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

by Julie Christianson

  “I’m sorry, Brooke.” I shake my head. “How about I move your bags down to my car and take them over to my place while you go get Emi. Under the circumstances, she might not want me there. She doesn’t even know me.”

  Brooke sighs. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “As bad as she feels right now, Emi’s lucky to have a friend like you get her through this.”

  “There’s nothing to get through.” Brooke scoffs. “Travis only thinks he’s in love with Fiona. I’ve just got to talk some sense into the guy.”

  I exhale a long breath. “That might not be such a hot idea, Brooke.”

  “Why not? Someone’s got to warn him that Fiona is basically devil’s food cake. He’s being a world-class idiot, giving up a perfect relationship in the parking lot of The Bread Basket.”

  While Brooke talks, I start working a knot at the back of my neck. “Hmm.”

  Brooke pauses to stare at me. “What?”

  “I’m just thinking, you can be mad at this Fiona person. And furious with Travis. Be as angry as you want. But from my experience, when something like this happens, the couple wasn’t perfect.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Travis and Emi were.”

  “There’s no such thing, Brooke.” I run a hand through my hair. “No one single person is perfect either. That’s not to say that two imperfect people can’t work on themselves as individuals. Or work on their relationship together. But both people have to want it, or else …”

  I let my voice trail off.

  There’s no sense in getting into my past any deeper with Brooke right now. She’s legitimately upset, and I admire her loyalty. Her best friend’s fairytale just ended. That’s got to be hard for both of them.

  Brooke nods. “You’re right.”

  I blow out a breath. “Well, this is one area where I wish I weren’t.”

  “I mean about me going to get Emi by myself. The last thing she needs right now is to be around some stranger.”

  Some stranger?

  That’s not what I want to hear from Brooke. It’s not who I want to be to her. “Hey. I’d still be happy to—”

  “If you’d take my stuff to your place, that would be great.”

  “Right.”

  For a moment we both stand there saying nothing, feeling awful. This whole afternoon sure took a turn for the worse. But Brooke needs my help, so I’ll do what I can. Which for now means handling her luggage. “If you don’t mind me going into your bedroom, I’ll grab your bags.”

  She twists off the ring I just slipped onto her finger and hands it to me. “Take this too. I can’t show up wearing an engagement ring in front of Emi. Not even a fake one.”

  The ring sits in my palm like a hot coal. Smoldering. “If you think that’s best.”

  Another nod. Is she mad at me?

  “I’ll put it back on before my parents show up,” she says. Then she fixes me with a stare I can’t read.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

  She wraps both arms around her middle. “My best friend’s real wedding got called off today, and tomorrow, you and I are pretending to be married. Lying to my parents. Ugh. No. I wouldn’t say I’m okay, Mac.”

  I blow out a breath. “We don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to, Brooke.”

  “We already have the fake ring. Might as well.” She grips her elbows. “Can you lock up when you’re done here, please? The spare key is under the mat.”

  I nod, and she spins on her heel, heading toward the door.

  “So. I’ll see you later then?” I ask. “Back at the house?”

  She glances over her shoulder. “Sure. Just as soon as I’m done picking Emi’s heart up off the floor of ’Til Death Do Us Part.”

  After a couple trips to my truck, loading all of Brooke’s bags, I jog back up the stairs to her apartment one more time to lock the door and stick her key under the mat.

  “Mac?”

  I look up and Mrs. Sprat is standing in her doorway. Her grin is toothless and extra gummy. “Brooke sure took off like a shot,” she says. “Did you have some kind of refrigerator emergency?”

  Great.

  I’m guessing Mrs. Sprat doesn’t know about Brooke’s landlord problems, and she definitely doesn’t know about our fake elopement. Plus whatever Emi’s going through isn’t my story to tell. So I go with a vague reply.

  “Brooke had something to take care of, but don’t worry. She’s fine.”

  Mrs. Sprat sucks in her lips. “I saw the suitcases, Mr. Bradford. And I didn’t just fall off the apple cart. Whatever’s going on between you two runs a lot deeper than cleaning cereal from behind a Frigidaire.”

  Her directness makes me smile, even with everything else going on. “You might be right, ma’am,” I say. “About there being something more between us, I mean.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes twinkle. “I suspected that.”

  “So. Can I get back to you on the details once I figure out how right you are?”

  “All in good time,” she says. “A handsome man like you is worth waiting for.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Sprat.” I duck my head. “You’re making me blush.”

  “I’m not waiting for you, silly.” She shakes her head. “I already found my own handsome man. I’m talking about Brooke. She’s the one who’s waiting for you.”

  “Yeah. I sure hope you're right.”

  When I get back to my place, I unload Brooke’s bags and put them in the spare room between mine and Daisy’s. This used to be Gwen’s workout space—the home gym she always said was too small. After she left, and Daisy and I moved in with my parents, I sold every last piece of Gwen's equipment on Craig’s list. The elliptical. The treadmill. The free weights. Then I built a bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. Some of my swiftest, most impassioned work. The new mattress is covered with a bedspread quilted by my mom. The lamp belonged to my grandmother. Gwen would hate everything about this room.

  I sure hope Brooke will love it.

  The closet is full of sealed boxes with old trophies, plaques, and yearbooks. To make room for Brooke’s things now, I decide to move my boxes to the garage. When I open the thick, double doors they creak. Clouds of dust kick up from the floor. The space still smells like fresh-cut wood though. And sweat. Inspiration. Some of my happiest moments were spent in here. Designing. Sanding. Honing. My best work’s draped with tarps and cloth now.

  Old goals covered in dirt.

  I’m stacking the last of the boxes next to the work bench when my phone goes off.

  A text from Brooke.

  Brooke: Sorry I was in a mood earlier.

  Me: Understandable.

  Brooke: Thanks for moving my stuff without me. I’m going to sleep over at Emi’s tonight. Hope you don’t mind.

  Me: Course not. She okay?

  Brooke: Good as can be expected.

  Me: Anything I can do to help?

  Brooke: Taking on my parents with me is plenty.

  Oh. That’s right. I’m meeting my fake mother and father-in-law tomorrow. Which is totally normal. Nothing to break into a cold sweat about.

  So why are you breaking into a cold sweat, Mac?

  Me: No problem. Truly.

  Brooke: FYI, I texted your address to my mom. She said they’d meet me there at 5:00. They have no idea why, so that should be … interesting. Either way, don’t worry. I’ll be home before they get there.

  Home. She called this place home. I dig in my front pocket to check for her ring.

  Yep. It’s still there. I just wish it were still on Brooke’s finger.

  29

  Brooke

  Emi and I spend a tear-filled Saturday—and more than half of Sunday—relying on tissues and more tissues. Also lots of Chunky Monkey ice cream. (The tissues are for her. Honestly I eat the bulk of the ice cream.)

  After I call Emi’s sister to fill her in on what happened, Ella drives straight down from Portland. So at least Emi won’t be alone today. Still. I
feel pretty terrible abandoning my jilted best friend to pretend I’m Mac Bradford’s wife.

  Mrs. Brooke Wilhelmina Wallace Bradford.

  When I offer to change my plans, Emi waves me away.

  “Go. Get your fake marriage on. I’ll be in good hands with Ella.” Emi blows her nose for the millionth time. “Anyway, not marrying Travis was for the best.” Her nose is red and her eyes are swollen, so I’m skeptical.

  “The best?”

  “If he was going to end up leaving me”—she sniffs—“better now than when we have a whole mess of babies.” The mention of babies makes my heart ache. And I can’t help thinking about Mac. If Emi’s right, that means Mac’s not wrong. Maybe Travis and Emi’s engagement dragged on for so long because they weren’t supposed to get married.

  Not every couple is meant to be.

  And yet. I have to pretend Mac and I are made for each other now.

  As I pull up to his place, I try seeing it through the eyes of a wife and mother who truly lives here. Happy, yellow paint. Bright flowerbeds. A shady porch, complete with a rocking chair for two. The whole place feels like home already, and my insides flood with warmth. But these are dangerous emotions—a little too close to hope and love. This isn’t really mine.

  None of it is.

  When I reach the door, Mac opens it immediately. Like he was waiting just inside.

  “If we’re going to be convincing,” he says, “you’ll need this.” Reaching out to me, he presses the ring into my palm. He’s not wasting any time, but I liked it better when he slipped the ring on my finger himself.

  “Book!” Daisy scrambles down the stairs in a yellow dress, green socks, and pink Nikes. She gallops over to me with her frog prince puppet and her stuffed turtle, Tuttle. “Mr. Frog and Mrs. Tuttle say ‘Hi, Book,’ too!”

  “Hey there, Mr. Frog. Hello, Tuttle.” I smile at the frog and turtle first, then at Daisy. I glance at Mac. “Did your dad tell you who’s visiting us today?” Daisy nods and her pigtails bounce. “Did he also tell you what we’ll all be pretending?”

  Mac clears his throat. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.” He cups a hand around his mouth. “I didn’t want her to think we were encouraging her to l-i-e.”

  “Right.” I bend down to Daisy’s level. “So my mom and dad are coming, and we’re all going to put on a show for them.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Like our puppet show story time?”

  “Exactly! Your daddy will be the king and I’ll be the queen.” I nod at the frog clutched in her hands. “You’ve got your frog prince already, which makes you the one and only Princess Daisy. The smartest and nicest princess in all of Apple Valley.”

  See, Mom? You don’t have to raise kids to think being prettiest is best.

  Daisy points at herself, then Mac, then me. “Princess. King. Book.”

  “Queen,” I say. “I’m the queen.”

  “Queen,” Daisy repeats. I feel a twinge of pain in my ribs. Maybe it’s guilt for making Daisy a part of our charade. Maybe it’s fear she’ll blow our cover.

  Or maybe … maybe I’ve fallen for her as hard as I’ve already fallen for Mac.

  But I need to shake that twinge off for now. First things first, I have to get rid of my parents. Then I’ll deal with my feelings for Mac and Daisy Bradford.

  “In order for our puppet show to work,” I tell Daisy, “we all have to pretend the entire time.” I make my eyes go wide to match hers. “Do you think you can do that, Princess? Can you keep pretending and not forget?”

  When she starts jumping up and down, I can’t help smiling again. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  In fact, the less talking Daisy does, the better.

  Mac puts a hand on my shoulder. “Just remember to have fun, Daisy. This is all just for fun, okay?”

  “Fun,” I echo. “Right.” Clearly Mac hasn’t met my parents yet.

  Daisy scampers off, and I stand frozen for a moment, enjoying the weight of Mac’s hand on my shoulder. Then he steps away, shaking his head.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, you did everything right,” he says. A smile creeps across his face. “I have to say, you’re a natural. Daisy and I are lucky we found you.”

  I suck in a breath.

  Yes, remember this, Brooke. Mac and Daisy are a package deal. You may be a natural, but you’re not her mother. You aren’t his wife. None of this is real.

  Mac’s smile falters. “Did I say something wrong now?”

  “No.” I exhale a sharp breath. “But being a natural takes work. So I’d better get dinner prepped before my parents get here.”

  I spend the next hour in Mac’s kitchen putting together tonight’s menu. Lasagna and Caesar salad. French bread rolls and tiramisu. I’ve made macaroni and hot dogs here before, but never a full meal. Finding oregano and a cheese grater takes a while. I can’t help feeling like an outsider when I’m supposed to act at home.

  As the minutes count down to five o’clock, my insides start to roll and churn. Eventually they reach a full-on boil like the water for the noodles. And did I mention the hiccups?

  Yep.

  Ever since I was a little girl, I get the hiccups when I feel judged or on display. Inadequate. It’s one of the reasons I became a teacher. To challenge myself and prove I could be strong.

  As it turned out, my students weren’t judgmental. They gave me nothing but love and acceptance. My tight, sick stomach coils up at the memory of how much I adored them.

  At how much I adore Daisy, even though she isn’t mine.

  When dinner’s prepped, and the table is set, I wait at the front window, peeking through the shutters. A long, black limousine crunches over the gravel and into Mac’s driveway.

  Hic.

  Mac comes up behind me, and I soak up his delicious scent. Wood and leather and spice. When he touches my bare shoulder, I turn around. He takes one look at my face and peers out the window above my head.

  “Ah. Your parents are here.”

  I run a hand over my hair to check for smoothness. I’d left it down and loose today. I’m wearing my favorite pink tank dress and pair of gold sandals. With no heels.

  My mother will hate them.

  Hic.

  “Daisy and I were in the other room setting up a play,” he says. “It’s like The Sound of Music without all the goatherds.” His mouth tilts. “I figured it would be easier to make introductions without her bouncing around.”

  I nod.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Hic.

  My face burns hot. What was I thinking? Inviting my parents here was a terrible idea.

  Mac slides his hand into mine. “Let’s be fine together.” As our fingers entwine, the pressure is comforting. Firm and steady. Just what I need. I try telling myself things are different this time. I’ve got Mac on my side.

  Hic.

  When the chauffeur hops out of the limousine, I recognize him immediately. It’s Jenkins, my parents’ driver. They must’ve flown him up here too. Wow. I wonder how much it costs to get your own guy behind the wheel of a rented car. Jenkins trots around to the back door of the extra-long stretch limo. Leave it to Lenore and Robert to find the biggest, most ostentatious one in Apple Valley. Possibly in all of Oregon.

  Mac clears his throat. “Should we go on out there?”

  I shake my head. “Let’s make them come to the door.” Mac lifts my hand and we both look down at the fake diamond sparkling on my ring finger.

  Hic.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he says. His voice is gruff and thick. “Just remember, this is your home. I’m your husband. Daisy’s your stepdaughter. You belong here, Brooke.” Mac squeezes my hand. “You’re the one who’s in charge,” he says. “And if your parents don’t behave … I’ll have no problem showing them the door.” His smile goes crooked again. “I’ve got two arms, one for each of them if I’ve got to escort anyone out.”

 
Hic.

  We both turn toward the window again as my mother emerges from the limo. Her raven hair is in a bob so sharp, I’m surprised she hasn’t sliced her chin. She’s wearing a silk blouse and long flowy pants in a shimmering fabric. Pure white. Like a bride.

  As she steps away from the limo, her pant legs drag in the gravel.

  Serves her right.

  My father climbs out of the car after her. His jet black hair is slicked and stiff, probably styled with an entire jar of pomade. He’s wearing his signature look—a pinstriped suit in a deep navy blue, paired with a red silk tie. My mother’s carrying a patent leather clutch in a matching shade of red. They might as well be at the daytime Emmys. Or at the White House on the 4th of July.

  “Whoa.” Mac whistles through his teeth. “Your mom and dad know how to make an entrance.”

  “You have no idea.” I exhale, bracing myself for what’s coming. And that’s when a third person steps out of the limo.

  Ethan Clifton.

  “Oh no!” I choke on a gasp. I think I might vomit.

  Hic.

  Ethan’s blond hair is slicked back off his forehead, and his teeth are supernaturally white. Before coming here he must’ve visited the dentist for another round of bleaching. His suit is the same tan as his skin, with narrow pant legs tapered at the ankles. I’m guessing his pointed-toe loafers cost as much as my entire wardrobe.

  “Hey.” Mac cranes his neck. “Who’s Mr. Fancy Pants?”

  “My ex-boyfriend.” I swallow a mouthful of acid. “I have no idea why he’s here.”

  “You dated that guy?” Mac rubs his chin. “Wow.”

  I nod—slowly. Almost as surprised as Mac sounds. “His father’s a producer, and our parents are longtime friends. Ethan and I grew up together. But it’s over with him. Way over.”

  “Ethan, huh?” Mac smirks. “Well. This sure adds another layer to the fun.”

  Hic.

  While this three-way ambush floats toward us, Jenkins walks ahead of my parents on the path, kicking stones out of their way. I’m shocked they didn’t bring a red carpet.