Her future daddy’s words held bite, his muscled arms crossing an impressive chest in order to intimidate. “If you’re hoping for Poppy’s autograph, contact her publicist and maybe he’ll send you one. Now leave before I call the cops.”
Fin laughed. Just couldn’t help herself. This one’s a real winner. “Hmm, not even married yet and you’re already barking orders.” She locked the CR-V, and taking a step forward, got in his face. “Get out of my way.”
“Damn. I hate dealing with stalkers before my morning coffee.”