In the Mood for Love Read Free

her car into town. Chances of being rammed by a suicidal driver or blown to bits by some terrorist missile were slim to none. She would not obsess on that “slim” percentage.
    Harper stared up at the ceiling of her almost-but-not-quite-wholly-renovated getaway, garnering the courage to roll out of bed and seize the day, still smiling even though her optimism had slipped a notch. She wasn’t alone in her misery.
    Local legend Mary Rothwell, a long-ago previous owner of this house and an original Cupcake Lover, had stared up at this ceiling hundreds of times. Granted, that had been back in the 1940s, but this was the same ceiling and this had been Mary’s bedroom. Even though Harper had never seen the ghost of the woman who supposedly haunted this house, she definitely felt Mary. Or at least, commiserated with her restless soul. That’s why Harper had specifically bought this farm. To fill a void in Mary’s life, to connect with a kindred spirit. Harper had a lot in common with Mary. She would not, however, meet the same end. Harper was made of sterner stuff. She’d get through this rough patch and get on with life.
    Today.
    Motivated, Harper shot out of bed. She grabbed a remote and turned on the wall-mounted plasma screen while padding to her desk to fire up her laptop. She’d had a wall knocked out in order to create a combo bedroom/office—a comfortable, functional living space while the rest of the rooms were under renovation. Multitasking as always, she used one hand to tune in VH1 while the other keyed up CNN. She nabbed her phone and quickly checked for texts, e-mails, and PMs on her Twitter and Facebook accounts. No urgent pleas from any of her clients. No fires to put out. That was disappointing. Harper thrived on snuffing fiascoes and solving problems. Then again, kudos to her tribe for staying out of trouble for at least one night.
    On the other hand, there was also the chance that they’d taken their crisis to someone else. Harper hadn’t been the most hands-on publicist these last few weeks. Although she’d worked hard to meet her clients’ needs via telecommunications, she’d bailed on several premieres and luncheons. Crowds weren’t her thing just now. Wide-open spaces, public places weren’t her thing just now. A liability given her line of work. A glitch she was striving to overcome. As a last resort, she’d flown from her home base in Los Angeles to the home she’d created in Sugar Creek. Her retreat. Her safe haven. A relatively isolated nonworking farm on the fringes of a small town in northern Vermont. Far away from her needy clients and demanding PR firm. Yes, they could still contact her, and she was counting on it, but they weren’t likely to show up on her doorstep or insist they meet at a trendy restaurant or popular bar to discuss business. She needed private time to pull it together. A week or two. Maybe three, depending. Not that she didn’t deserve a holiday. Harper had a reputation for working 24/7. No matter what time of day someone needed her, she was there.
    Until recently.
    Satisfied none of her clients were presently drowning in scandal, Harper peeled off her satin cami and boxers and pulled on a sports bra and capris. A health-and-fitness junkie, she worked out religiously. Exercise also helped to reduce stress. On any normal day, Harper was wound tight. She couldn’t forget the tragedy and the threats that had inspired her to flee Canada three years back, but she could stem the guilt and worry by keeping insanely busy and spinning other people’s lives for the better. In her case, that meant saving reckless or screwed-up celebrities from countless missteps and fiascoes. Taking control of their crises helped her to manage her own sense of helplessness. She’d been episode-free for almost a year. Partly because the man who’d sworn to “never let her forget” had finally given up. Or at least Harper had finally managed to block him from every aspect of her