Page 3 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
Jake Murphy couldn’t stop hittingreplay on the voicemail. A dozen listens in, and that sultry voice still sent a delicious shiver down his spine. Some women wielded their voices like secret weapons, and Faith Hartwell was clearly armed and dangerous.
He saved the message with a guilty tap, tucking his phone away while wondering what kind of man gets obsessed with a voice in less than twenty-four hours. A desperately single one, apparently. Thank goodness George had chosen these two weeks to visit his in-laws—despite the backlog of projects threatening to bury them both.
It had been ages since Jake had personally swung a hammer. The early days of Murphy-Madsen were just him and a handful of subcontractors, working until their hands blistered. Success had transformed him from a guy in dusty jeans to a suit-wearing businessman meeting with clients and bankers. People trusted their renovations to men who looked successful themselves. But with George away, Jake was back in his element, remembering why he loved this business in the first place—the magic of transformation, of rebuilding something beautiful from bones and dust.
And now Faith Hartwell had rocketed to the top of his priority list for entirely unprofessional reasons. He was still human, after all. George would understand this little detour—he’d have done the same before Sally had claimed him for the last two decades. Twenty-three years of marriage later, those two were still disgustingly happy together.
Jake just wanted to see if the face matched that bewitching voice. His dating app fatigue had reached critical levels, but the concept of marriage still triggered his fight-or-flight response. His parents’ divorce had been a tactical nuclear event, mapped with the precision of military strategists and twice as devastating.
Shoving away those memories, he grabbed his leather jacket and headed for the door. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows as he ran a hand over the stubble he’d forgotten to shave off. He’d barely taken time to shower before racing to the office, drawn by that voice like a compass needle finding north.
“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself. “It’s just a voice.” For all he knew, she could be anyone—married with a minivan full of kids or an octogenarian with excellent phone etiquette. But in his fantasy, she’d remain the seductive mystery woman of his dreams.
He’d been at the office when she’d called last night but hadn’t picked up, buried under contracts requiring his signature. When her voice floated through the speaker, he’d been too stunned to reach for the phone. That voice had haunted his dreams all night, and his curiosity couldn’t wait another minute. He only hoped she was an early riser.
His phone buzzed just as he reached the door, and his heart leapt embarrassingly. As he checked the screen, his anticipation deflated.
“It’s about time you answered, boy. I could have died waiting. It’s not nice to keep old people hanging—our time is precious, you know.”
“You’re immortal, Gran, and we both know it.” Jake couldn’t help smiling at his favorite person’s theatrical complaints.
Ruth Buchanan Murphy Stiles Littlefield Tyson O’Neil LaVelle was a hurricane in human form. After her last husband’s death, she’d dropped the alphabet soup of surnames and reclaimed Murphy, declaring him “the one she’d loved best.” At ninety, she still lived with the energy of someone a third her age. Death wouldn’t dare take her—she’d argue with the Grim Reaper until he retreated in exhaustion.
“You’re darned right I am,” Ruth said matter-of-factly. “I’m thinking about getting one of those electric scooters. The kind that all the delivery people use downtown. Seems more practical than waiting for Edward to drive me everywhere.”
A vision of Ruth terrorizing pedestrians sent a chill down his spine. The woman hadn’t held a valid driver’s license since the Reagan administration, and for good reason.
“Those things can be dangerous, Gran. Maybe something a bit safer?”
“Safe is for people who aren’t Murphys,” she said with a dismissive wave. “That DMV examiner didn’t understand that when he failed my driving test. Again. As if a Murphy could fail at anything.”
“Except marriage,” Jake quipped.
“Don’t lump yourself in with your train wreck parents. I love my son, but he’s a horse’s patoot. I wouldn’t want to be married to him either. And your mother should’ve started taking hormones like I told her twenty-five years ago. Woman is nuttier than squirrel poop.”
Jake couldn’t disagree with her.
“Anyway,” Ruth continued. “I loved almost every one of my husbands, God rest their souls. They don’t make men like they used to.” She sighed dramatically. “That’s why you need to settle down soon—your expiration date is approaching.”
“I’m thirty-five, not a carton of milk,” Jake laughed, shaking his head at her audacity.
“Means nothing! My third husband, Matthew, was exactly your age when I snagged him—ten years my junior, mind you—and the poor dear keeled over before our fifth anniversary.”
“Gran, I’ve got an important job this morning—” Images of Faith Hartwell and that voice floated through his mind. It had been forever since he’d felt this buzz of anticipation, this eagerness to meet someone new.
“Well, what are you waiting for? I’ve been sitting in your driveway for twenty minutes while you jabber on the phone!”
Jake froze. “You’re at my house? Now?”
“You’re sharp as ever. Edward drove me over. I was wondering how long you’d keep an old woman waiting in a parked car.”
Edward had been his grandmother’s driver since before Jake was born. He’d always suspected there was more between them than employee-employer affection, especially since Ruth hadn’t remarried after husband number six died forty years ago. Jake had never met his own grandfather or any of Ruth’s other husbands, but Edward had been a constant in his life.
“I’ve decided to move in for a while,” Ruth continued cheerfully. “Edward can take my luggage to the usual guest suite. He can take the room next to mine.” She raised her brows at him in a challenge. “Unless you’ve got other company or a lady friend staying over.”
Jake’s lips twitched at her not-so-subtle pry. “The rooms are all yours.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Every few years, Ruth blew into town like a benevolent tornado, settled in his guest room for a couple of months, and then vanished to her next adventure. The woman had incurable wanderlust. The timing was inconvenient with Faith Hartwell’s voice playing on loop in his head, but he squashed his disappointment. Who knew how many more spontaneous visits Ruth had left in her?
