The Bachelor Takes a Bride (Those Engaging Garretts!)

by Brenda Harlen

  They’d bought the house on the basis of their combined incomes, and Jordyn had trouble making the mortgage payments on her own after the accident. A financial hole that got even deeper when she decided to walk away from her job at Garrett Furniture.

  Her family had been surprised and worried when she’d handed in her notice, but she knew it was what she had to do. She’d met Brian in her office at the company; she’d fallen in love with him there, too. And when he’d proposed—he’d gotten down on one knee beside her desk, where he claimed to have lost his heart the day they met. When he was gone, it was just too hard for her to go into the office every day and not see him there.

  She’d struggled for a few months after that—not just financially but emotionally. She worried about losing the town house, but she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to keep it. The reality of living alone in the place they’d chosen together wasn’t just lonely but painful.

  She’d been surprised—and hesitant—when Tristyn offered to rent one of the spare bedrooms until Jordyn decided whether she wanted to stay in the house or sell it. Three years later, they were both still there.

  Jordyn was folding the last load of laundry and watching Ryder to the Rescue on television when her sister came home.

  “How was the movie?” she asked as Tristyn kicked off her shoes and dropped onto the other end of the sofa.

  Gryff, sleeping on the middle cushion, opened his one eye—an acknowledgment of the disruption—then he stood up, turned his back on Tristyn, and settled into sleep again.

  “Every bit as good as you said it was.”

  “So why do you sound so melancholy?”

  “I guess it just made me realize how much I wish I could meet a man like Bradley Cooper in real life.”

  Jordyn carefully placed the folded laundry back in the basket to take upstairs. “There are no men like Bradley Cooper in real life.”

  “That’s a depressing thought.”

  “On the other hand,” Jordyn couldn’t resist teasing her sister, “there is Josh Slater.”

  Tristyn ignored her comment. “How was your evening?” she asked instead, reaching for her sister’s glass to steal a drink of her sweet tea.

  “I got three loads of laundry done, made the grocery list and gave serious consideration to letting Marco get to second base.”

  Tristyn choked on the drink. “Excuse me?”

  “Wasn’t that part of your plan—the reason you abandoned me at Valentino’s?”

  “I was hoping you’d spend some time talking to the guy. I didn’t expect...are you saying that you let him get to first base?”

  “He made it to first and turned toward second.”

  “Way to go, Marco,” Tristyn said approvingly. Then, to her sister, “How was it?”

  She considered lying, because she knew that telling her sister the truth would only open her up to more questions. But she was genuinely confused about the unexpected attraction and she needed some honest advice, which she could hardly ask for without being honest herself.

  “It was...spectacular,” she admitted.

  “Heart pounding? Knee quivering? Toe curling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow.” Her sister leaned back into the cushions again, considering the response. “Damn.”

  Jordyn’s brows lifted. “Damn?”

  “I saw him first,” Tristyn reminded her.

  “Are you calling dibs?”

  Her sister sighed. “No. There really was no chemistry between us. But why was there no chemistry between us?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Jordyn told her. “I’m not sure I buy into the whole chemistry thing.”

  “Says the woman who shared the heart-pounding, knee-quivering, toe-curling kiss,” Tristyn noted drily. “Of course, that might explain why there was no chemistry between me and Marco—because he was always meant to be with you.”

  “I don’t buy into the destiny thing, either.”

  “Heart pounding, knee quivering, toe curling,” her sister said again.

  “It was just a kiss.”

  Tristyn smirked. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  Chapter Seven

  It wasn’t yet ten o’clock when Marco got back to his own place.

  It was a Saturday night and there were plenty of other places he could have gone, but he’d never been the type to hang out at bars—at least not on the customer side and not until he met Jordyn. He didn’t feel like going to the gym, he wasn’t in the mood for a movie, and he had no interest in going back to Valentino’s and facing a barrage of questions from his sister-in-law, who had witnessed his leaving the restaurant with Jordyn.

  He parked in his usual spot and walked up the metal staircase to his one-bedroom apartment. On Hawthorne Street, most of the shops and offices occupied the street level of buildings, with apartments on the upper level. For the past two years, Marco had lived above Buy the Book—owned by Phoebe Lamontagne, who happened to be one of his grandmother’s oldest and dearest friends.

  There was a front door, located beside the entrance to the bookstore, and a buzzer used by guests, but Marco most often used the back door. He kept a spare key beneath a flowerpot on his balcony, and as he sifted through the keys on his ring he noticed that the flowerpot had been moved and there were lights on inside the apartment.

  He glanced down at the parking lot again—only now noticing the black BMW parked in one of the designated visitor’s spots as belonging to his brother Gabe. He turned the knob, knowing that his brother wouldn’t have bothered locking the door again once he was inside. Gabe was on the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table, the baseball game on the television and a glass of pinot noir and bowl of Cheezies at his elbow.

  His sister and sister-in-law had helped him decorate his apartment, insisting that female guests would feel more comfortable if it looked a little less like a bachelor pad and a little more like a home. Unfortunately, most of the female guests who visited were related to him in some way. And his male guests—most of them related to him, too—usually sneered at the feminine touches. As Gabe had likely done when he tossed the colorful cushions from the sofa onto the floor.

  “Hey, I paid good money for those pillows,” Marco protested, picking them up off the ground and piling them on a chair.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Gabe told him. “They make it look like a chick lives here.”

  “Says the guy who used the box from his television as a coffee table for almost two years,” Marco noted.

  “It served the purpose. Tell me what purpose those things—” he gestured to the discarded cushions “—serve?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Nata picked them out.”

  “You let our sister help you decorate?”

  “She didn’t really give me a choice.”

  “Is she responsible for the decorative bottles of oil on the counter in the kitchen, too?”

  “They’re not decorative, they’re real,” Marco told him. “I do cook on occasion.”

  “What occasion?” Gabe teased.

  Marco just shook his head. “What are you doing here, anyway? And where is your lovely fiancée tonight?”

  “She went to Denver for the weekend.”

  “And you didn’t go with her?”

  “She flew out Thursday and I was tied up in a settlement conference until late yesterday.”

  “And you didn’t know what to do with yourself without her?” Marco guessed.

  “I thought—who do I know that would be home on a Saturday night? And I came here.”

  “But I wasn’t home, was I?”

  Gabe shrugged. “I figured you got called in to help at the restaurant and would find your way home eventually.”

  He had, of course, which his brother probably kne
w already. “For your information, I left Valentino’s before eight and went for coffee with a stunningly hot brunette.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Gabe sounded intrigued. “Anyone I know?”

  “You have your own stunningly hot brunette,” he reminded his brother. “And I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Just tell me if there was kissing.”

  Marco kept his lips sealed as he went to the kitchen to get himself a glass of the wine his brother was drinking.

  “Okay, so tell me if it was the ’merigan Gemma said you’ve been making a fool of yourself over.”

  “I have not been making a fool of myself,” he denied.

  “It happens to all of us eventually,” Gabe warned. “One minute, you’re flirting with a pretty girl and the next, you’re shopping for an engagement ring.”

  “Speaking of,” Marco said, eager to shift the conversation away from his lack of a love life. “Have you and Francesca set a date for the wedding?”

  “Actually we have,” Gabe confirmed. “November seventh.”

  “That’s pretty fast,” Marco noted, lifting his brows in silent question.

  His brother shook his head. “She’s not pregnant—we just didn’t see any point in dragging the planning out for a year or more when we’re ready to start our life together now.”

  “I remember when Nata was planning her wedding—I think it took her at least six months to pick out a dress, and another six for it to be made.”

  “Francesca’s going to wear her grandmother’s wedding dress. We’re going to have the ceremony at St. Mark’s and a small reception at the Briarwood Alumni Club.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got everything figured out,” Marco noted, although he knew his future sister-in-law deserved most of the credit for that.

  Gabe nodded. “All I need now is a best man.”

  “Have you decided—oh, you mean me?”

  “Yeah, I mean you.”

  He felt humbled and honored to be chosen. But of course, he didn’t admit that to his brother. “I think I can clear my calendar for that day.”

  “Good.” Gabe reached for a handful of Cheezies—because what went better with a thirty-five-dollar bottle of wine than a three-dollar snack? “You going to bring a date to the wedding?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Come on, Marco—give me something to report back.”

  “Who are you supposed to be reporting back to—Francesca? Nata? Mom?”

  “Nonna.”

  He shook his head. “Nonna’s too busy to worry about my dating status.”

  “You’d think, but she said to me, ‘Gabriel, you go talk to your brother and see if you can’t find out what’s going on with him and this girl who has him all tied up in knots,’” he said, in a fair imitation of their grandmother’s voice.

  Marco fought back a smile. “Do I look like I’m all tied up in knots?”

  “Not yet,” his brother said. “But not all women are comfortable with bondage on a first date.”

  He decided to turn the tables. “Which camp is your fiancée in?”

  Gabe scowled. “Don’t drag Francesca into this.”

  “You were the one you brought it up.”

  “Nonna’s worried about you.”

  “Well, you can tell Nonna there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “As if that’s going to stop her,” his brother noted.

  * * *

  While the Palermo brothers were griping over a double play that ended the inning with the bases loaded, the Garrett sisters were cheering the same play that got the Yankees out of a tight spot with their two-run lead intact.

  As the broadcast went to commercial, Tristyn went to the kitchen and poured a glass of sweet tea for herself.

  “Rob wasn’t home when I dropped Lauryn off,” she said, returning to the living room.

  “He said he was working late,” Jordyn reminded her.

  “The store closes at eight on Saturdays.”

  “He probably stopped at the Bar Down for a beer.”

  “Maybe,” her sister allowed.

  “Was Lauryn upset that he wasn’t home?”

  “Not that she let on. In fact, she didn’t even seem surprised.”

  “I don’t think she’s been happy for a long time,” Jordyn admitted.

  “Then why does she stay with him?”

  “Because he’s her husband and the father of her child—soon to be children.”

  “He’s a crappy husband and a crappier father.”

  Jordyn didn’t disagree. “And because she doesn’t like to fail at anything. Walking out on Rob—or kicking him out—would require her to admit that the marriage isn’t working. And she isn’t ready to admit that—not even to herself.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You heard her talking about their anniversary—her plans to make his favorite foods and pack them in a picnic basket to take to him at the store. Even if she’s not happy, she’s pretending to be.”

  “I’d rather be alone than feel stuck with someone,” Tristyn decided.

  “As you’ve made clear to numerous suitors over the years.”

  Her sister frowned. “I wouldn’t say numerous.”

  “Sam, Brendan, Liam, Kevin, Carter, Alex—and those are just since you’ve been living here.”

  Tristyn reached over for the remote, disrupting Gryffindor, who turned and growled at her. She growled back and he crawled into Jordyn’s lap.

  “What did attack cat do while you were locking lips with the sexy bartender?”

  “He’s not an attack cat,” Jordyn said, stroking his back so that he began to purr like a rusty motor. But she frowned, remembering that Gryff—usually as possessive of her as he was wary of strangers—had exhibited little resistance to Marco’s presence. “And he liked Marco.”

  Tristyn’s brows lifted. “That beast doesn’t even like me—and I’ve lived here for three years.”

  “Maybe because you call him a beast.”

  “Maybe,” she acknowledged, unapologetic. “So when are you seeing Marco again?”

  “I’m not.”

  Her sister scowled at that. “He had his tongue in your mouth but didn’t ask you out?”

  “I never said he had his tongue in my mouth.”

  “You said he was heading toward second.”

  “And then he put on the brakes.”

  “He did?”

  Jordyn nodded.

  “Interesting,” her sister mused.

  “It might have been more interesting if he hadn’t stopped.”

  “Obviously he doesn’t want to push for more than you’re ready for.”

  Except that she’d been ready and willing and eager. But when she’d gotten over her disappointment, she’d realized that she would have regretted letting things progress any further.

  “I haven’t had sex in more than three years,” she reminded her sister. “I’m not even sure I remember how it’s done.”

  “You could always ask Marco to tutor you.”

  She shook her head, almost regretfully. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who has casual sex.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “I’m not sure about anything,” she admitted.

  Then she thought about Marco’s kiss, the feelings that had churned inside her, the ache that still throbbed in her secret places, and she realized that she was sure about one thing: she wanted to feel again the way she’d felt in his arms.

  * * *

  Jordyn wished she could give Rob Schulte the benefit of the doubt.

  She wanted to trust that the man her sister had fallen head over heels in love with would not forget the anniversary of the day
they married. But when Tristyn stopped by Lauryn and Rob’s house Sunday morning to drop off the sweater Lauryn had left in her car the night before, Rob was already gone and there was no evidence of a card or flowers or anything.

  When Tristyn got home, she and Jordyn debated over what—if anything—to do. While they both agreed that Lauryn could have done a lot better than the man she’d married, she had married Rob. If he’d forgotten his wedding anniversary, it wouldn’t change that fact, it would only hurt Lauryn’s feelings. And neither of them could bear to see their sister hurt, especially if they were able to prevent it.

  And that was why Jordyn was walking through the door of the Locker Room at noon on Sunday instead of lounging around the house in her pajamas. The bell jangled over the door when she entered. There weren’t, as far as she could tell, any other customers in the store, and she headed toward the back, looking for her brother-in-law. She was halfway down the aisle, between golf bags and tennis rackets, when she was intercepted by a perky blonde with a big smile and a bobbing ponytail.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Roxi. Can I help you find something?”

  “I’m looking for Rob,” she said.

  The blonde’s smile never wavered. “Mr. Schulte’s not available right now.”

  “Mr. Schulte is my brother-in-law.”

  “Oh.” Confusion flickered in Roxi’s big blue eyes.

  “He’s married to my sister,” Jordyn clarified.

  “Oh,” Roxi said again, her smile faltering for just a second before she firmed it up again. “I’ve only worked here for a couple of weeks—there’s obviously a lot I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Schulte?” she prompted.

  “He’s in his office.”

  “Thank you.”

  She found her brother-in-law precisely where Roxi told her he would be—in the small room at the back of the store. He was relaxing in his chair with his feet up on the desk, watching prerace coverage from Pocono. He glanced up at her perfunctory knock on the door, a dark flush creeping up his neck as he hastily dropped his feet and pushed his chair back.

  “I heard D’Alesio got the pole for today’s race—I just wanted to catch the start.”

  Ren D’Alesio was the driver of the green-and-gold number seven twenty-two car, owned by Garrett/Slater Racing—the company that was currently attempting to lure Tristyn away from Garrett Furniture to take over its PR department.