It's a Wonderful Wife

Praise for the novels of Janet Chapman

“Chapman continues to maintain a great blend of magic, romance, and realism in a small-town setting; tales in the style of Barbara Bretton's popular books.”

—Booklist

“Heartwarming . . . Readers will enjoy the enchanting town and characters.”

—Publishers Weekly

“When combining magic, passion, and warmth, no one does it better than Chapman. [She] is unmatched and unforgettable.”

—RT Book Reviews

“A captivating, heartwarming paranormal romance that will capture your attention from the very beginning . . . The combination of wit, clever dialogue, charismatic characters, magic, and love makes this story absolutely enchanting.”

—Romance Junkies

“A spectacular and brilliant novel for those who love the juxtaposition of the paranormal and the real world . . . A Perfect 10 is a fitting rating for . . . a novel which is both tender and joyful.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Jove titles by Janet Chapman

HIGHLANDER FOR THE HOLIDAYS

SPELLBOUND FALLS

CHARMED BY HIS LOVE

COURTING CAROLINA

THE HEART OF A HERO

FOR THE LOVE OF MAGIC

THE HIGHLANDER NEXT DOOR

IT'S A WONDERFUL WIFE

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

IT'S A WONDERFUL WIFE

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Janet Chapman.

Excerpt from
Charmed by His Love
copyright © 2012 by Janet Chapman.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15607-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / September 2015

Cover illustration by Jim Griffin.

Cover design by George Long.

To Jessica (Kahl) Chapman

It takes a special woman to love a man whose idea of fun is to spend hours sitting in a boat holding a fishing pole or entire days kneeling over a hole in the ice—that is when he's not standing in the middle of a river holding a fly rod. But the true magic is seeing you standing just upriver, wearing chest-waders and cute little lure earrings, outfishing him!

And to Danielle (Landry) Chapman

Your first clue should have been his asking you to meet a virtual stranger at a desolate boat launch and expecting you to actually get in the boat—alone—with him. Your second clue should have been his asking you to bring the coffee. (Sigh.) Only Nick would think a cold, rainy, October boat ride was a perfect first date.

Thank you, ladies, for loving my sons. And also for bringing your wonderful feminine energy to a way-too-male household. (There. Did you hear that? Why, I do believe that sounded like the power shifting.)

Welcome to the family, daughters of my heart!

ONE

Jesse stole a quick glance at the dash of his pickup in hopes the navigation device knew where it was, because he sure as hell didn't. Forget that he hadn't met any cars since turning onto the winding, narrow road half an hour ago; the power lines had stopped at the last house he'd passed some eight miles back. He checked his right-hand outside mirror only to see the tires on the camper were barely staying on the asphalt, and wondered what had made him think leaving Route One while hauling a forty-foot-long fifth-wheel had been a good idea.

At least he had a place to sleep if he didn't reach civilization by nightfall. He'd be going to bed hungry, though, because he had planned to stock his cupboards in Castle Cove tomorrow morning before loading the camper on a barge for its short voyage to Hundred Acre Isle. But the farther down the desolate road he drove, the more it looked like he might have to reschedule, all because he hadn't been able to wait two days to get a look at the house he was having designed.

Not that Stanley Kerr, of Glace & Kerr Architecture, was expecting him today. But rather than reassuring Jesse that everything was right on schedule, the vague drawings of a very modern kitchen Stanley had emailed him three weeks ago had only fueled his impatience. So instead of getting the camper settled on the island and backtracking over an hour on Friday, he'd decided to cut across to Whistler's Landing this afternoon on the chance the architectural model he'd commissioned had arrived a couple of days early. But even if it hadn't, he could at least see the preliminary plans the model builders would have used, and maybe talk Stanley into giving him a copy. That way he could spend the week studying the layout while imagining he was sitting on his new porch overlooking the Gulf of Maine—which he'd be doing this time next year if everything
stayed
on schedule—and decide on any changes he might want to make.

Jesse had purchased the island that sat three nautical miles offshore of Castle Cove the very day he'd set foot on it late last summer. He'd then spent the next six months traveling from New York to Maine to look at houses and interview homeowners before settling on an architect he was confident could give him the state-of-the-art yet unpretentious home he wanted. Hundred Acre Isle was to be his sanctuary from the corporate world, the place his children would run free every summer, his . . . Rosebriar. But where his grandfather's sprawling estate north of New York City had been Abram Sinclair's deliberately pretentious testament to his love for Grammy Rose, Jesse had decided to build
before
finding the woman of his dreams.

That is, assuming such a paragon even existed.

Because despite his grandfather's best efforts, Jesse had become an expert at dodging all the marriage-minded women the scheming old wolf had constantly thrown in his path. But seeing how wedded bliss appeared to agree with his two older brothers, he'd started worrying he might in fact be missing out. And since both Sam and Ben had found the women of their dreams in Maine . . . well, maybe the state could pony up one more Sinclair bride.

Not that he intended to marry the first beauty to catch his eye simply so he'd stop rattling around Rosebriar all alone but for a way-too-familial staff. Yet he really couldn't see himself settling in for the long haul with any of the self-absorbed and high-maintenance women he was in the habit of dating, any more than he could see his current interest, Miss Pamela Bowden, spending her summers chasing a passel of kids around an isolated island. Which meant he really needed to start dating
mother
-minded women if he hoped to have children close in age to their cousins, seeing how his two older brothers already had a three-year head start on him. In fact, Sam was expecting his second little bundle of joy in October.

Getting two of his grandsons to the altar from his grave had been quite a coup for Bram, considering all three men had been experts at dodging women. But Sam had married Willa within six weeks of following her home to Keelstone Cove—which, ironically, had been exactly six weeks after Bram's death—and Ben had given Emma less than two weeks to plan her wedding not a month after showing up at her sporting camps in the western mountains of Maine.

But then, Sinclair men did have a reputation for moving quickly once they made up their minds about something—in matters of the heart as well as business, apparently.

Jesse crested yet another blind knoll and immediately slowed to a crawl when he spotted the car parked just off the pavement, its two right tires nearly touching the water of an encroaching bog. And even though flames were shooting above the raised hood of the late-model luxury sedan, he didn't dare brake to a stop for fear of being rear-ended if someone should crest the knoll behind him.

It was just as he swerved to the other side of the road to get past the car that he spotted the woman up ahead, who had stopped walking and turned at the sound of his engine. She was carrying a large white box, there were no fewer than a dozen brightly colored balloons tied to the bulging purse hiked up on her shoulder, and he couldn't help noticing her expression go from hopeful to disappointed. Obviously seeing he wasn't a local, she started walking again, apparently unconcerned that her car was on fire.

Jesse continued past her, edged to the side of the road as far as he dared, and brought his rig to a stop on the crest of another knoll so it could be seen by anyone traveling from either direction. He set the park brake as an extra precaution, shut off the engine and got out, and walked down the length of the camper. “Have you called 911?” he asked, only to watch the swirling balloons knock her wide-brimmed hat askew when she stopped a good twenty yards from him.

“No,” she said, shifting what appeared to be a pastry box to one arm and righting her hat. “I was afraid they'd get here before the car was totaled.”

Jesse stilled in the act of pulling out his cell phone. “You
want
it to burn?”

“Right down to its four crappy tires,” she shot back, her curt nod making her hat slip sideways again. Only this time instead of righting it, she pulled it off and sent it sailing into the woods. She glanced back at the car, which now had black smoke billowing out all four open windows, and shrugged. “It's not close enough to any trees to start a forest fire,” she said as she started walking again. “I'll call it in when I get to town.”

“How far would that be?” Jesse asked, moving into the road when he realized she intended to walk right past him. “I'll give you a ride.”

She stopped again. “Thank you, but I'll walk. It's only about a mile.”

That flawless complexion, pale-to-its-roots curly blonde hair, and those intelligent, arresting blue eyes made Jesse realize he knew her. “Miss Glace,” he said, unable to believe he hadn't recognized her immediately, considering how often she'd invaded his dreams over the last three months. “I'm Jesse Sinclair,” he explained at her startled look. “Your fiancé is designing my house. On Hundred Acre Isle?” he added to jog her memory, since he obviously hadn't left as memorable an impression on her. “You sat in on my meeting with Stanley back in February”—to take notes, he'd thought, since she'd brought a notebook and pencil. But though she hadn't said another word beyond a warm “Nice to meet you” at being introduced to him as Cadi Glace—Stanley's fiancée and the daughter of his deceased partner, Owen Glace—Jesse had certainly been aware of her as he'd spent the next two hours explaining to Stanley exactly what he wanted in a house.

“Pooh Bear,” she suddenly blurted.

“Excuse me?”

Her gaze dropped to the box she was holding, but not quickly enough to hide the soft blush creeping into her creamy white cheeks. “I mean . . .” She looked up, exposing an irreverent smile. “Winnie the Pooh? He lived in Hundred Acre Wood with Piglet and Eeyore and Tigger?” she added when he frowned. Her smile turned warm. “The few times Stanley took me to your island to check out building sites, it was all I could do not to run around looking for pots of honey hidden in hollow logs.” She shrugged her free shoulder. “I developed the habit years ago of imagining my father's clients as whatever fictional characters I thought matched the homes they wanted designed.”

And she'd decided he was a roly-poly,
slow-witted
teddy bear?

“Yes. Well,” she murmured when he still said nothing, hiking her balloon-anchoring purse higher on her shoulder and heading to his truck. “I guess I will—”

Jesse had her pushed up against the camper before she'd even finished gasping when the car suddenly exploded, surrounding her in a protective embrace just as the percussion reached them with enough force to pop several of the balloons. He stayed pressed against her, waiting to see if anything else might explode, and tried not to notice that Cadi Glace felt even better in the flesh than in his dreams. Casually dressed in slacks, a long-tailed chambray shirt, and flats, she was a bit taller than he remembered, and definitely . . . curvier.

“Well, that took care of that problem,” she said, her tentative push making him step back when he realized he was still holding her. She moved away from the camper and shifted her purse to look past the balloons at her burning car. “I guess I will take that ride. Well, damn,” she muttered when she spotted the white box sitting on its side in the middle of the road.

Jesse walked over and crouched down to pick it up, seeing through the plastic cover that the round layer cake saying
Happy Birthday, Stanley
was no longer round. He gave the box a quick jostle to re-center the cake and stood up. “I'm sorry. It's not as pretty but should still be edible.” He held it toward her. “Feel free to blame me when Stanley asks what happened.”

She took the box and headed for his truck again. “Please don't apologize for graciously choosing to protect me instead of the cake.”

Jesse managed to beat her to the passenger side, but instead of getting in when he opened the door, she opened the back door, set the cake and her large purse on the backseat, then began wrestling the balloons inside—sighing when another one popped as she quickly closed the door to keep them from escaping. “I can't imagine what else can go wrong,” he heard her mumble as she climbed onto the running board and slid into the front seat, only to hold up her hand when he tried to speak. “And don't even think of apologizing for my crappy day.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said dryly, closing her door, then jogging around the front of the truck. But instead of getting in, he looked down the knoll at the car to see it was completely engulfed in flames. Doubting the fire extinguisher in the camper would do much good, Jesse pulled out his cell phone and opened his door. “Can I call it in now? It's definitely totaled.”

She leaned forward to glance in her outside mirror. “I suppose you should.”

“Where do I tell them it is?”

“A mile outside of Whistler's Landing on Bog Road.” She looked at her watch and sighed again. “They're going to make us wait until they get here.”

Jesse called 911 and reported the burning car, assured the dispatcher no one was hurt, then got in his truck. “Leaving the scene of an accident is a serious crime.”

“That wasn't an accident. It was attempted murder. That crappy car's been out to get me since the day I bought it.”

“Naw,” he drawled. “I figure the most they could charge it with would be assault.”

Those arresting blue eyes snapped to his.

“It did wait until you were a safe distance away before exploding.”

Instead of the smile he was looking for, her eyes narrowed with her scowl. “Actually, now that I think about it, many of my troubles today
are
your fault.”

“Excuse me?”

“Stanley said he had to spend all evening working on the Sinclair project because you were arriving
this Friday
, so I was forced to move his surprise birthday party to the office,” she explained, swatting at a balloon creeping along the ceiling between them. “But when my engine quit and what I thought was steam started billowing out the front grill, I let the car coast down the hill, thinking I could add some water from the bog to the radiator. Only when I lifted the hood and the engine burst into flames, I decided to roll down all the windows, grab the cake and balloons, and start walking.”

“You don't have a cell phone? If you didn't want to call the fire department, you could at least have called one of your party guests to come get you.”

Of all things, that got him a smile. “I cherish my friends too much to subject them to one of my little snits, and figured I'd be calmed down by the time I reached town.”

“Can I ask what you had against the car? It looked to be this year's model.”

“It's an old lady's car,” she shot back. “And it's been a lemon since the day I drove it off the lot. I told the dealership there was something wrong with the electronics, but they kept insisting that because the car I traded in had been nine years old, I couldn't possibly understand the new car's sophisticated technology. And that I shouldn't,” she added, her scowl returning, “worry my pretty little blonde head over it.”

Jesse pretended to check his side mirror to hide his grin. “If they were going to be condescending chauvinists, why didn't you have Stanley talk to the dealership?”

“Because I am perfectly capable of fighting my own battles.”

“May I ask why you bought an old lady's car?”

“Because Stanley said the sporty red Mercedes convertible I wanted wasn't practical.”

Jesse decided that Cadi Glace in a “little snit” was even more appealing. Not that he should be surprised, having found the woman a beautiful anomaly the first time he'd met her—which, now that he thought about it, was probably why she kept haunting his dreams. There'd been a distinct I-know-a-secret sparkle in those intelligent blue eyes when she'd politely shaken his hand three months ago only to then spend the next two hours as silent as the furniture. But when she'd stood up to say good-bye and dropped her sketchbook, he'd caught a glimpse of two of the pages before she'd snatched it up and quickly closed it, and discovered that instead of taking notes the woman had spent the entire meeting . . . doodling.