by Eliza Daly
Charlotte smiled wide. “Fiona is sure Cassidy is pregnant.”
Fiona tapped the side of her head, referring to her sixth sense. “Came to me in a dream last night, it did.”
“Show him what you bought,” Charlotte said anxiously.
Fiona left the room and returned with a baby baseball jersey that read I’m so cute I must be Irish. “It’s blue cuz it’s gonna be a boy.”
Oddly, all the talk about having a baby wasn’t sending him into a panic over a paternity suit. His palms weren’t sweating, and there was no pressure weighing down his chest. The idea of Cassidy being pregnant with his son didn’t freak him out. Guess he had never loved a woman enough to really want a child. He’d give a child as normal a life as possible, starting by having him or her attend his baseball events. He’d do his best to ensure his children didn’t have the same hang-ups he’d had.
Most importantly, they would be surrounded by love, like he’d been.
“You have to do something to get her back,” Charlotte wailed.
Fiona surged from the couch. “I’ll take care of it.”
“What are you going to do?” Charlie asked.
“Lock meself in the guesthouse.”
“Oh no, you can’t do that.” Charlotte fanned herself vigorously with a dryer sheet.
“You aren’t locking yourself in the guesthouse,” Ryan said.
“Then I’ll climb a tree.”
Charlotte’s face lit up, glancing over at the black cat lounging on the mantle. “I’ll pretend like Barley got kidnapped. Cassidy will come running over. She loves Barley.”
“Or I could take the Lamborghini out for a spin and get in an accident,” Charlie said.
“I’m not going to have anyone ending up in the emergency room over this,” Ryan said, standing. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Hmph,” Fiona grunted. “Made a big enough mess of things already, ya have. She’s not even speaking to ya. We’ll handle this ourselves.”
“No, you won’t,” Ryan said firmly.
“Where are you going?” Charlotte asked.
“I need to prepare for The Dating Game tomorrow.”
Fiona’s gaze narrowed. “You’re not still going through with that, are ya?”
“You bet I am.”
Cassidy had taught him the importance of being open with his emotions, so he planned to tell her and the entire country just how he felt.
Chapter Thirty-One
The likes of Baryshnikov and Pavarotti had graced the stage of the Milwaukee Theater. Patrons of the arts would have a cow if they saw the set of The Dating Game currently defacing the stage. The regal red velvet curtains contrasted with the brightly colored daisies splashed across the set’s white backdrop and divider, which would separate Ryan from the bachelorettes.
Cassidy stood backstage, peering out at the audience from behind the curtain. The theater held just under 2,500 people, and the event was a sellout. All proceeds were going to the Animal Rescue Squad. Mainly women were in attendance to mourn the loss of the city’s most eligible bachelor.
As was Cassidy.
She took a sip of tea from the thermal cup warming her hand. Lucy’s rosemary and lavender tea was doing nothing to relieve the nervous fluttering in her stomach, but it had her running to the bathroom every five minutes.
Fifteen minutes before start time and still no finalists.
What if they no-showed? There’d be no game show. Ryan wouldn’t have a fiancée. Her heart soared, then plummeted. Unless a tornado ripped through the city, they’d show.
Why couldn’t she channel this hurt into anger? Like she had with her parents and Nick. Anger was a much easier emotion to deal with.
Lucy flew across the back of the stage. “Just saw the women are in makeup. Not that they need any more.”
“Thank God.” Cassidy managed a strained smile. “Can you check on Ryan?”
“I did. I told him the women were shut securely away in their dressing rooms and it was safe for him to come out.” Lucy bolted across the back of the stage, crossing paths with Ryan’s approach.
Cassidy turned away, her heart racing. She’d avoided him since he’d arrived a half hour ago. Not to be unprofessional, but they had nothing left to say.
“Well, I guess this is it,” Ryan said.
She squared her shoulders, attempting to appear more confident than she felt. “Guess so,” she said, turning around, her gaze locking on his tie. His pink tie. Since when would he be caught dead in a pink tie? She glanced up and met his gaze.
“If I don’t marry within six months, my aunt’s inheritance goes to her cats and the staff will lose the mansion.”
She stood there, dumbfounded.
“Call me crazy, but I really think the children’s baseball events could use the money more than the cats. And I certainly don’t want my aunt remembered for one last wacky stunt like that. More importantly, I don’t want the media catching wind of it and wondering what other secrets my aunt may have taken to her grave. Like Hector’s embezzling, or Charlotte’s kidnapping Vinnie Carlucci’s wife’s cat, or Fiona—”
“Why are you telling me all this?” she said quietly, glancing cautiously around to make sure nobody was listening. “So you can blame me if it ends up in tomorrow’s paper?”
“Because I trust you. Whether you believe me or not.” His blue eyes pleaded for her to believe him. He reached a tentative hand toward her cheek, and her breathing quickened in anticipation of his fingers caressing her skin. He drew his hand back just shy of touching her, and she let out a faint sigh. “I hope someday you can forgive me.”
Forgiving was easier than forgetting.
He joined Alex on the opposite side of the stage.
Lucy materialized at her side. “Forgive him.”
“Were you eavesdropping?”
“I overheard as I was walking up. Forgive him.”
Cassidy peered over at Ryan, then forced her gaze back to Lucy. Just looking at him made her insides ache. “Every time my trustworthiness is called into question, I’m going to have to worry whether or not he believes me. I refuse to live like that.”
“You’re just like Ryan, you know.”
Cassidy let out an incredulous laugh. “How’s that?”
“Distancing yourself from somebody so you won’t get hurt. I see a definite pattern here. You distanced yourself from your parents because not having their approval or affection hurt too badly. And then there was Nick.”
“Puh-leez. Nick did all the distancing in that relationship.”
“You never loved him to begin with. That way, if things didn’t work out, you weren’t emotionally invested. Can you honestly tell me you weren’t more upset about losing your job than Nick?”
“I wasn’t,” Cassidy said with little conviction.
Lucy was dead-on, almost. “I let myself get close to Ryan and the staff.”
“Because you were so busy doing your job you didn’t even realize what was happening.”
The upbeat and catchy little theme song from the original The Dating Game show started playing, signaling the game’s start. The audience clapped with anticipation.
Cassidy’s heart thumped against her chest. She went to take another drink of tea and discovered she was out. Great timing.
The host walked on stage and welcomed the audience. He introduced Ryan, as several whistles and a yeah baby echoed from the audience.
Cassidy’s stomach lurched.
The three bachelorettes walked past her and filed on stage, taking their seats on the other side of the partition. Erica Turner wore a short black dress with a plunging neckline and black spiked heels. What happened to her wholesome That Girl look? Megan, the office director, was now a blonde. She’d bleached her brown hair overnight? Hillary, the nutritionist, looked like she’d made a pit stop at every makeup counter at Nordstrom’s.
They didn’t look at all like the same women she’d interviewed. How else had they misled her? What lies had they told to get
where they were? Could they be trusted to keep Ryan’s secrets?
That was no longer her problem.
Big deal that Ryan confessed all those secrets to her. If he had truly wanted her, he wouldn’t be going through with the game.
“Bachelorette number one, where is the most memorable place you’ve ever had sex?” Ryan read from a notecard in his hand.
The pool cabana. Without a doubt.
Wait a sec, this question wasn’t relevant to finding his soul mate. And it certainly wasn’t one she’d written.
“Bachelorette number two, what would you do if you discovered a pink thong in my couch and it wasn’t yours?”
When had he discovered the thong? Her gaze skittered around the back of the stage, stopping on Lucy, standing by Alex. Lucy gave her a palms up, looking totally clueless.
“Bachelorette number three, if you attended a baseball game, would you prefer to sit in the skybox or the stands?”
“The skybox, so I could have you all to myself,” Erica Turner purred. “And you could have me.”
What a slut. Or, rather, a hussy as Fiona would call her. Speaking of which, where was the staff? They should be backstage. Were they still upset that she hadn’t agreed with them selecting her as a finalist? Good thing they weren’t around. It would only make letting Ryan go even harder.
“Bachelorette number four,” Ryan said.
Number four?
“If I screwed up, would you forgive me if I said I wanted to marry you because I love you, and not for the money?”
The host chuckled. “Sorry, but we have three lovely ladies here for you today, not four.”
“No, I’ve definitely done some things wrong lately, but counting isn’t one of them.” Ryan peered over at her with a hopeful look in his piercing blue eyes.
A rush of heat swept up her neck and burst onto her cheeks. Was he proposing? To her?
Lucy appeared at her side. She pulled back the curtain, revealing Cassidy to the audience. Shocked gasps and muttered confusion echoed through the theater. All eyes were on Cassidy.
“Omigod,” she muttered, her heart beating wildly.
Lucy smiled smugly.
The bachelorettes appeared from the other side of the divider, apparently in cahoots with Lucy.
“This is rigged!” a familiar voice shouted from the audience. Veronica popped up in the first row, wearing an orange psychedelic patterned dress. “He knew he was going to pick her all along. I object . . . ” She was still spewing out objections when two security guards rushed down and finally secured her.
“Well now,” the host said, “some women just can’t take no for an answer.” This elicited several laughs from the audience.
Ryan smiled, and a sexy dimple creased his cheek. He strolled over to her, apprehension etched on his face, yet his gaze never wavered from hers. “Well, bachelorette number four, what would you say?”
She searched for a response but couldn’t find her voice.
“Please say yes,” he whispered.
The staff appeared, surrounding them.
“Give her the flowers,” Charlotte suggested.
Hector handed Ryan a bouquet of plastic tulips, which he in turn presented to Cassidy. She accepted the flowers with a trembling hand.
“Get down on your knee,” Charlie said. “Women like that.”
“Let the boy alone. Knows exactly what he’s doing, he does.” Fiona winked at Ryan, nudging him. “Give her the ya know what now.” She’d worn her favorite purple velvet leggings and gold heels for the occasion.
Ryan removed a piece of blue material from his jacket pocket and held it up. It was a baby’s jersey that read I’m so cute I must be Irish. “I was thinking I could give it to our son. Maybe get a bigger one when he’s old enough to attend our baseball events.”
She finally found her voice. “Our son . . . ?”
“I think it’s time I took a break from finance and looked at doing something I really enjoy—baseball. You might want to hold a themed wedding or two at the stadium. Like ours.” He removed a small velvet box from his jacket pocket and knelt down on one knee.
A collective Ahh sounded through the audience.
Cassidy’s breath caught in her throat.
He opened the box, revealing a thin gold band with a modest-sized diamond.
His eyes misted over. “My mom’s wedding ring.”
Her vision blurred by tears. She nodded yes, and he slipped the ring on her finger.
A perfect fit.
“May your hearts stay warm, your bed always hot, so lots of wee ones will be got.” Fiona took a swig from her flask.
Charlotte blew her nose on a dryer sheet and handed one to Cassidy. Charlie plucked a lace hanky from his shirt pocket and blew his nose.
Ryan wiped a tear from her cheek and brushed a gentle kiss across her lips. “I love you.”
Cassidy dabbed at her eyes with the dryer sheet, sniffling. “I love you, too.”
“So, how about we celebrate?” he said.
“I made me pigeon pie,” Fiona piped up.
Cassidy laughed. “Sounds perfect.”
“Certainly does,” Ryan said, slipping his arms around her waist.
She always knew the true test for Ryan’s soul mate would be a woman who ate pigeon pie. She just never dreamed it would be her.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my husband, Mark, and all my friends and family for believing in me and supporting my writing in so many ways. I would have given up years ago without your encouragement. Thank you to Judy Watson for reading the book numerous times. To Julie Sturgeon, your feedback helped make this a stronger book and your patience made the editing process very smooth. To Tara Gelsomino for having faith in the story from the beginning and working with my insane travel schedule.
Turn the page for an excerpt from
Under Her Spell
Prologue
Monica Jackson was raising a bowl of sea salt, preparing to cast a spell circle on her bedroom floor when the door flew open. She nearly dropped the bowl as her cousin Hope stormed in, covered with flour and cake batter—the Unhappy Homemaker from Hell.
“No way is he getting the BMW,” Hope said, shaking a wooden spoon in her hand and sending batter flying across the room.
The night before, Hope had caught her scumbag husband Kyle in bed with another woman. Not wanting to impose on her happily married friends, she’d showed up at Monica’s door, even though they weren’t exactly close. Hope made a Stepford Wife look like a total slacker, and the only thing she and Monica had in common were their Italian features: dark hair and brown eyes. A wedding cake decorator, Hope was coping with Kyle’s infidelity by baking like a mad woman. Forget the cake. Monica would shove Kyle in the oven and roast him on high.
“What are you doing?” Hope’s gaze narrowed on the small wooden table in front of Monica, where the ingredients for her soul mate spell sat on top of a red tablecloth: a red candle, lavender incense, jasmine oil, cinnamon, and a love letter to her as yet unidentified true love.
“Casting a spell to help find my soul mate.”
“A spell? Does that really work?”
“Hopefully.”
Monica’s psychic friend Jordan had convinced her that spell casting was a viable alternative to Milwaukeemates.com and speed dating in general. Neither of which Monica had time for, since establishing her new business was top priority. Her company, Enhance Your Romance, planned unique romantic events and was sure to succeed, unlike her other dozen failed business plans. Society was obsessed with being in love.
“A spell . . . ” Hope mused, then her face lit up. “If there’s a spell to attract a man to a woman, there must be one to repel women from a man. Right?”
“Spells shouldn’t involve negative energy. Sending out negative energy can cause it to return threefold. They aren’t intended to harm someone or make them do something against their will.” Jordan had drille
d this into her head.
“I wouldn’t be making Kyle do anything against his will. I’d be warning women to stay away from him.”
Sounded borderline.
“Please,” Hope whined, picking a clump of batter from her long, wavy hair.
Monica let out a defeated groan. “All right.” Hope would never actually cast the spell anyway. When they were young, Hope refused to wear a Casper costume for Halloween because she didn’t believe in ghosts. She was closed-minded when it came to paranormal or New Age beliefs. And you had to truly believe in a spell for it to work.
Monica set down the bowl of salt and grabbed a pencil and pad of paper off her desk and handed them to Hope. “Write this down. It’s called,” she tapped a hot pink nail against her lip, “the dirtbag spell.”
“Like it already.” Hope jotted down the title as she perched on the edge of the bed’s purple floral comforter.
“Take one of Kyle’s socks, fill it with dirt, and add a photo of him. It’s critical you aren’t in the photo.” Monica paced, tightening the sash on her lavender silk robe. “Include something of his like . . . ”
“His new Rolex?”
Personally, Monica would list the watch on eBay and pray for a bidding war. But Hope, no matter how ticked off, was too timid to sell Kyle’s precious watch, and too frugal to risk damaging it by mixing it with dirt.
“That’s fine. Sew up the sock and bury it in your front yard. It’ll warn all women he’s a dirtbag.”
Hope poised the pencil against her lower lip, reviewing the spell. “Don’t I have to say something when I bury it, like a chant?”
What happened to being spell ignorant?
“Bury it in the moonlight while saying . . . ” Monica scrambled for a few rhyming lines, “moonlight, glowing bright, warn all women in your sight, the man who lives in this house, is a dirtbag and a total louse.”
“Perfect.” Hope sprang from the bed, looking inspired. “Kyle’s at work. I’m going over to the house right now to bury that sock.” She turned and marched out, a woman on a mission.