Love Letters, Inc.

Love Letters, Inc.

The Author's Cut Edition

by

EC Sheedy

writing as Carole Dean

This edition has been updated and expanded by the Author.

Previously published as
Summer Rose
.

By payment of required fees, you have been granted the
non
-exclusive,
non
-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Copyright 1997, 2011 by Edna Sheedy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep
www.ebookprep.com

Thank You.

For Vera, Doddie, and Nat, the very best of friends.

There can never be too many August weekends.

~

And for Cody, who waits for me by the Rainbow Bridge.

Chapter 1

"Rosaleen Fiona O'Hanlon, you're certifiable."

Rosie grinned but didn't look away from her computer screen. "Must be bad if you're bringing the full weight of my Celtic heritage to bear, Jonesy. What's the problem?"

"You're broke. Flatter than a cheap perm."

"Uh-huh." Using her foot, Rosie rubbed the belly of the Irish wolfhound sprawled at her feet. He stretched and groaned his appreciation.

"You have the income of a poet and you're spending like a Hilton."

Rosie raised her eyebrows and scanned her modest home office, which she affectionately called Litter Hill. A Hilton wouldn't use it for shoe storage. Still, it was Rosie's and it was home. She loved it. And so did Font, the one hundred and twenty pound heap of canine currently taking up all unused floor space.

"Well, keep it to yourself, okay?" She squinted at the screen, for now jacked up on a plastic tomato crate, and pushed her glasses up her nose. "Wouldn't want it on my head if bank stocks plummet."

"I'm surprised your bank hasn't already," Jonesy said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "You're not taking this seriously, you know."

"You're serious enough for both of us. And I want to get this section done before noon. Hennessy's coming by with more projects." She shoved her hair back and off her forehead, but it did no good. Masses of screeching red hair, wildly curly, swirled around her face and brushed against her skin. Skin that was the site of an ongoing war for territory between creamy alabaster and golden freckles. For now, it being late spring, the alabaster was winning.

A distinct "ahem" brought Rosie's attention back to her longtime friend and accountant. Resigned to a lecture, she rotated her upper body to face a still glaring Jonesy.

"Okay, I give up. Why am I certifiable?"

"You've lost a lot of time—and money—as a result of your surgery and convalescence. The result being these." She waved a hand over the table she'd been working on. It was piled high with unpaid bills. "As a technical writer, you work by the hour, right?"

"Right."

"And Moore Write wants to give you more work, right?"

"Right again." Rosie would have nodded, but the neck brace she was wearing precluded so much as a dip of her chin. She ran her index finger between it and her itchy neck. Damn thing!

"But instead of taking the more lucrative work to make up for lost time, you're writing love letters for the dating impaired for pennies a pop."

"Hey, that's not fair. My clients—"

"Humph!"

Rosie gave her a stern look. "I repeat, my
clients
are not, as you so callously put it, 'dating impaired.' If they were, they wouldn't have anyone to write to, would they?"

"Cyrano Inc.
is an idea gone wrong. It's been over a month now and you have nothing to show for it. Your skills would be better employed elsewhere. Logic—and your current financial pickle—says your time should go to the highest bidder. And that, dear heart, is Moore Write Technical Inc. Economics, pure and simple." Jonesy clamped her lips firmly together and gave her a hard stare.