A Baby In His In-Box

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Jennifer Greene. A Baby In His In-Box

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Nothing But Trouble Could Come From Kissing Flynn. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Copyright

A woman as sane as she was—and the whole world knew Molly Weston was practical and hopelessly straitlaced—simply had more brains than to hurl herself off a cliff without a parachute.

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But he was standing right in front of her by then. It was a butter-soft fall day, with blinds drawn to shutter out the bright mid-afternoon October sun beating in the windows this early in the afternoon. His computer screen was flashing, his fax noisily spewing out paper, the door to his office wide-open. Molly was aware of the sun, the office textures and noises, yet all she really noticed right then was him.

She was no shrimp at five foot five, yet he towered over her by a good six inches. Flynn always looked more like the wild warriors in his Scottish ancestry than anyone respectably civilized. His eyes were as piercing as blue lasers, his shoulders beam-broad, his thick, unruly hair the color of dark cinnamon and never looked brushed. His clothes were disgraceful the same way—jeans with holes, a long-sleeved black T-shirt with a threadbare neck—the man had money to burn, yet couldn’t seem to spare a dime to dress conventionally. Doing anything conventional never seemed to occur to Flynn.

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