Contemporary Romance Excerpt by Stephie Smith

RULES OF LYING (AKA Husband Wanted: Must Do Yard Work)
Single Title Contemporary Romance

2nd Place, Missouri RWA's 2007 Gateway To The Best!!
3rd Place, Romance Writers Ink 2007 Where The Magic Begins!!
3rd Place, Georgia RWA's 2007 The Maggie!!
Chapter 1

I stared at the sign I’d shoved into the ground two weeks earlier. Already it was showing signs of aging, though not nearly as many signs as I was showing, and there hadn’t been a single nibble. Yes, I'm sure it was a stupid idea, but I'd heard a story about a guy who put a sign in his yard for a wife and got one right away. Of course, no one ever got a good look at that wife and I somehow think men are a little less discriminating about things like that. And I’m not talking about looks. I’m talking about personal hygiene and work ethics and being able to have an intelligent conversation.

But if I was going to get a man quickly enough to help me out of this jam, I knew I might have to forgo at least the latter prerequisite. (Yes, I know. I can’t seem to forgo the historical romance lingo, even though I no longer write it.) So, after two weeks of putting up with neighbors gawking and asking if it was a joke, I realized that I should run an ad instead. I couldn’t just give up, not since the prize that I would forfeit was my house and land.

Who would have thought that this nice little Florida town could get nice and mean? Who would have thought that you couldn’t just purchase two acres and a house tucked away snugly in a suburban neighborhood and let it all go to crap, for perfectly good reasons, of course. When I bought it two years ago, I was planning to do all kinds of things. And I did a lot of them (really, I did). Unfortunately, I made the mistake of starting inside the house, and my neighbors didn’t give a rat’s ass about that. When I finally got going on my yard, it didn’t take me long to blow out my back. Lugging a chain saw and carting around hundreds of pounds of soil and mulch will do that to a girl in short order.

So then I had to pay workers to finish the projects I’d begun. And just as I started to rebound financially—after giving up every single luxury I could think of—my employer downsized, and though I wasn’t laid off as so many others had been, I’d taken a cut in both salary and hours. And then I ran out of money.

As fate would have it, almost at that very moment I got the hand-delivered final notice from the town, the notice that had been threatened but which I never thought they’d really send. According to that letter I had exactly ninety days to clean up my act, to make my yard look like it belonged in a suburban neighborhood rather than in the middle of a downtrodden tropical jungle, or else I’d be fined. I wanted to ask the clerk if it was even possible for a tropical jungle to look downtrodden, but the words stuck in my throat as I read the amount of the fine. No way could I raise that in three months, and if I didn’t pay the fine or didn’t clean up my lot, I’d be forced to vacate. And I couldn’t afford to do that either.

And so, having had no luck with the sign, I scraped together the money to run an ad in the paper. I hated the thought of putting a man’s name on my deed, but I decided I’d do it if he did his share of the work—and signed the pre-nup, of course. The rest of the bargain...the marriage...well, that would have to be worked out. If I had my way about it, it would be a business arrangement only. Men were scum when it came to romantic love. At least none had proved otherwise yet.

I swatted at the mosquito that was circling my ear, one of the few places I hadn’t doused with mosquito spray. I looked around my yard and for a moment I could see it all. The butterfly garden in the courtyard, trellises thick with coral honeysuckle and passion flower. Hummingbirds would visit daily. Mockingbirds would nest in the woody vines. Butterflies would flit from leaf to leaf, laying their eggs.

In the middle of the lot would be a pond. Not a showy pond for koi or those giant goldfish (God knows I couldn’t afford to feed anything else), but a pond for frogs and for turtles hiding under the lily pads, a watering place for birds and ‘possums and anything else that wandered my way. I’d have walkways and seating areas, maybe a pergola, even, covered by bleeding hearts, where I could sit every day and smile, albeit ruefully, at the irony of the name of the flower that covered my sanctuary.

As the Florida sun rose higher, a bead of sweat started on my forehead and trickled down the side of my face, tickling the corner of my eye as it passed. I blinked it away, and found myself staring at an abundance of weeds and overgrown shrubbery where the pergola had moments before stood out so clearly in my mind. That feeling of despair that I’d come to know so well tried to find a crack in the armor of optimism that I’d sworn to keep myself wrapped up in all day, but I wouldn’t let it. Something was about to break. I could feel it, even stronger than I had the moment I clicked on that “Submit” button to pay for my ad.

A screen door slammed across the street and I cringed, awaiting the commentary that was sure to follow.

I glanced up and shaded my eyes from the ever-brightening sun to see my twice-divorced and thrice-married bleached-blonde neighbor, Sheila, sauntering toward me, her margarita a perfect match to her greenish shorts and halter top. Ten a.m. and half drunk. This should be good.

“You don’t mention the word ssssex.” She slurred the last word, holding it on her tongue as though it were a savored morsel. And I’m sure it was for those lucky enough to have a taste. Another trickle of sweat took off for its life, running straight down to my jaw. I shook my head impatiently and the drop went flying although it didn’t land, as I was hoping, on Sheila’s perfectly manicured, still-wet-with-polish toenails. Too bad. That would have sent her scurrying back to her house, thus ending the “how to catch a man” advice that I’d been forced to listen to ever since I moved in without one.

“The word husband rather implies it,” I replied a little more sharply than I meant to. “I mean, married people generally have sex, don’t they?”

The instant the question was out of my mouth, I regretted it because I wasn’t in the mood to hear about Sheila’s sex life, especially since I wasn’t getting any and hadn’t been in so long that I wasn’t sure it was being done the same way. Still, her personal ideology that men would do almost anything for the promise of sex and almost nothing without it rang a distinct bell. After all, wasn’t that what I had been brought up to believe?

“Honey, sex is never implied,” she said as she rolled her eyes at my naivety. “It's either there or it isn't, you know what I mean?”

Unfortunately, I knew exactly what she meant, and as I watched her return to her house shaking her head, a tiny voice in my head told me she probably had a point.

I tapped my hammer against the side of the sign, expecting it to topple over since I’d only haphazardly shoved it into the ground to begin with, but it remained exactly where it was. If I had wanted it to remain there, it certainly would have blown over with the slightest breeze, but since I’d decided to remove it, there would have to be a fight. And in the 95-degree weather to boot.

Sweat ran down the side of my breast and was instantly soaked up by my thin cotton tank top. The thought of an ice cold beer almost made me faint with longing, and I would have one the minute I replaced this sign with the new one that I’d decided in the last five seconds would read “Husband Wanted: Must Work for SEX.” Yeah. That should give the neighbors something to talk about.

With a sudden burst of irritation, I hit the sign full force. It not only came up, but it broke away from the stake and went flying ten feet into the air. I settled back on my heels and watched the sign land face down in the driveway.

My stare began at his slightly worn but expensive leather boots—he obviously wasn’t a native Floridian—and continued up a boot-cut style pair of jeans that hugged very long, leanly-muscled thighs. A long, tall drink of water. Wasn’t that a Texan saying, because if Texas was even half as hot as Florida, I could see how that particular phrase could say it all.

I was suddenly very, very thirsty, and my eyes were still glued to his thighs. Or rather, they were glued to something in that vicinity, something that was being hugged just as snugly as his thighs, something that was also long but not so leanly muscled. Another Texan saying was trying to work its way into my head, but for some reason I was finding it hard to concentrate. I looked up and he smiled—devilishly, I thought.

“It is true what they say, you know. Everything does grow bigger in Texas.”

Oh, for God’s sake. What was he, telepathic? I had the grace to blush. No, not grace. I seldom had grace these days, though I seem to remember having plenty of it before the break-up with Pete. I guess that’s what lies and deceit do to you. I quickly tried to recover by relying on what a blind date had acerbically called my charming personality. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped. Then, afraid he would tell me, I hurried on. “Why would I assume you’re from Texas? A pair of boots does not a Texan make.”

"No, but my Texan drawl might have clued you in,” he said, chuckling now at my discomfort.

He shifted slightly, blocking the sun with his shoulders and I got a good look at him. My first thought was he sure knows how to dress and then I realized that anything would look good on him. He was as fit as any man I’d ever seen—tall enough and with muscles that were definitely there but not too bulging. My second thought was darn. He had a closely-cropped beard and I had never really cared for beards, but maybe I could talk him into shaving it off once we were married. Married? I was jumping ahead of myself, wasn’t I? He hadn’t even applied for the job, though surely that was why he, a perfect stranger, was standing in my yard remarking on my sign.

I guess those thoughts (and more that I won’t mention here) were running rampant through my brain while I took in the rest of his appearance. He had a firm, angular jaw discernible beneath the beard, broad cheekbones, a somewhat crooked though attractive nose, and very kissable lips. Huh? I snapped myself out of that. I was looking for a business arrangement, I reminded myself. At least I thought I was...or had been anyway.

Before I could think of a retort or could even remember who said what last, I saw that his muscles could bulge because the bicep in his arm was bulging now, now that he was lifting his arm to grandly sweep off his cowboy hat.

“I’m Jake Tyler,” he said with a friendly grin. “I’m renting the house down the street and thought I’d introduce myself to my neighbors.”

He put out his hand to help me up. I stared, unable to utter a word as I got to my feet without his help. Jake Tyler? Where did he come up with that name? From a romance novel?

Before my mind could examine that, the realization that I had misread the situation hit me. But wait a minute, how did he know about my situation? He did ask if I’d found a taker, after all, and my ad wouldn’t come out until the morning. I quickly glanced at the sign where it still lay face down, then squinted my eyes at him in suspicion. He smiled easily, his teeth brighter than the sun, if that were possible.

My jaw dropped, and the latest dribble of sweat that had been running down the side of my face ran right into my mouth, the sight of which must surely make me irresistible to any Texan hunk. But I could hardly worry about that now. What the hell was he talking about?

He shifted from one booted foot to the other, still completely at ease with himself, while I struggled to think of a coherent string of words to put together. But in spite of my shock over his statement, it seemed that the only thought that came to mind was a disappointed he isn’t answering my ad.

“The article was pretty good,” he said, the gold flecks in his brown eyes brightened by his smile. “You’re a writer?”

I was jerked back to reality—and how. “I was a writer,” I mumbled. A pretend writer said a voice in my head. “What article?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Florida Times did a story on you. Don’t tell me you didn’t know. Jane Dough, the all American girl, returns from fame and fortune in the big city to discover there’s no place like home.”

“Yeah, right.” I couldn’t help the bitter response. Not only was he not answering the ad, but he was making fun of me. “No place like home and she’s so broke she’s willing to buy a husband to keep it.”

His sunny expression dimmed as a shadow of something I wasn’t used to seeing flitted across his face. I think it was compassion; I wasn’t sure. He shrugged, a little less comfortable with himself.

“I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you. If it helps, I finished the article thinking you were really something. I suspect most people did.”

I looked at him warily, not knowing what to think. I would have to read the article myself, but until I did, I had nothing to say about it.

“Well,” he said with a tender smile as he placed his cowboy hat back on his head, “I really am your neighbor. At the end of the street on the other side. And if you need help with anything, just give a very loud holler. My phone isn’t installed yet.”

“Oh, my gosh,” said my best friend Angie as I told her about the mystery neighbor when she stopped by just after noon. “This is exactly what I saw in the cards.”

I’d met Angie at a psychic fair three years earlier, and we instantly hit it off, though we seem an unlikely pair, me with my cynicism and self-deprecating wit, and Angie with her sweet disposition and insistence on seeing the positive side of everything. Even her hair matched her personality. A bright, sunny blonde with curls that seemed to dance around her face with excitement. My dark blonde hair looked positively drab next to hers, just like my personality. The only thing we had in common was that we’d never found a man we wanted enough to marry. Angie dated a lot. I, on the other hand, dated almost never.

I raised my eyebrows because I knew Angie expected me to. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” I said. “You saw a man coming into my immediate future. Hardly amazing since I ran an ad looking for one.”

Angie shook her head. “Oh, no you don’t. I read the cards before you told me about the ad, and besides, I’m talking about the kind of man I saw. King of Pentacles. A man who knows his own worth. A man you can depend on, who will help you through whatever comes your way. And please don’t say bullshit.”

I ignored her last sentence. Angie didn’t like cussing and was always correcting me. “That sounds suspiciously like Prince Charming to the rescue, and you know how I feel about that.”

I laughed in spite of myself. It was true, and she wasn’t talking about psychic powers. Around strangers and my family I barely said a word. My friends, on the other hand, couldn’t shut me up.

“And what makes you think this new neighbor is that man? Why can’t it be someone answering my ad?”

“I’m not inviting him for tea, if that’s what you’re leading up to.” Angie read tea leaves too, and palms, and astrology charts, and just about anything else you could think of. And yet, though I know I sound skeptical, Angie’s been right-on so many times that I just can’t set aside anything she says as inconsequential. But maybe she’s just an ace at reading people.

“Oh, yeah. Best to keep that a secret for now.” She smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “That’s okay. I have a feeling I’ll meet him soon enough.”

My friend Mark poured out three shots of tequila as Angie cut up the limes. They’d shown up just after my baloney sandwich dinner, and the first thing I saw as they walked through the door was the bottle of tequila, though neither of them drink that much. Then I saw the Florida Times. Aha. Mystery solved.

“Why don’t I read the article aloud?” Angie suggested gaily after she set limes and salt on the table.

“If need be. But Mr. Handsome seemed to think you sounded good. Maybe we won’t need the tequila at all.”

I’d like to say right here that Mark is a bit of a hunk at six feet tall with a body he keeps in good shape, thick dark hair and hazel eyes, and I’ll admit I'd started wondering if he was gay. Or maybe he just had a problem with commitment. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that for the first two years of our acquaintance, he’d had only superficial affairs, and for the last couple of years, he hadn’t dated at all. Of course, he spent more hours working than anyone I'd ever known, so maybe he just didn't have time. And at that moment it occurred to me that here we were, three attractive people in our thirties, all unmarried and each seemingly without the first prospect in sight. I, of course, would be changing that, whether I wanted to or not, unless this yet-to-be-read article ruined my chances of catching a husband.

I rolled my eyes at Mark’s comment about my drinking, and just to show that I didn’t care, I went ahead and took my first shot of tequila as Angie began to read aloud, her voice sounding like that of an upbeat reporter.

In spite of her name, local resident Jane Dough has led a life that’s been anything but ordinary. Leaving home at the tender age of 15, she went on to do things that other young girls only dream about: becoming a swimsuit model for a major sportswear brand, dating rock stars and multi-millionaires, and finding success in her own right as a US-Today bestselling author of historical romances written under the pseudonym Janie Jansen.

“Jane was nothing like her sisters,” said Dough’s mother. “Not from the minute she was born. All her sisters had that nice, thick, curly dark hair and there was little Janie, completely bald.”

I closed my eyes. Why my mother would think anyone might find this tidbit of bald-headed information fascinating was beyond me, but then, I’d never had a clue about what might come out of Mom’s mouth. Did I really want to hear the rest of this? I was pretty sure it could get worse. Much worse.

I opened my eyes to see Mark nodding, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “I think that starts out pretty good,” he said. “Women especially like to read about that kind of stuff, don’t they? Babies and hair and such...”

“She was different in other ways too,” said Mrs. Dough. “Always reading books. Used to walk up to the library when she was just seven and check out books all by herself. She loved reading biographies of women from the 1800’s. I guess that’s why she liked those historical romances...but some of them were too racy for a girl her age. I remember when she was twelve she was reading one where all the scullery maids were stealing the large cucumbers from the kitchen. I took that book back to the library myself.”

Angie looked up from the paper, wide-eyed, and I downed my second shot of tequila. Not the cucumber book again. I swear it is the only thing my mother remembers about historical romances, and the irony is that when I read that book, I didn’t even know why the girls were stealing the cucumbers. I just figured that young English girls loved cucumbers and didn’t get to eat them in their tiny scullery maid rooms. But in every single interview, Mom talked about the cucumber book, and I guess the journalists must have gotten a kick out of it because they always used it in their articles.

I tried to remember what other embarrassing things she liked to tell reporters, but it had been so long since someone had written about me that I couldn’t. And those other articles hadn’t mattered. They’d been written when I was trying to increase my readership, and any publicity was good publicity. But now? What could possibly be good about having an article written about me now? Now that I had hit bottom so hard that I had to advertise for a husband.

Angie took a shot of tequila. “It adds a touch of humor,” she said with a reassuring, though somewhat shaky, smile. “Good journalism is all about holding the reader’s interest and I for one think this journalist is doing a fantastic job.” She stopped abruptly, poured and downed another shot, grimaced as she took some lime and salt, and went on.

“Jane returned home briefly when she was 17,” Dough’s mother reminisced. “But her father kicked her out again when he found a naked man in her closet.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I wailed. “A naked man? He was barely 18. She makes me sound like a degenerate, like a teenage prostitute doing men in the family coat closet.”

Angie had dropped the paper and was giggling. “Do tell, Jane. I don’t believe I’ve heard that story and it sounds so... inneresting.”

Mark flashed a grin at me when Angie giggled again. We both knew she couldn’t hold her liquor. In fact, she couldn’t hold one drink.

I sighed. “You just heard the story. The only thing I want to add is that Joe had carefully laid his clothes outside the window and loosened the screen on the off-chance that my parents would return home early from their trip, but for some reason, he jumped into the closet instead of out the window the minute my father pounded on the door. Dad went straight to the closet, opened it, and said, ‘Just as I thought’ and that was pretty much it. I can’t believe my mother brought that up. I can’t believe she even remembered it.”

Mark gave me a puzzled look. “Why did your Dad think someone was in your closet?”

“Because Joe’s car was out front with a flat tire,” I said as I recalled that night. “The thing is, the car would have been there with a flat tire regardless. I mean, Joe was going to hitchhike back to his place, but I talked him into staying. So there was a 50/50 chance that my father would have found zilch in the closet, but he didn’t trust me, so instead of even bothering to ask, he marched in and looked.”

“Well, hell no. I was 17 years old with a naked man in my closet. What do you think?”

“Janie, please don’t say hell,” said Angie as she picked up the paper again. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the print, a sure sign that she was getting smashed.

By the time Dough was 21 she’d moved to Los Angeles, taking on temporary jobs such as modeling. She even had a few bit parts in some films, though she said in several interviews that she was much too shy to go into acting.

Dough’s mother recalled those times. “I think Jane was waitressing in a topless bar when she met that Pete—you know, the rock star. I don’t think they actually met there, but that’s the job she had at the time.”

Please, God, just shoot me now. I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud until Mark patted me sympathetically on the back.

“We like you too much to shoot you,” he said, laughing at my mortification. “And I won’t even mind if you take off your top and serve us the rest of this tequila. But I will say that now you’re starting to sound like a degenerate.”

“But it’s so unfair. If only someone had asked me I could have told them that I wasn’t topless. Only the dancers were.” I always explained that to people, but no one ever believed me. They just stared at my breasts.

We all took a shot together. Was that two or three or four? And who cared? Certainly not me.

And it pretty much was, at least as far as I can remember. The rest of it was about my relationship with Pete. How he’d seemed to be a quickly rising phenomenon who proceeded to waste his money on drugs and good times, and that while he’d been out partying, I’d been at home writing and climbing the lists.

That wasn’t true and I knew it. I had begun writing as a lark, because I was tired of the late night parties, and yet I needed something to do at night while Pete was out. After reading every historical romance at the library, I decided to write one. I’d never have gotten an agent if my boyfriend hadn’t been a “quickly rising phenomenon” and no one knew that better than I.

I took the paper away from Angie and looked it over as best I could, considering that the words were beginning to blur together. The article was the main feature on the local page, complete with pictures of Pete and me backstage at a concert, plus the cover of Dark Scoundrel, my third historical romance and the one that had put me on the US-Today bestseller list.

I cringed as I suddenly realized that I’d been outed. As far as I knew, no one at work was aware of my former life and I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what they would think, especially my boss, who was as conventional as they come. Monday morning would be embarrassing at best, and I tried not to think about it.

I scanned the rest of the article. The last paragraph was about my present situation, and though it actually made the town sound like the bad guy, it also made me sound pathetic. I mean, is it possible for any female to be forced to marry a man for the manual labor he can provide, yet still be un-pathetic? I took another shot, and tried to put together some words.

“I sound patetic.” I sniffed, thinking that at least one of us should be crying for me.

“Well, I don’t see what’s wrong wif the maids swiping the kucumbers,” Angie said, her slurred words somehow managing to sound miffed. “If there wasn’t enough dukes wif big peckers to go ‘round...”

I tried to laugh but I choked. Angie, who also read historical romances, knew that all dukes were young, rich, handsome, and hung like stallions.

“Did she recognize you?” Jake’s grandmother ran a brown-spotted, blue-veined hand over her lustrous silver-grey hair, a habit he remembered from way back, when her hair had been a dark chestnut brown with a mind of its own. She’d done it constantly when his mom was dying in the hospital and six months later when his dad disappeared. After that it was usually prompted by a call from the school principal or gossip about his escapades passed along by a neighbor. These days her thick hair was twisted into a tight bun, but her smoothing of the now-imaginary errant hairs whenever she was troubled remained.

Jake shook his head. “Would anyone who hasn’t seen me since I was seven years old? And I’m sure she didn’t recognize me as J.T. Campbell, either.” Not with the shaved head. No one would. There’d been more press about his long hair than his tennis ranking throughout the years, and even his agent hadn’t recognized him when he showed up to break the news that he was changing careers. Well, quitting tennis, anyway. He’d have to know what career he was going into to be changing careers, and he hadn’t figured that out yet.

No, Jane would never have recognized him, but he would have known her anywhere. Her face, at least. Her personality was so different. He’d only seen a glimmer of little Janie. In her determination as she’d struggled with the sign. In the feisty banter when he’d surprised her. But where was the Janie whose dark blue eyes could well up with tears as quickly from joy as from sorrow? The one with the curious gaze and the mischievous grin?

He hadn’t seen that Jane, but he had a feeling she was in there somewhere. Hiding out or worn down, he didn’t know which, but he hoped she wasn’t gone for good.

He looked his grandmother square in the eye. There was no point in pretending; she knew him better than anyone.

“Yes, Gran, I am. She’s in trouble, and I don’t think she deserves it. But it’s more than that. She’s suffering on the inside and I don’t know how to help her.”

He sat there quietly sipping the herbal tea Gran had insisted on brewing for him the minute he walked through her door, even though he had hated herbal tea all his life and expected he always would. But he would never tell her that. He didn’t know what she had given up to raise him, but he figured it had to be worse than drinking herbal tea. Thankfully, he’d been able to do her proud financially. She’d never have to worry about money, not that you could tell it by looking around. Everything here was the same as it had always been, except for an occasional new appliance she’d let him buy for her. And his room. His room was crowded with all his tennis trophies and photographs and framed newspaper articles, and he didn’t doubt that she lovingly dusted each item every day.

She leaned forward in her chair and took his hand in hers, just as she’d done every time he’d sat at that table fretting over something. “Can’t you just pay the town’s fine for her? Wouldn’t that solve her problem?”

“She’d never take a hand-out,” Jake said. “Too much pride...and suspicion.”

“She’d rather marry someone she doesn’t love than accept help? Why doesn’t she go to that sister of hers, the one who drives that fancy Cadillac? I just don’t understand.”

Jake didn’t reply but he understood all too well. As children, he and Jane had both borne the brunt of Mrs. Dough’s merciless teasing. Jane Dough and Johnny Smith...if ever two were meant to be together. Jane’s mother snickered whenever she said it, constantly repeating how they’d never amount to anything, how could they with names like that? Heck, that was half the reason he’d changed his to Jake Tyler Campbell the minute he was old enough, and it was the sole reason he and Jane, at the innocent ages of five and six, had made a blood pact to “be someone” when they grew up. It was no surprise to him that Jane wouldn’t take help from her family. In her place, he wouldn’t either.

But she would have to take help from him. The least he could do was help her out with the yard and hope that he could get enough of the work done that she wasn’t forced to hire a husband. He needed to do something for exercise, anyway, and from the looks of that overgrown lot, there was plenty of exercise to be had. The only problem would be figuring out a way to get her to take his help. She’d be wary, that much was for sure.

His grandmother patted his hand, her eyes shining with happiness as they did whenever he visited. “I always liked Janie, you know. She had spunk. I’ll never forget that day in Vacation Bible School when I asked why children shouldn’t lie. Four years old and she stood up as confident as could be and said, ‘Because God will see and He’ll tell Daddy...and then there’ll be Hell to pay.’ Four years old, can you imagine?”

She chuckled, her thoughts her own; then, “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll help. Go ahead and count me in.”