Much as she loves her meddling matchmaker of a grandmother, free-spirited Aimee Beasley is tired of dodging the dull and downright tiresome dates the older woman keeps trying to arrange for her. So when she notices her beloved Gran preening in the presence of a distinguished elderly gentleman who’s been visiting their apartment building, Aimee is delighted at the prospect of turning the tables on her.
But her plans to match her grandmother up with the gentleman in time for Valentine’s Day hit a snag when Aimee realizes he’s the uncle of their downstairs neighbor, a stodgy thirty-something history professor named Doyle with whom she butts heads on a regular basis. She’ll need to find a way to make nice and enlist his help, or her plan to see her long-widowed Gran happily matched again will never work.
For Gran’s sake, she’s determined to find a way. In the process, she starts to realize that her cranky downstairs neighbor has a softer side she never suspected existed.
And when it comes to romantic heroes, history professors may not have gotten a fair shake…
Aimee raised her hand that held the envelope in order to rap on the door, and
then the plate of scones wobbled in her other hand. Reacting on impulse, she shoved the piece of mail between her teeth so she could rescue falling scones and grab the plate with both hands—which was, of course, precisely the moment when Doyle opened his front door.
Doyle Berkley always seemed to have an aura of grimness about him, and today was no exception. True, he lightened up somewhat when speaking with Gram if they happened to pass each other in the lobby, but even then Aimee didn’t think she could exactly call him cheerful. Only less grim. Dark hair and shadows under his eyes did nothing to combat the somberness of his overall aspect, and he gave the impression of a man who did not care much for the company of others.
Likely as not it came from spending all his time with history books instead of living, breathing people. Memorizing dates and details about wars throughout the centuries—and then forcing university students to regurgitate them—couldn’t be healthy for anyone. Which was probably why Aimee had flunked history in high school; it was on principle.
Doyle Berkley always seemed to have an aura of grimness about him, and today was no exception. True, he lightened up somewhat when speaking with Gram if they happened to pass each other in the lobby, but even then Aimee didn’t think she could exactly call him cheerful. Only less grim. Dark hair and shadows under his eyes did nothing to combat the somberness of his overall aspect, and he gave the impression of a man who did not care much for the company of others.
Likely as not it came from spending all his time with history books instead of living, breathing people. Memorizing dates and details about wars throughout the centuries—and then forcing university students to regurgitate them—couldn’t be healthy for anyone. Which was probably why Aimee had flunked history in high school; it was on principle.
They stared at each other for a moment, Doyle’s grey eyes cool as they narrowed and took in the young woman standing on his doorstep with the envelope between her teeth.
“We got some more of your mail,” Aimee said matter-of-factly around the edges of the item in question, the words slightly garbled because of the obstruction.
“So I see,” Doyle returned, reaching for the envelope and eyeing the faint teeth marks on it with obvious displeasure. “And you decided to eat it?”
“In my defense,” said Aimee. “It is lunchtime.”
She got no response, not even a twitch of an eyelid.
Had this guy ever been fun? He couldn’t be past his mid-thirties, and yet more often than not it seemed like he was channeling his inner curmudgeon. “Oh, come on. Lighten up. It wouldn’t kill you, would it?”
He said nothing, but she could have sworn his eyes narrowed even further, if that was possible.
“Brr. Did you feel that?” She made an exaggerated shiver. “I think the temperature in this hallway just dropped by about thirty degrees. Happens every time I come by here. How do you do that?”
“Thank you for my mail. Are we done here?”
Christine S. Feldman writes both novels and feature-length screenplays, and, to her great delight, she has placed in screenwriting competitions on both coasts—and has even won a couple of them. In 2012 one of her screenplays was featured as a staged reading in New York City at the Gotham Screen International Film Festival (http://www.gsiff.com/content/staged-screenplay-reading-1), and later that same year she signed her first publishing contract. When she is not writing, she is teaching kindergarten, puttering around in her garden, ballroom dancing with her husband, or doing research for her next project.
Places to find Christine S. Feldman:
Thanks for having me on your site today, Kim! :)
ReplyDeleteYou're welcome
Delete