The Mostly Real McCoy: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Apple Valley Love Stories Book 1)

by Julie Christianson

  “That’s what I was going for,” he says. “I want your parents to see that you chose a humble guy. I mean we want them to see that.”

  “Perfect.” My mom hates anything humble. She might be out the door before I serve dessert.

  “Do you want to put the ring on now, or wait until tomorrow?”

  “I should probably get used to wearing it.” My breath hitches. “Otherwise I’ll end up twisting the ring around my finger, acting like I’ve never had it on before. If we really want to fool my parents, we should practice acting like a married couple.” I swallow hard and look into Mac’s eyes. Hopefully he won’t laugh in my face.

  He doesn’t laugh. “Sounds smart to me.” Did his voice falter a bit? “Hand it over,” he says, and I try to act calm even though I’m beyond dizzy. I plop the fake ring in his hand. No big deal.

  Mac drops to one knee.

  “HA!” I choke. “Oh my goodness.” I might faint on the spot. “What are you doing?”

  He looks up at me through a thick brush of lashes. “Practicing.”

  “Right.” I shake my head, but my whole body shivers. This is so not the way I expected my first proposal to go. With a pretend husband, a fake ring, and an attempt to permanently repel my parents. “Okay, Mac Bradford. Do your thing.”

  He clears his throat but his words still sound husky. “Brooke Wallace, will you do me the honor of—”

  “Yes,” I blurt out. “I will.”

  I’m not sure why I interrupted his question. It might have something to do with the warmth spreading in my stomach. Or the fact that I already care about Mac and Daisy too much.

  “Anyway, you can stand up now,” I say.

  “Okay.” Mac hauls himself up off the floor, and he seems about a foot taller than he did before. He takes my small hand in his giant bear paw. And as he slips the ring on my finger, he makes a sound in the back of his throat. Mmm.

  “It fits,” he says.

  I yank my hand away like he just branded me with a hot poker.

  “You guessed right.”

  “So.” His Adam’s apple dips. I can practically hear the swallow. “Where are your bags?” he asks.

  “Bags?” My brain’s gone foggy. It takes me a second to remember why Mac is here. “Oh! Right. We’re moving today. I’ve got a couple suitcases and a duffle bag in my bedroom.” My throat’s still hot from Mac’s fake proposal. My finger burns where he slid on the ring. “I’ll go get them.”

  “Let me,” he says. “I’ve got to practice being your husband.” He takes one long stride in that direction. Then he stops in front of the coffee table, looking down at my baby book. He arches a brow. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

  “Nothing important,” I say quickly. Why did I bring that thing out of the bedroom? I reach for the book, but Mac steps back. He reads the engraving on the cover.

  “Brooke Wilhelmina Wallace.” His mouth tilts. “Wilhelmina?”

  “Yes.” I blush even more, heat flooding the entire upper half of me. “It’s after my mom’s talent agency.”

  “This is good to know for tomorrow.” Mac chuckles, looking down at the book. “A middle name that comes from your mother’s talent agency is just the kind of detail a husband might mention over lasagna.” His smile is sly. “Now I’ll really be able to sell your parents on the fact that we’re married.”

  My stomach churns, a jumble of emotions. I take a step toward Mac. “Can I have that back now, please?”

  26

  Mac

  Brooke’s cheeks flush and her voice cracks on the word please. “Hey now,” I say. “Don’t be embarrassed.” I grin at her. “Wilhelmina’s not the worst name I’ve ever heard.” I move to the couch with the book. “What other juicy facts are in this thing? I think I’d like to learn a little more about my wife.”

  Brooke makes a hitching sound at the back of her throat as I take a seat. When I look up, what I see just about knocks me on the floor. Her chin’s dipped low and her arms hang at her sides. She looks like an empty sock puppet. Oh, man. Brooke’s not embarrassed by her middle name.

  She’s genuinely upset.

  “Whoa.” My own throat clogs when I realize she hasn’t said a thing since please. “I was just kidding around, Brooke. Like I do with my sisters. But clearly, I blew it. I’m so sorry. Of course you can have this back.” I hold out the book, and she comes toward me, her eyes shining. Like they’re about to tear up. I really messed up bad. “Please don’t cry.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not about the book.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that out.” She sits beside me on the small couch. Since I take up about eighty percent of the space, her whole leg presses against mine. I like the closeness. Then I feel like a jerk for liking the closeness.

  Not now, Mac.

  Brooke nods at the book. “You’re welcome to look through that thing.” She tugs the cover open and slowly flips through the first few pages, showing me. It’s all pictures of her mom dressed fancy. Is the woman even pregnant? Brooke turns another page. There’s a shot of a man in a tuxedo. Must be her dad. He’s holding what looks like an armful of ruffles with a tiny face poking out.

  “Oh hey! There you are!”

  “My first birthday.” She flips more pages. Mostly tuxedos and gowns.

  “Huh. That’s a lot of champagne for a one-year-old’s party.”

  Her shoulders sink. “That’s because they celebrated it during the Daytime Emmys. My mom won best actress that day. She took me up on the stage with her to accept the award. Total publicity stunt.”

  I gulp. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say, Mac. It’s just that not everyone’s cut out to be a mother. Mine sure wasn’t. To her, I was merely a prop.”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, I get that. All too well, actually.”

  “You? But your family sounds amazing. Tess and your other two sisters. Your mom watching Daisy when … well …oh.” Brooke’s voice dies out. Like she’s putting two and two together and coming up with my divorce.

  I blow out a long, jagged breath. It's sharp in my lungs. “Gwen and I never even bought a baby book to fill out for Daisy.”

  “Is Gwen … is that … Daisy’s mother?”

  I nod, realizing Brooke still doesn’t know a thing about what happened with my ex. “Believe me,” I say, “I don’t blame Gwen for the baby book thing. I shouldn’t have left the special parenting stuff to her. All the milestones. A dad’s just as capable of doing something like filling up a baby book. But it never occurred to me.”

  I shake my head, a little sick to my stomach saying this out loud. “I think I was too caught up in proving what a man I was. Mostly because whatever I did was never enough for Gwen.”

  Brooke puts a hand on my knee. Soft. Gentle. “She sounds like the crazy one.”

  I grit my teeth and will myself not to choke up.

  Don’t break down, man.

  “Gwen never wanted to be a mother,” I say. “But she didn’t tell me that when we got together.” I take a beat, trying to remember the feeling. It was pure hope back then, but it’s a pit in me now. “I always wanted to be like my folks. Marry young. Have a bunch of kids. Gwen acted like we were on the same page. But what she really wanted was …”

  I cut myself off. Brooke doesn’t know I’m Bradford McCoy, so I can’t tell her Gwen married me for my name. And Dad’s company. The money she thought could buy her dreams. I’ve decided not to tell Brooke until after we’ve dealt with her parents. At least then, even if she’s mad at me, I’ll have done what I could to help her.

  “What?” Brooke squeezes my knee. “What did Gwen want?”

  I force out a chuckle and hope my voice won’t shake. “To be an actress. Can you believe that?”

  Brooke pulls her hand away. “Yikes.” She blows out a breath. “I can’t imagine how you felt while I was going on and on about my mom.”

  I suck some air through my teeth. “Not great
. But that’s not your fault. The bottom line? Gwen showed me all the signs, and I chose to ignore them.”

  “Signs of what?”

  “That she didn’t want to be a mother.” I check Brooke out sideways.

  “About that,” she says turning toward me. “There are some other things you don’t know about me yet.” She meets my gaze and blinks twice. I’m on the edge of my seat waiting for whatever it is she’s still got on her chest. We’re both breathless. So close. Then a knock at the door breaks the spell. Three quick raps.

  Brooke leaps to her feet.

  Whatever she was about to tell me will have to wait.

  She opens the door to a tiny old lady with cotton-ball hair wearing what my grandmother used to call a housecoat. She hobbles in, stooped over a jar of something red. I stand, ready to meet her, but she ignores me.

  “I’ve been canning tomatoes all day, dear,” she says. “Well, they’re technically in jars. But jarring means something else, doesn’t it?” She hands over the tomatoes, then acknowledges me with a half-nod. “I see you have company, dear. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Brooke turns my way. “Of course not. Mrs. Sprat, this is Mac Bradford.”

  Yeah. Right. Bradford.

  “Hello, ma’am,” I say, bending at the waist. A bit of a bow. When Mrs. Sprat shuffles over, I stick out my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  She grips my hand and peers up at me. “Oh, my! Aren’t you a handsome one? But I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I? Out front. Down in a big truck. With a little girl, if I’m not mistaken.” Mrs. Sprat glances around the room. “Where is she today?”

  “That’s my daughter,” I say. “Daisy. She’s with my sister. I figured having her around wouldn’t be such a good idea since I’m here to help Brooke move her—” Brooke’s eyes fly open, and she makes a slicing motion across her neck.

  Mrs. Sprat’s brows pull together. “Did you say move? Brooke, dear. What does your young man mean?”

  “Yes!” Brooke blurts out. “Mac’s here to help me move my refrigerator.”

  Refrigerator?

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Sprat wrinkles her forehead, which is already pretty darn wrinkled.

  “I need to clean behind it,” Brooke says. “You know me. Always spilling. I’ve dropped a ton of crackers and peanuts under there. Now I think I might have mice. So I wanted to get behind the refrigerator and clean. But it’s too heavy.” Brooke glances at me, and I want to back her up, but I’m afraid of getting it wrong. So I just repeat her story.

  “Exactly,” I say. “Heavy, heavy, heavy.” I take a step toward the kitchen to prove that’s why I’m here. “I don’t want Brooke hurting her back. So here I am. Ready to help. Move her … refrigerator.”

  “Ah, yes.” Mrs. Sprat nods. “That makes sense.”

  Does it, though?

  She starts shuffling toward the door. “I’ll let you two young people get to it.” As Brooke takes her elbow to walk her out, Mrs. Sprat pauses. “When he’s done with your refrigerator, maybe he could come help out with mine. Mr. Sprat can’t move things for me these days.”

  “I’m sure Mac would be happy to do that.” Brooke’s mouth twitches. “But I think he’s too busy today. We’ll figure something out for another time.”

  We will?

  “Okay, dear,” Mrs. Sprat warbles. “I hope you enjoy those tomatoes. They’ll make a good spaghetti sauce. Just don’t spill them behind your refrigerator.”

  The second the door closes, Brooke bursts out laughing.

  I can’t help laughing too. But I’m confused. “What was that all about?”

  Before Brooke can answer, her phone starts buzzing in her bedroom. She hands me the jar of tomatoes. “Hold that thought.”

  While she gets her phone, I set the tomatoes on the kitchen table and take a seat to wait for her. She comes back into the room with her phone to her ear.

  “Hey, Em,” she chirps. Then her jaw drops.

  Uh oh.

  She braces herself against the counter. “He did what?!”

  27

  Brooke

  Em is sobbing so hard I can barely make out the words, but it’s something about devil’s food vs. carrot cake. I glance at Mac who’s sitting at the table. He looks too big for the chair, and worried.

  “Slow down, Em,” I say when she starts another crying jag. “I can’t understand you.”

  Mac opens his mouth, but I throw a finger up to stop him.

  “No, I’m still here,” I tell her. “Do you need me to come get you?”

  Mac stands quickly, then takes a step toward the door, like he’s prepared to rush to Emi’s rescue. He’s never even met Emi, and he has no idea what’s going on. So his concern for her is chivalrous. And sexy.

  I mouth hold on to him, so he sits back down.

  Emi gasps. Then she sniffles. Then she hiccups. And hiccups again.

  “The wedding,” she says. “It’s off.”

  My heart leaps into my throat, and she bursts into fresh tears. I shake my head and wait for Emi to quiet. “Back up,” I say. “Tell me everything.”

  “Well.” She sniffs, and I can practically hear the gulp. “After you and I left the river, I met Travis at The Bread Basket. The man helping us taste cakes was the owner. His name is Peter. Peter Pie.” She sniffs. “I asked how a guy named Peter Pie ends up selling cake, and Travis didn’t even laugh. That should’ve been my first clue that something was off.” Emi pauses to blow her nose. From the sound of it, she’s going to need more than one tissue.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “We tried the devil’s food cake first, and Travis said he didn’t need to taste anything else. I told him I thought the chocolate was a little rich, but I wanted him to be happy, so I said I’d be fine with devil’s food cake. But then Peter Pie convinced me to try the carrot cake. It was delicious. He said carrot cake is his favorite for weddings. Then Travis said that’s stupid because cake shouldn’t have vegetables. So Peter Pie started to explain that he doesn’t put a lot of carrots in his cake. That’s when Travis stormed out of the shop.” Emi takes a shuddering breath. “So I followed Travis into the parking lot and he lost it. Like totally. Completely. Lost it.”

  “Hold on. You’re telling me this whole thing is because of cake?”

  “No!” Emi wails. “He said the cake was a metaphor. A metaphor for us. Like we want different things in life.”

  I glance at Mac, but he averts his eyes. Like he wants to know what’s going on, but he doesn’t want me to know he wants to know. “Since when does Travis talk in metaphors?”

  “That’s what I said!” Emi chokes on what sounds like a throat full of tears. “He said we’ve been on two different pages for a long time, which I pointed out was another metaphor. Then he got mad and said if I liked Peter Pie’s opinion so much, I should just marry him. He accused me of flirting with the baker, Brooke!”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I slap the countertop and Mac jumps. Sorry, I mouth to him. But my blood is boiling. “I can’t believe Travis accused you of that. You would never.”

  More sniffles. “That’s what I said!”

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “You guys survived long distance in college. He even stuck it out when you stayed in LA to get your masters. Why would Travis question your loyalty now that you actually moved back here to be with him?”

  Emi blows her nose again. “That’s what I said. But he started mumbling about how we were so young when we got together. That we don’t really know each other as adults.” She deepens her voice in a pretty good impression of Travis, all things considered.

  “Does anyone ever really know anyone? That’s what he asked me. But he didn’t even wait for an answer. He just went on and on about how we’re all born alone and we all die alone. You should’ve heard him, Brooke. It turned into this huge existential crisis.”

  My mouth drops open. “Because of carrot cake?”

  “Yes!” She cries out. “But that’s not why the weddin
g is off.” She snuffles and coughs. “Travis is in love with someone else!”

  She squeaks this last part, then I squeak, “He’s what?”

  “He’s in love with someone else,” she moans. “They met at work. Her name’s Fiona from accounting. But originally, she’s from Ireland.” Emi takes a deep breath. “And she probably likes devil’s food cake!” I sit there in stunned silence while Mac shifts in the chair. “And the worst part,” Emi says, “is Peter Pie from The Bread Basket isn’t even my type.”

  That’s the worst part? Has she even heard the rest of her story?

  Emi hiccups. Twice. “So what do I do now, Brooke? Tell me what to do!”

  I shake my head even though she can’t see me. Then I turn to Mac, and I can tell by his wide-open eyes that he understands. This is a big deal. The biggest.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “At ‘Til Death Do Us Part. Canceling my wedding dress.”

  I suck in a breath. “Stay put, Em. We’re coming to get you.”

  “Wait.” She sniffles. “We?”

  28

  Mac

  We? Did I just hear her correctly? I’ve only caught fifty percent of the story, but from this side, things sound pretty bad.

  Brooke ends the call and hops up from the table. “We have to grab my bags and get Emi at ’Til Death Do Us Part. Now.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Just peachy.” Brooke’s eyes flash. “Except that Emi’s wedding is off!”

  “Ooh.” I whistle through my teeth. “That’s tough.”

  “It’s worse than tough, Mac.” Brooke groans. “Travis and Emi have been together since high school. He was her everything.” She balls her hands into fists like she’s about to punch a wall. Or someone’s face. “Fiona from accounting—or Ireland, or wherever she came from—she’s nothing but a homewrecker.”

  I flash back to the night of Daisy’s fourth birthday when Gwen told me about some guy named Rex. About how he had connections in the industry. I never did find out which industry she meant. Modeling? Acting? General super-stardom? Either way, whatever Rex promised Gwen sounded better than what I could offer.