by Meg Moseley
I did too. I took my fingers off my keyboard and applied every one of my brain cells to watching him walk toward me. I saw a lot to appreciate.
“Breakfast blend,” he said. “And chocolate chip.”
“Thank you, Gray. How thoughtful.” I took the coffee in one hand and the cookie in the other. “You know my addictions.”
“Do you know my new one?”
My cheeks heated. To compensate, I tried to sound like a wary spinster in a Jane Austen novel. “Shouldn’t you be at work, Mr. Whitby?”
“Nah. I can pretty much set my own hours.”
He was too cute to resist. I motioned toward the comfy chair beside the desk.
He shook his head. “I’ll only stay a minute—unless you’d like to show me some houses.”
I’d seen his phone, and it was the priciest new model. His car had almost a quarter of a million miles on it, though. Was he prosperous or poor? In the market for a house or only teasing me?
“Are you looking for a house? Seriously?”
“Hello again, Gray,” Betty said from somewhere behind me. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to borrow Ellie for a moment.”
“No problem,” he said.
Knowing what was coming, I abandoned the coffee, the cookie, and the man to follow Betty into her office. She closed the door but didn’t invite me to sit.
“Ellie, you know my policy about agent-client romances. I’m sorry.”
I wanted to argue. She owned the business, though, and I’d agreed to abide by her rules. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell him.”
“I knew you would understand. If you can sell him a home, please do, but don’t date him until after the closing. After the closing, he’s fair game. And, I might add, he’s darling.” She dismissed me with a prim nod.
I found Gray studying the full-color listing printouts on the bulletin board. “There’s something you need to know.”
He kept reading the listings. “You have a husband and seven children.”
“Do I look old enough to have seven children?”
“No. So what do you need to tell me?”
“Either I can go out with you or I can show you some houses, but I can’t do both. That’s Betty’s policy.”
He faced me. “Why?”
“She thinks that if our, um, relationship goes sour, and then if anything goes wrong with the buying process, you could claim improper representation.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“But you could.” I closed my eyes briefly, recalling the approximate wording from her policy manual. “Because an agent is paid to perform a set of professional duties for every party to a transaction, a romantic entanglement with any one of those parties could blur the lines.”
His eyes danced. “Romantic entanglement? I like the sound of that.”
“Then find yourself a different agent.”
“You’ll get in trouble if you go out with me?”
“If I’m also representing you, yes. Not legal trouble or even ethical trouble, in my opinion, but I need to honor Betty’s rules.”
He finally seemed to be taking it seriously. “But then you won’t get a commission if I buy a house.”
It was awkward to talk about money. Maybe Betty’s policy was wiser than I’d thought.
“If I refer you to another agent, I’ll at least get a referral fee. It’s not as much, but it’s something.”
He grinned. “You’re willing to take a pay cut to keep going out with me?”
Heat flooded my face again. “Only if you take me to some very nice restaurants.”
“I will. Let’s start tonight. Dress up. We’ll save the Italian joint for another time, and we’ll save the house-hunting for later too.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Didn’t I just tell you I intend to abide by Betty’s rules? And mine too, by the way.”
He laughed softly. “I shouldn’t tease you. I’m not looking for a house. I only wanted to stop by and say hey.”
“Are you only teasing about the nice restaurant too?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not. May I go ahead and make reservations for tonight? About eight, maybe?”
“That sounds good.” I fought the urge to ask which restaurant he had in mind.
“I’ll see you at eight, then. Have a great day, Ellie.”
“You too.”
After he’d walked out, I tried a careful sip of the hot coffee. He’d added cream, no sugar, just the way I liked it.
I had to decide what to wear to dinner. That question seemed considerably more important than the papers on my desk. I slogged through them, though, enjoying my coffee, nibbling at the cookie to make it last, and grinning like an idiot.
By the end of February, Gray had taken me to several incredible restaurants, which meant piling up a bit of credit card debt for new outfits. I started running again in March so I wouldn’t be a blimp before swimsuit season, but my old running shoes were worn out. So one sunny day when I was off work until noon, I walked down Peachtree on a shoe-shopping expedition. The Bradford pear trees were decked out in sweet perfume and white blossoms like brides in their dresses. It would have been a perfect day to decide I was in love.
But smart women didn’t fall in love too quickly. They simply didn’t. Therefore, having known Gray for only about six weeks, I wasn’t in love. I was only . . . smitten. And it was all his fault for being ridiculously lovable.
Everyone at the office loved him too, and we’d all grown accustomed to his habit of bringing me sweets and coffee. If I was busy, he passed the time browsing the listings posted on the bulletin board.
He could have qualified for a mortgage. I’d learned that he drove a high-mileage car not because he couldn’t afford car payments but because he hated debt. He wasn’t far from his goal of buying his dream car, nearly new, with cash.
A stunning window display caught my attention. A wonderland of lace and glitz, it made Canon in D start playing in my head.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Don’t.”
I ordered my feet to keep moving down the sidewalk, but the attraction was too strong. Like a lemming over a cliff, I followed half a dozen chattering women into a consignment bridal boutique.
The store carried new, sample, and consignment gowns. Faint floral scents hung in the air along with subdued classical music. Peach-colored couches scattered across the store provided seating for small armies of women who’d accompanied brides that day.
I had no army. No ring. No fiancé. I was just there on a lark. Really.
A saleswoman approached me. “May I help you?”
“I’m just browsing, but . . . I love some of the Jenny Packham gowns I’ve seen online. They’re out of my price range, though. Do you have any used ones?”
“We have a lovely Jenny on consignment, and I think it’s about your size.”
She led me to an ivory gown with an exquisitely detailed bodice, short sleeves of delicate lace, and a slim and graceful skirt. As glamorous as anything from the era of The Great Gatsby, it was still ladylike. Not even my mother could call that neckline immodest.
“I love it,” I breathed, investigating the peekaboo back.
“Isn’t it beautiful? And the ivory is perfect with your coloring.”
It’s not white, Mom said in my head. People will think you don’t deserve to wear white. Do you?
But I didn’t want to be like her, worrying about what people might think.
The saleswoman checked her watch. “I have some time before my next appointment if you’d like to try it on.”
“Really? May I?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
In a daze, I trailed her and the gorgeous gown into a luxurious dressing room. My common sense spoke up briefly: I’d better ask the price before I fell in love with the dress. Actually, I’d better have a groom before I fell in love with the dress.
While the woman straightened the gown’s skirt and rhapsodized about Jenny Packham’s timeless sense of style, my phone rang
. I pulled it out of my purse and glared at it.
It was one of my clients, a guy who seemed to think I lived for the joy of driving him and his cranky wife all over Atlanta to tour houses that somehow never met his high expectations.
But until noon, I wasn’t working. I let his call go to voice mail, knowing he was hot on the trail of another house he wouldn’t buy anyway.
As for me, I was hot on the trail of a man I wanted to . . . well, not buy.
Marry.
There. I’d said it. Not out loud, but I’d said it.
Sometimes I counted off the time on my mental calendar: February, March, and now we were well into April, but I still hadn’t known Gray long enough to let him get wind of my secret hopes.
Every time he came over, I made sure the bedroom door wasn’t open more than a crack. If he saw what I’d tucked into the frame of my mirror, he would know exactly what I was thinking.
Next to his business card, I’d added a few photos of the two of us together. He’d seen them, of course, but I couldn’t let him see the image I’d found online.
After my visit to the bridal shop, I’d added a picture of the Jenny Packham gown, printed off the company’s website. Daily, I begged God to keep some other woman from buying the used gown. Wedding fund or not, I couldn’t afford it new.
Today, I felt slightly guilty about taking a Saturday off, but it wasn’t enough to dampen my mood. The other agents could snag any new walk-in prospects. I had several deals about to close and a couple of listing leads. I deserved a chance to play.
I was dressed and ready for breakfast with Gray and then a visit to the High Museum, one of my favorite destinations since a field trip in the fifth grade had introduced me to Matisse. Now, though, I wasn’t a lonesome, knock-kneed kid from the country.
I grinned at the happy woman in the mirror. For weeks now, I’d managed to see Gray almost every day. We’d hiked Stone Mountain, we’d driven up to the mountains to see the spring wildflowers, and we’d shared so many meals I couldn’t count them.
I’d told him he didn’t have to keep taking me to expensive restaurants, so he’d toned it down. We’d had pizza at his sparsely furnished apartment and watched an old John Wayne movie. We’d had burgers at the Varsity and an authentic Chinese meal on Buford Highway, and we’d finally hit the little Italian place on Roswell. We’d even gone to his parents’ house for chili and corn bread.
Gray’s parents were almost as much fun as he was. Like him, they enjoyed good food. “Good,” not necessarily healthy. I smiled, remembering his mother’s response when I raved about her chili. She’d laughed and told me she just dumped ingredients into the pot and hoped for the best. “Comes out different every time,” she’d said, and I’d begun to understand where Gray had learned to fly by the seat of his pants.
Wind and rain lashed my bedroom window. Even if we hadn’t planned a breakfast date, I couldn’t have worked in the church’s flower beds today. And if anyone had planned an outdoor wedding, they’d need Plan B.
My thoughts drifted to Alexa’s desperate search for the perfect but affordable gown. Every gown Alexa loved, Mom hated. According to Mom, they were too low cut, too tight, or not white enough. Her daughter deserved a white-dress wedding, so her gown had to be pure white. Not ivory. Not cream. White.
It wasn’t too early to call Alexa for a progress report—and to tell her about Gray, finally. I had to get over my superstitious notion that telling her might jinx everything.
I picked up my phone and tapped her name. She answered right away, sounding glum.
“Any luck on the dress hunt?” I asked.
“Mom found one last night that doesn’t offend her.” Alexa offered an unenthusiastic description of a garment that might have escaped from 1980. “I have barely enough time to get it fitted. Most girls have their dresses six months ahead of time. Mom doesn’t understand how it’s done these days.”
If Mom didn’t understand, it was probably because Grandpa had made her throw a wedding together in a hurry, before she started showing. But that wasn’t what troubled me at the moment.
“You don’t sound excited about the dress, Lex. Is it really what you want?”
“No, but she’s paying for the wedding so I have to cater to her whims.”
“Well, at least she approves of Eric.”
Alexa snorted. “Sometimes I wonder. It must be nice to have your own place without your snoopy mother listening to your phone calls. And her house rules are awful. I wish I hadn’t moved back home.”
Poor Lexie. Times were tough, and jobs were scarce. So far, her college education had only won her a low-paying job at a customer service call center.
“I’m sorry, but hang in there. It’s not long until the wedding.”
“Seems like we’ve already been waiting forever.” She sighed. “I know, I shouldn’t complain. At least I’ve already found my guy.”
“Maybe I’ve found mine too.”
“What? Who? When? Where?”
“His name is Gray Whitby. He’s an internet engineer.”
“A geek, huh?”
“He’s brilliant and gorgeous. Not at all geeky.”
“Seriously? Where did you meet him? At church, I hope. Mom thinks that’s the only way to meet a decent man.”
“Well, it was . . . at a church. Sort of. I met him at a wedding.”
“Ooh, that’s romantic.”
I grinned, remembering the particulars. “Anyway, things are moving along pretty fast. I’ve met his parents—”
“Met his parents? Do you realize how huge that is?”
“Yes, but Mom can’t know that I’ve met his parents before I’ve even told her about him, so don’t say a word.”
“I won’t. Oh, Ellie, remember all those awful questions she asked when you brought what’s-his-name over? Justin?”
“No, that was Jason. Justin was . . . you know. My prom date.”
“Oh, wow. I’d almost forgotten about that.”
I certainly hadn’t. “Anyway, Gray’s taking me to the High Museum today. There’s a display of Western art. An indoor adventure for a rainy day, he calls it.”
“Fun. Send pics if you take any. When are you gonna tell Mom?”
“Soon. You’ll love him. He’s a sweetheart. And so funny. You know the verse that says a merry heart is like a medicine? Well, Gray is more like truth serum. Laughing gas. He gets me laughing and then he coaxes all my secrets out of me . . .” I blinked, startled to realize my voice had turned dreamy and trailed away.
Alexa snickered. “You sound like you’re head over heels.”
“Hmm. I wonder why.”
“I’m so happy for you.” Her voice quavered.
“Stop it,” I said, laughing but nearly crying too. “I don’t have time to blubber. Gray will be here any minute.”
I said good-bye and applied a quick spritz of perfume. It was a far better fragrance than the stench that gagged my date for senior prom when he came to pick me up. Poor Justin. He’d grown up in town, and his nose had never met a chicken farm up close and personal.
I’d never shared that humiliating story with anyone I’d dated, but I might tell Gray. He would get a kick out of it. He knew I was a country girl, but he didn’t know just how country. He didn’t know how far I’d come.
When I moved to Atlanta after high school, it was my declaration of independence, intended to send a signal to Mom: You don’t run my life anymore.
I’d sent the signal, but somehow she’d never received it.
Hearing Gray’s knock, I ran to greet him.
By the time Gray and I finished browsing the High’s Go West exhibit on loan from a museum in Wyoming, the rain had let up. Hand in hand, we walked the wet sidewalk in search of a restaurant. Glancing down at his brown boots ambling along beside my white sandals, I nearly laughed as I finally put it all together.
The boots. His fondness for old black-and-white Westerns. His excitement about the exhibit’s paintings and scul
ptures by Frederic Remington and Charles Russell. Even the longed-for Mustang, or “the pony,” as Gray called it, made it clear. The city boy yearned to be a cowboy. It was an endearing peek into the part of his heart that was still eight years old.
He stopped to read an outdoor chalkboard menu for a trendy little café. “Good thing the museum closed at five. I’m starved.”
“That was the plan. Big breakfast, no lunch, early supper. We’ll survive.”
“Barely.” He shot me a quick smile and went back to perusing the menu.
“Have you noticed that most of our time together is centered on food?” I said.
“Have you noticed food is central to life?” He kissed my forehead. “So I keep feeding my girl.”
He’d never called me that before. Pleasant shivers ran down my spine.
“The wait’s too long here,” he said. “Let’s see what’s in the next block.”
We walked on and stopped at the corner. While we waited for the green light, he consulted the weather forecast on his phone.
“No rain tomorrow, and the azaleas are blooming,” he said. “Let’s hit the botanical gardens tomorrow after church.”
“That would be fun, but since I’m spending today with you, I need to visit Mom tomorrow.”
“Why can’t she visit you sometimes? It’d save you an hour and a half on the road.”
“She’s afraid to drive in Atlanta.”
“Come on. She wouldn’t even have to get on the interstate. It’s not that scary.”
“To her, Highway 78 is scary.”
The light changed, and we crossed the street.
“I can go with you, then,” he said as we reached the curb. “We’d have the drive time together, and then I can finally meet her.”
“Not until I’ve warned her about you.”
He gave me a puzzled frown. “You still haven’t told her we’re dating?”
“Um, no.”
“And why did you use that word, warned? Is something wrong with me?”
“Nothing. It’s her problem, not yours.”
Gray tugged me out of the stream of pedestrians and faced me. “I not only told my folks about you, I wangled a dinner invite so you could meet them—weeks ago—but you haven’t even warned your mother about me? Why?”