Murphy's Law

Garrett was perched on the edge of the couch, where she herself had been sitting only a minute ago. Legs spread, his elbows were cushioned atop his heavily muscled thighs. Murphy's skirt—rather, what was left of it—was crushed in his right fist. The remainder of the thick black cotton dragged the milk-and coffee-sodden floor.

Rising up fully on her knees, Murphy glanced down. Her face reddened. Her slip was twisted, the lacy hem riding high on her thighs. Her nylons were stained from everything that had spilled on them. Beneath the sheer hose, she could see discolored bruises already starting to form.

The copper tray was no longer on the coffee table, but most of its contents were. Milk and coffee and sugar had scattered all over. The mugs had tumbled to the floor; neither had broken.

Murphy traced the drips that continued to splash coldly onto her legs back to the creamer; the porcelain container was lying on its side and, like a bear doing tricks, Moonshine had gone up on his back paws and was now sticking his nose—well, what there was of it, he was a Himalayan, after all—inside, purring loudly as he lapped up what little milk left.

Murphy groaned.

She should have taken Elise Thayer's advice and gone to that matinee while she'd had the chance!

Chapter 11

Murphy's Law #11: The solution to a problem only

changes the nature of the problem…

GARRETT DIDN'T want to laugh. To do so would only add to Murphy's embarrassment, and it was the last thing he wanted to do. Yet some things simply weren't possible to control. He felt a chuckle build in his throat, tried to swallow it back, failed. Before he could stop it, his laughter burst forth.

Unfortunately, once he'd given himself permission to laugh, he found he couldn't stop.

Murphy glared at him.

Garrett thought of “The Perfect Line” he'd practiced so diligently in the car. God, but he'd wanted everything today to be perfect. He should have known better, should have guessed that Murphy's Law would reign supreme.

That thought made him laugh even harder.

“Stop it, Garrett. It isn't that funny,” Murphy scolded.

He glanced down at her. The combs she'd used to tame her curls had dislodged when she'd fallen. Who knew where they had landed? Her hair now fell in appealingly soft disarray around her face and neck and shoulders. Her green eyes were bright, the color in her cheeks high. She was now kneeling on the floor facing him.

His gaze dipped. The snowy white slip had twisted around her hips and legs. He couldn't help noticing the way…well, all of her, it seemed, was wet with a mixture of spilled coffee and milk. Sunlight glinted off the particles of sugar clinging to her nylons; they shimmered like minuscule crystals.

&nbs

p; Garrett hadn't come away from the incident unscathed. His laughter peaked when he noticed that, in certain places, his jeans and shirt were also wet and clinging damply to his skin. Drops of milk had splattered onto his cheeks; without thinking, he wiped them away on what was left of her skirt.

That was when Murphy started laughing. Reluctantly at first, then with more enthusiasm.

Their gazes met, held. Garrett felt something inside him crack and shift. It wasn't a snap, exactly, but close. It was impossible not to adore a woman who could laugh at herself so easily.

“Come here, you nut,” he said as, still laughing, he tossed Murphy's torn skirt aside and extended his hand.

“I'm not a nut,” she said, also laughing as she placed her hand in his. “I'm a klutz. There's a difference.”

One tug and he'd brought her to her feet. Static electricity—or dampness from the coffee and milk—kept her silky white slip twisted provocatively high around her hips and thighs, exposing a generous expanse of shapely legs. “Not much of a difference from what I can see.”

“Then you obviously haven't seen enough.”

“Not nearly as much as I'd like to,” he agreed, his good humor subsiding. He maneuvered Murphy between his legs and pulled on her hand. As though her knees had been waiting for any excuse to melt, she sat down hard on his thigh. He felt a twinge in his old wound, but nothing serious.

Garrett shifted, sat back, his arms coiling around a still laughing Murphy, hauling her with him, keeping her body close to his. She curled up on his lap, into his chest, her cheek on his shoulder. The tip of a wayward curl tickled the bottom of his chin, and he smiled. “God, woman, what am I going to do with you? Will you look at this mess?”

It was Murphy's turn to not be able to stop laughing. “Don't worry, M-moonshine will get it.”

“He's already started. In fact, he's lapping up a puddle of milk from the floor.”

“See? What'd I tell you?” Her breath whisked warmly over Garrett's neck as she gave in to another surge of laughter. “The dratted cat is good for something after all. Besides tripping me and making you sneeze, that is. Oooo, Garrett, speaking of sneezing, you forgot to take the Benadryl!”