The Practically Romantic Groom (Cobble Creek Romance Book 2)

by Maria Hoagland

  Brooke was still just as beautiful, maybe even more so with the highlights in her blonde hair and the confidence that came with navigating past being a teenager. She dressed a lot better now, eschewing nerdy T-shirts with musical references and puns for more grown-up fare. Back then, she’d been the sweetest, most sincere person he’d ever met, though she never would have fought for what she wanted. He sensed she might have matured past that since then. Seeing these changes was both comforting and startling at the same time. Time had a way of changing people when you weren’t looking.

  How had they gone from being close friends—close enough to spend every summer afternoon before fifth grade together, to first-kiss status, to good friends who texted across the band hall complaining about teachers and stinky socks and peers who couldn’t figure out difficult musical passages—to being absolutely nothing to each other?

  The simplest of answers was that they just didn’t cross paths anymore. Isaac may not have sought her out, but he’d thought about her plenty over the years. Only now—seeing her with his own eyes, bantering with her, watching how her forehead crinkled when she tried to suppress a laugh or cocked her head to the side before teasing him—caused every fond memory to come rushing back.

  “You never know, Isaac.” Brooke gave her best innocent face, a look she had down pat before they’d met two decades ago. “Mr. Carlisle might be a changed man. Maybe seeing how serious Gloria was jumpstarted his resolve to be better. You don’t want to let a good thing go if you don’t have to.”

  Or sometimes, no matter what you try, that so-called good thing up and walks out on you.

  Isaac tried not to hold hard feelings against the sender of the flowers. It was manipulative and insincere in his eyes, but Brooke and Mrs. Carlisle both testified otherwise.

  Not to be a pessimist, but what did Brooke know about love and romance? She probably got it all from fairy tales and Hallmark movies.

  Isaac, on the other hand, had enough real-life experience to know better, even if it was from the sidelines. But when your parents suddenly decide at nineteen years, eleven months, and two weeks of marriage that it was all a big mistake and walked away, your belief in enduring love tended to tarnish. Maybe his parents had deemed their kids finally “old enough” to deal with the dissolution of their family. As if turning sixteen would magically shield him from the effects of the fighting and bitterness, the tears and the yelling. While that may have been true to a degree, it was even harder because he wasn’t supposed to react.

  That had just been one marriage that Isaac knew personally. Other couples were happy, right?

  But then he watched his sister’s marriage crumble, and that was infinitely more disheartening. He’d seen the whole relationship from the first twitterpated dates, through the elaborate wedding, then complete to the crash and burn. Watching his sister and her innocent daughter go through it wrenched at his heartstrings. Then, as Danielle struggled with custody and finances and emotional health almost to the point of losing her physical health, Isaac knew he had to do something.

  Since then, it had become Isaac’s mission to fight for those who needed him. As a small-town lawyer, he took pretty much any case that came his way, but he was most passionate when he fought for the underdog. Carving out a niche for himself in family law, Isaac was all about giving a voice to those who didn’t have one and protecting those who needed it—especially the children.

  After witnessing the damage that “falling out of love” could do, falling in love hardly seemed worth the risk.

  “I’d better get back to work,” Brooke said. “More useless flowers and unfulfilled promises to deliver.” She raised an eyebrow at Isaac, the look a challenge. As if he would engage in a debate.

  The words, however, felt like an accusation. Isaac ran a hand over the back of his neck as he tried to decipher her comment. He’d hurt her feelings somehow. “What are you—” He stopped himself. Oh. “I didn’t mean to say that your flowers are useless.”

  Hands on hips, Brooke stared him down. “But you did.”

  Had he really? When Isaac caught himself rubbing the back of his neck again, he dropped his hand to his side. “Just because I don’t predict a complete remission of the Carlisles’ matrimonial cancer doesn’t mean flowers are useless. That’s got to be a logical fallacy of some sort. Even I’m not that cynical.”

  “Then maybe you can refrain from shooting the messenger. Just because I delivered the flowers doesn’t mean I lost you your client.”

  Isaac wrinkled his brow and shook his head ever so slightly. “That sounds like another fallacy. Quit trying to hurt my head.” Isaac walked her to the door and opened it for her. “But since you brought it up, thanks for nothing.” He pretended to kick her out the door.

  Brooke walked to a white delivery van decorated with a large magnet of pastel tulips and The Flower Girl written in the same font as her store sign. The woman had cornered the market on flowers in Cobble Creek—a nice coup, he was sure, with all the funerals, anniversaries, engagements, babies, and so many holidays—and she’d done it artfully. You had to admire someone with such a good head for business. Maybe he’d never pegged her as a florist when they were friends, but he had to hand it to her, she had found her passion and made it successful. If this was what made her happy, then more power to her.

  Brooke tossed her long locks over her shoulder as she reached for her seat belt, her movements graceful. Was this the same person he’d known so well in middle school? Back then, Brooke had been shy and awkward—but then again, everyone was awkward in braces, right? But no longer. Even if he wanted one, he wouldn’t have a chance with her now. And maybe he wouldn’t want it. She seemed so different.

  Her van roared awake and Brooke lowered the window, a country song at a high decibel level on her radio. “Have a great day!”

  Although he could hear her, Isaac cupped a hand around his ear. “What? I can’t hear you over the infernal noise.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot how much you love country music.” Brooke upped the volume a fraction and then sang along about fried chicken and changing it from “cold beer” to “root beer,” as she had sung it in high school just to bug him. Of course, luck brought this song on the radio right then.

  Isaac steeled himself, trying not to show how much the twang of the Southern accent grated on his nerves. He hated it almost as much as he hated dancing. Isaac waved. “Bye, Trout. Good to see you.”

  She waved back, and he watched her drive down the street. The woman was infuriatingly interesting. He’d forgotten how much fun they’d had together over the years.

  When the country music faded and the van disappeared, Isaac entered the office again. “What’s next, Dani?” he asked, closing the door—but not his thoughts—on Brooke.

  Chapter Three

  Brooke kicked at the dandelions in the school yard, bored beyond belief. How she’d gotten roped into this school carnival when she didn’t even have kids, she wasn’t sure. Well, actually, she was sure. Her best friend, Frankie, was supposed to be the one doing this. She was the one who had a new stepdaughter attending the elementary school. But Frankie also wasn’t feeling well, and Brooke offered to take her place as one of the PTA moms handing out carnival tickets to the students as they entered. It had been an easy job, and by the other mom’s estimation, they’d probably seen everyone who would be coming, but Brooke had promised to stick around for stragglers until the top of the hour.

  Although Brooke was sad Frankie couldn’t be here, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a Friday night. Being back at Cobble Creek Elementary, the home of more formative memories from her childhood than anywhere else, was an interesting experience. Her favorite memory, pretty much of all time, was in fifth grade. Being on stage, filling the role as Marian the Librarian in The Music Man, gave her a taste for performing. The adrenaline rush, the thrill of the audience feedback, was a high she thought she could want every day for the rest of her life. Until her grand crash-and-burn of a s
pelling bee only a couple months later. Completely freezing up over the spelling of invisible, all she could think of was how she wished nobody could see her right then. The question was if she could reconcile the dichotomy of the two contrasting memories. Especially recently, as she considered putting herself out there on stage again.

  Brooke sighed and allowed the memories to fade into the distance. Instead, she would focus on the moment. She would enjoy greeting her friends and neighbors, interact with the happy children who accepted their carnival tickets with gap-toothed grins, and smile at the comfortable life she had in Cobble Creek. She loved this town.

  “According to my watch, we’ve put in our time,” Sheila, the other mom, said, sending a text as she spoke. She pulled a plastic tote from under the folding table. “I’m going to go find my family, if they aren’t all carnivaled out by now. I told Shawn to save the fun stuff for when I’d be there.” She held out a hand to Brooke, silently asking for the roll of tickets, which Brooke handed over. “Thanks for filling in.”

  Unfettered and task-less, Brooke gathered her light jacket from the back of the chair. Late April this year was warmer than usual, a gift to Wyoming residents everywhere who had endured a grueling, bitter winter. Evening shadows began sneaking around the various booths with their homemade games manned by kids and parents who rotated every half hour. After only walking partway along the first row of booths, Brooke had already counted two versions of the ring toss game and another beanbag toss, but with the lines of interested participants, it seemed nobody was complaining.

  Brooke maneuvered around a large family, the children’s voices rising to talk over each other in excitement, the mom and dad shaking their heads at each other and shrugging. Another girl, about six or seven years old, stood a few feet off, not participating in the banter but watching the family’s antics in silence until the mom noticed her. Since the girl had the same long, dark hair and lean build as the rest of the clan, Brooke expected the mom to pull the girl into the family circle, claiming her as her own.

  “Where’s your mom or dad, sweetie?” the woman asked. Apparently, the girl didn’t belong.

  Statuesque, the only indication the girl had heard the woman was that her eyes dropped from watching the other children to looking at the ground.

  “Are you lost?” The no-nonsense dad stood a few feet off to the side and scanned the crowd for a parent who might be missing a child. He spotted Brooke, obviously alone. “Are you with her?” It was almost an accusation, as if the child were bothering him by watching his family.

  “Oh, no.” Brooke shook her head.

  “What’s your name, honey?” The mom’s focus was completely on the girl, trying to make eye contact.

  The girl, however, resisted. She kept her head bent to the ground and away from the woman’s eyes in front of her, but Brooke could tell from her angle that the girl’s eyes slid from side to side as if she too were searching for her mom.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me your name.” The woman crouched in front of her and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She tensed, and the woman quickly retracted it. “Tell me your name and I’ll help you find your parents.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the girl twitched her left wrist, and Brooke caught a glimpse of what might have been writing.

  “May I try?” she asked the woman.

  Having noticed the girl hadn’t answered a single question, Brooke decided to try a different tack. Being careful not to ask anything the girl would need to respond to, Brooke spoke to her as if she already had permission.

  “You have writing on your wrist.” Brooke gently took the girl’s hand and turned it palm up. “Gemma Covington,” Brooke read in marker on the girl’s wrist. Interesting. Unexpected, especially for someone who had to be in first or second grade. A phone number was written underneath, but two of the numbers were smudged. It would take a lot of trial and error to figure out the right digits. “Hi, Gemma. My name is Brooke. I’m going to take you to the principal so she can help you find your parents. All you have to do is hold my hand.”

  Brooke stood and held out her hand. Gemma stepped to Brooke’s side, but didn’t reach out for her.

  “Or you can just walk beside me.” Brooke concentrated on making her voice as upbeat as possible. “Let’s go find Ms. Hadley.”

  Surprisingly, Gemma walked right beside Brooke, following her every turn. Not surprisingly, Gemma never took her hand. And Brooke couldn’t blame her. Of course, she would have been taught not to trust strangers. But hopefully she’d also been taught to look for help when she was in trouble, and this was all Brooke could think to do. There was no way she could leave a girl so scared she couldn’t even talk just standing there waiting for her family to find her. And obviously this wasn’t the first time this situation had happened, or her family wouldn’t have written her name and phone number on her wrist.

  The whole time they walked, Brooke vacillated between respecting the girl’s need for silence and wanting to fill the void between them with chatter. To keep the pressure of answering off Gemma, though, Brooke never once asked a question, and it took way more work than she expected. What was it about hanging out with a child you didn’t know that made you want to ask questions?

  “Face painting seems to be high on everyone’s list.” Brooke guided Gemma around the longest line yet, looking for the woman she’d met briefly earlier in the event. “I would have a hard time deciding what to get painted on my face, I think. Some kind of animal might be cool—like a tiger or a leopard.”

  She watched for a reaction, even a slight one, indicating what interests Gemma might have.

  “A unicorn would be impressive, but I can’t even begin to think of how they might do that.” Brooke paused. “Or a soccer ball . . . or a ballerina . . . or a princess.” She said each slowly, but with Gemma’s flat affect, it was as if she weren’t even talking. “Ooh. You know what would be pretty? A butterfly.” Gemma stiffened. That was too close to asking a question that needed to be answered. Brooke would need to be more careful. “A butterfly,” she said more emphatically. “Especially if they have glitter paint.” She sighed, noticing how Gemma relaxed again. “I wouldn’t even care what color as long as there was glitter, but I think . . . purple.”

  Was that an almost-smile?

  They were almost to the information booth, where Brooke had seen Principal Hadley hanging out earlier so she could meet the parents as they came by and to answer any questions at the same time.

  “Gemma, my gemstone!”

  Brooke looked up to see Isaac Murphy rushing toward them, not even seeing her, as far as she could tell—or maybe she just didn’t register with him—because his focus was solely on the girl. He ran over and dropped in front of her, engulfing her in a hug that he didn’t release for several long seconds. Perhaps Gemma didn’t look quite as tortured as she had before, but she barely tolerated the hug.

  No doubt sensing Gemma’s aversion to the physical contact, Isaac dropped his arms, no longer touching her but allowing his eyes to scan over her. “As beautiful as ever.”

  Brooke got the feeling that was code for You look okay. Are you okay? Because I really need you to be okay.

  Apparently satisfied, Isaac stood. “Your mom is frantic.” He pulled out his phone and called. “I found her.”

  For the first time in the five minutes they’d been together, Isaac looked up and noticed Brooke, his soft brown eyes appreciatively taking in her hair, her face, her eyes. All the while, Isaac kept a hand lightly resting on Gemma’s shoulder—one Brooke noticed she didn’t shrug off. Isaac’s look felt like a thank-you. “Actually, Brooke Holt found her.”

  There was a pause. “Gemma wasn’t following her—more like walking next to her. I assume they were headed to the . . .” He gave Brooke a questioning look, and she pointed to the information desk. He nodded, his expressing showing relief. “Brooke was taking Gem to the principal, but we’re all good.” Another pause. “No, Dan, Gemma’s fine.
She’s totally fine. No harm, no foul.”

  Again, he was listening, until he must have caught sight of Danielle coming. He ended the call. “Your mom’s here,” he told Gemma as Danielle approached.

  Gemma’s eyes flicked to Danielle, but she made no move to go to her.

  If Brooke had been surprised to find her new silent acquaintance was Isaac Murphy’s niece, the man who walked up behind Danielle a few moments later left Brooke dumbfounded.

  “Thanks, sis.”

  Brooke’s brother walked up beside her, giving Danielle space to approach her still-silent daughter. Something wasn’t quite right, but since no one else was saying anything about it, Brooke kept her worries to herself.

  “Cody?” Brooke couldn’t help channeling all her confusion into that one word. He had even less of an excuse to be at an elementary school function than she did, and he looked out of place because of it.

  Danielle smoothed the hair away from Gemma’s face, her motherly eyes caressing every feature and then hugging her completely. “You worried me, baby.”

  Gemma concentrated on the ground. Was she afraid she was in trouble? That she would get yelled at? The way Danielle engulfed her protectively, it seemed more likely Gemma worried that one of her peers would see this show of emotion—or worse, overhear her mom call her a baby. Brooke bit back her smile. She understood the feeling, but one day Gemma would be happy she had a mother who cared so much.

  Danielle turned to Brooke. “Thank you for taking care of her.” Danielle pushed a lock of her long, ombre hair behind her ear. “Gemma gets overwhelmed in groups like this and doesn’t talk much with strangers. Hence the wrist.” Danielle lifted her daughter’s hand and checked the writing, showing surprise at the smear. “Well, we tried.”

  Cody stepped over and inspected Gemma’s wrist. “Next time, maybe we should try a Sharpie.”