House Calls: Callaghan Brothers, Book 3

Title Page

Copyright Page

House Calls (Callaghan Brothers, #3)

Before You Begin

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Thanks for reading Michael and Maggie’s story

About the Author

Also by Abbie Zanders

House Calls

Callaghan Brothers, Book 3

W
ARNING:  Due to strong language and graphic scenes of a sexual nature, this book is intended for mature (21+) readers only.

If these things offend you, then this book is not for you. 

If, however, you like your alphas a little rough around the edges and some serious heat in your romance, then by all means, read on...

S
pecial thanks to Aubrey Rose Cover Designs for this amazing cover!

Special thanks also go to Deb, Cindy, and Shelly (and a few of you who prefer to remain unnamed – you know who you are) for reading the first draft and making invaluable suggestions.  I could not have done this without your unending patience, support, and encouragement.

“C
ome on, Mags, it’ll be fun,” Sherri pleaded, her big blue eyes wide and pathetic.  She sat at the massive walnut table, sipping Irish coffee and munching on the thin, delectable buttery sugar cookies.  “And you so have to teach me the secret of making these.  I can never get mine this thin.  Makes all the difference in the world.”

Maggie Flynn paused with the coffee mug halfway to her lips.  Sherri was the closest thing she had to a best friend, but she was also the first one to admit that she was definitely not the reincarnate of Betty Crocker or Sara Lee.  No, Sherri’s skills definitely lay outside the kitchen.  The last time Maggie tried to teach her how to make something from scratch she spent the next week cleaning batter out of the most unlikely spaces.  They’d decided then that it was best if Maggie did the baking while Sherri brought her up to speed on everything happening out there in the real world.

“You cannot be serious.”

“About the cookies?  Of course not.  I’ll stick to the Pillsbury tubes – you know, premade and pre-sliced.”  Maggie wrinkled her nose in distaste.  “But about the dancing?  Absolutely.  You do all that Zumba and belly dancing and crap.  You’ll be awesome.”

Maggie looked at her as if she were insane.  “I do all that
crap
in the privacy of my own home for exercise,” she said, trying to remain calm.  “Not in front of a bunch of horny men for profit.”

“These guys aren’t like that,” Sherri confided.  “I’ve danced for them before.  Complete gentlemen, I’m telling you, although the way they look, I wish they weren’t.”  Sherri got that dreamy look in her eyes, the one she always got whenever she regaled Maggie with stories of the men at the Irish Pub.  Maggie herself had never actually been to the Pub, but from Sherri’s graphic, detailed descriptions she felt she had a pretty clear picture of exactly what it was that drew Sherri’s repeated interest.

“No.”  Maggie stood up and carried her mug to the sink, rinsing it out and placing it in the rack to the side.  She would reuse it later.  No point in dirtying another or wasting hot water and soap washing it now when a simple rinse would do.  Maggie was very practical that way.

“Maggie.”  Sherri’s tone softened a little.  “Don’t you ever want to – you know – get out there and live a little?”

“I live just fine,” Maggie said defensively, wiping her hands on her apron.  It was an old-fashioned, full-frontal coverage style hand-stitched from a faded pink and white gingham print that her great-grandmother had once worn in this very same kitchen more than half a century ago. 

“You live
alone
,” Sherri pointed out.  “And you rarely go anywhere anymore.”

“I get out,” she countered.  Three times in the past week alone, to be exact, delivering herbal teas and wraps to some of the older folks around Pine Ridge that could no longer make the trip up to her farm;  the same ones her grandma had taken care of for years before she passed. 

“And I am not alone.  I have George.”  She glanced fondly at the aging Bassett hound sleeping peacefully next to the old-fashioned radiator, no doubt a result of a major sugar crash caused by all the cookies Sherri had slipped him under the table.  “I am perfectly content.” 

“Remember when we used to go out?  God, we had so much fun.”

“
You
had fun, Sherri,” Maggie corrected with a wry smile.  “You always left with the hot guy and I got left behind with the wingman.”  Which wasn’t always a bad thing, she had to admit.  She’d met some very interesting people that way.  Men who were like her – guilted into going out with their hot-looking friends so they wouldn’t have to go out alone.  In general, wingmen tended to be more down to earth and more interesting than the gods and goddesses, as Maggie called them.

She was quite fond of Sherri, but it was a true exercise in humility going out with her.  Sherri was classically pretty with light blond hair and flirty blue eyes that sparkled with promises of fun.  Around five-seven with at least half of that belonging to her long, shapely legs, Sherri was the female equivalent of magnetic north for men.  Their dicks always pointed right to her.  Of course, it didn’t hurt that she moonlighted as an exotic dancer at
Angels
, Pine Ridge’s local “gentleman’s club”.  The woman was a walking, talking fantasy for most functioning, post-pubescent heterosexual males.

“Can I help it if I’m approachable?” Sherri asked with no trace of vanity whatsoever. 

“No,” Maggie sighed.  Sherri had been born beautiful, lithe, and innately friendly.  How could Maggie hold that against her?  It was like hating a spectacular sunset or a soft summer breeze.  You
could
do it, but you’d feel even worse if you did.

“Please, Mags.  I’m really out on a limb here.” 

Now there was a visual Maggie didn’t need – Sherri dangling gracefully from a tree, with a dozen hot firemen from the community charity calendar reaching up to save her.  Actually, she believed that
was
one of the pictures in there two years ago...

Maggie shook her head to clear the image.  “Maybe Crystal will come through.”

“Mags, she broke her leg.  I really don’t think that’s going to heal by tomorrow night.”

“Don’t they make walking casts?”

“Not for pole dancing, no.”

“Good point.  But there’s got to be someone else you can ask.  Someone from the club, maybe, wanting to make a couple extra bucks.” 

“No one that’s as pretty as you.” 

Maggie turned around, expecting to see the mischievous, playful smile on her friend’s face, the one she always wore when she was blatantly blowing sunshine up someone’s ass to get what she wanted.  What she saw instead was a look of total seriousness. 

“And the guys are very particular.”

Maggie had to wonder exactly what it was they were particular about, which was followed almost immediately by trying to think of something she had that they might be interested in.  She came up with nothing.  Last she heard, most guys weren’t dreaming of Susie Homemaker introverts dancing at their bachelor parties.  Maggie had no false perceptions of what she was – too short, too curvy, too boring, too plain.  Especially next to someone like Sherri who literally oozed feminine sexuality.

“Yank someone else’s chain, Sher,” Maggie said, recovering.  “I’m not biting.”  She slipped off the apron and hung it on the hook beside the back door.

“Mags, have you looked at yourself lately?”

“Not if I can help it.”  After all, why add insult to injury? 

“Spencer was an idiot,” Sherri said softly from right behind Maggie, her arm going around her shoulder.  “Losing him was the best thing that could have happened to you.”

Spencer Dumas
was
an idiot, that much was true, but he was a good-looking, wealthy, successful idiot.  And Maggie had him trumped, easily surpassing him on the moron scale.  She had actually believed all of his lies, had believed that someone like him could love someone like her.  At least until she thought to surprise him one night while he was working late at his office and discovered his secretary taking
dick
-tation while bent over his imported desk. 

An added bonus:  she got to hear firsthand Spencer’s own account of his prudish, chubby fiancé, the one he was only marrying to get hold of her land. 

Maggie had been strong.  She’d left quietly after – calmly, numbly – revealing her presence, canceling the engagement, then removing herself completely from the social scene.  How many of her supposed friends had known all along?  How many had laughed at her behind her back or shaken their heads in silent pity at her total ignorance? 

Apparently quite a lot.  She hadn’t been able to face many since.  Sherri was the one exception, but that was mainly because the woman was as tenacious as she was gorgeous.  And she didn’t have a mean, catty bone in her body.  The bitch.

“You
are
beautiful,” Sherri told her, reaching up to pull out the clip that held Maggie’s hair.  The result was voluminous waves of ruby-red hair that cascaded halfway down her back.  “God, I wish I had your hair.”

Maggie reached back and snatched the clip.  She re-secured her hair immediately, turning crystalline green eyes on her friend, staring pointedly at the curtains of silken platinum that framed Sherri’s perfect features. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard that men really hate blondes.  A real turn-off.  Must be hard on you.  My heart bleeds, really.”

Sherri ignored her, raking her gaze up and down the oversized man’s flannel shirt that reached practically to Maggie’s knees.  “And what are you now, like a size six?”

Maggie snorted.  “Hardly.”  Not that it mattered.  That was the beauty of living and working out of her own home.  She lived in soft, comfortable flannel and baggy jeans that hid what her grandmother used to refer to in hushed tones as a “full figure”.  She could sweat to as many oldies as she wanted, but she would never have Sherri’s lithe, slim body.  No, she would always carry a little more on her hips.  And the only way her breasts would get smaller is if she had a reduction.  The best she could hope for was to tone what lie underneath. 
Way
underneath.

“Please, Mags.  Just help me out this one time and I swear I’ll never ask you again for anything as long as I live.”

Maggie shook her head.  “No way, sister.  I love you, I really do, but no.” 

Sherri sighed heavily, then pulled out the big guns.  “Mags, thirty minutes of dancing pays around five hundred bucks, and that’s not including tips.”

“Five hundred dollars?”  Maggie hated the interest the flash of a little cash could spark in her.  But hey, it would pay a couple of bills.  A definite plus since she hadn’t been successful in finding work outside of her sporadic contract jobs from home.  Her savings were down to nothing.  Most of the people she made homeopathic herbs and wraps for were barely making ends meet themselves, and Maggie didn’t have the heart to take what little they had, so that certainly wasn’t pulling in any income.

She was already living from one paycheck to the next, budgeting out every penny, stretching her meager income so thin it was almost translucent.

“Uh-huh.”

Sherri went in for the kill.  “
And
you can wear a costume and a mask.  No one will ever know who you are.” 

Maggie bit her bottom lip.  “No one?”

“No one.” 

It
was
tempting.  Something the old Maggie might have jumped at in a heartbeat, when she was naïve and optimistic and
fun
.  Before she became ‘chubby’ and ‘prudish’ and ‘boring’.