Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3)

by Jennifer Griffith

  “Dude,” Dane said, “I’m just pitching. She’s the one catching.”

  He said this, but he knew Quirt wouldn’t take it well. Back in the day, he’d done the gentlemanly thing and asked Quirt for permission to ask his sister out. “You know Brooke, dude. She’s not, uh, the Rockwell type.” Last year’s argument with Quirt still reechoed, when Dane told his friend that he wanted Brooke as his date for a fraternity formal.

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Quirt had lost his temper. “I’m saying, Brooke isn’t for you, dude.” He’d chucked a dirty sweatshirt at him from across the frat house bedroom.

  “Isn’t that for Brooke and me to decide?” Dane had chucked it back. “She’s a big girl,” he’d argued, even though she’d only been eighteen at the time.

  A murderous stare from Quirt preceded a angry grumbling as he stomped out of the room. “Brooke is not dating a Rockwell.”

  Things had been pretty chilly between him and Quirt since then.

  And basically below zero kelvin since the accident, although it was possible Quirt might have been icing everyone. While Dane had always figured Quirt would get over it, it was still pretty sore to lose his lifelong best friend, and his pseudo-parents Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick at the same time.

  They walked across the spongy spring grass toward the funnel cake stand, the hot oil already putting off a heavy smell of frying dough.

  “You getting one?” Quirt asked. “Because you’re not mooching off mine. Don’t even think about it.”

  Dane was too busy thinking about Brooke, and how he was going to approach her. Now that he’d finished law school he finally had something to show for himself— the graduation certificate serving as concrete proof he wasn’t a typical Rockwell. Whether Brooke Chadwick would take him seriously, not focus on the fact of his last name. In truth, that certificate, plus hisstate bar association card, even a hefty bank account still wouldn’t change his lineage. But Brooke Chadwick of all people might see past all that— past the jailbird parents doing time for cooking meth, past Uncle George serving time for arms sales to foreign dictators, past Cousin Eddie’s side business chopping cars a few miles south on the Chesapeake Bay, past Aunt Linda’s fraud conviction after being married to six men at once.

  Yeah, he was still a Rockwell, but he’d walked as far away from the connection as he could. He’d graduated with honors from a top school. He’d finished early. He’d passed the bar. He’d done enough.

  Besides, together Brooke and I could make the name’s connotation mean something completely different.

  “Yo. What are you staring at? Rock. Yo.” Quirt waved a hand in front of Dane’s eyes. He still had them trained on her as she melted into the crowd. “Keep your eyes and your hands off my little sister.”

  Dane shrugged. “What’s she doing tonight?” He reached for a string of the powdered sugared pile of funnel cake on Quirt’s grease-soaked paper plate.

  Quirt pulled the plate away, but not before Dane snared a strand. “I don’t know. Not going out with you. Guarantee you she has plans.”

  “What’s she doing tomorrow?” He made a sneaky, successful grab for more food.

  “Going to church. It’s Sunday.” Quirt didn’t pull his doughnut plate away fast enough and Dane snared a string of funnel cake, the powdered sugar melting in his mouth. Mm. Just like the cinnamon of Brooke’s lip gloss he’d sensed at close range. “What are you doing? Don’t you start at Tweed Law? You’d better. Didn’t you say you put a few grand on your credit card this weekend?”

  He had— on the ring. Now it was burning a hole in his pocket until he could get to church and make his case to Brooke.

  “Yeah, but I’ll be there.”

  “You. Church.” Yeah, despite this conversation’s thrum, Quirt hadn’t thawed yet. So much skepticism.

  “Of course.” Dane said it like it was a given, although he hadn’t grown up in a church-going family, obviously. “Your parents would want me to.”

  Quirt frowned. “Don’t bother. I’m telling you, keep your distance from Brooke, and quit messing with her head.”

  “I’m not going to mess with her head.” Not that he would let on to Quirt how dead serious he was about this, and about Brooke. Last time he’d mentioned dating Brooke, Quirt had given him the freeze ray. “Quit worrying.”

  “I’m telling you to forget it.” They pushed through the crowd to where the gazebo stood, with a magician on the stage and a crowd both seated and milling. Quirt lowered his chin and spoke in a grave tone with no trace of kidding or even skepticism. “She’s seeing someone. It’s serious.”

  “Serious.” Whatever. Married was the only form of serious he’d accept as proof. Until then, she was fair game.

  “Don’t interfere with her, man. Get yourself a hobby. Go sign up to be a Maddox Little League coach.”

  Quirt was being a jerk. Just because he and Olivia were engaged to be married in June, as soon as his first year at Maddox High teaching geometry was done. Geez. He didn’t have to harsh on Dane.

  Dane frowned. “Whatever, killjoy. Admit she’s a great girl and I’ll get out of here.”

  “She is a great girl. And she’s my little sister.”

  And Dane would see her at church tomorrow. And he’d bring the ring.

  __________

  Meet me at the gazebo. That’s what the text from Ames said. Geezy peasy, finally.

  So Ames had made it to First Pitch after all. Just not in time to be catcher for her pitched ball.

  Brooke dodged the leash of a trio of yippy dogs as she made her way through the park toward Ames— and whatever he was planning. A thousand butterflies swarmed in her belly when she let herself picture Ames’s dazzling smile, the smell of his neck, the taste of his kiss. What was he planning?

  Marriage proposal? It was too soon. Or was it? Her innermost fears and hopes swirled.

  But if it was a proposal, how could he have stiffed her like that— left her on the pitcher’s mound, scanning the bleachers for him?

  Thank goodness for Dane Rockwell. Not that he should have swooped in and almost kissed her for it. Or was I the one going in for the kiss? She wasn’t sure. A flutter of guilt wafted through, but she caught and crumpled it.

  Not her fault. Caught unawares. Any girl would have kissed Dane Rockwell given the opportunity. The long dimple in the side of his cheek alone would make them powerless to it. Not to mention his sultry eyes.

  A flush of anger crept in. What was Dane doing, making a spectacle of her like that? He should have known better what this town was like, what the Bob and Weave— epicenter of all local gossip— yappers were like. They’d rip her to shreds. She was dating Ames. That was common knowledge, which exacerbated the potential for a firestorm of gossip about her.

  Especially because everyone knew Dane meant nothing by it. Everyone, including Brooke.

  Throngs pressed toward the white painted gazebo where the festival’s entertainment had already started. Speakers boomed as Irish dancers clogged without bobbing their heads up on stage. Two big panel TVs flanked the gazebo, and the whole crowd could see it all.

  “Brooke!” Her named sailed over hundreds of heads. Ames, grinning that dashing smile, weaved toward her past a battalion of strollers and kids with balloons on ribbons.

  “You made it!”

  She could’ve said the same for him.

  “You look…wow.” He took her in his arms, smelling of soap. He looked wow, too— hair combed perfectly and golden, gleaming in the spring sun. Wrapped in his embrace, the ice of irritation toward him in her heart melted, and she knew she’d give him a chance to explain why he’d stranded her.

  “Dr. Crosby. Fancy meeting you here.” There. Dropping that hint ought to be enough of a nudge to get him to explain his absence at his catcher’s post.

  “Ah, yeah. The doctor thing. It still throws me.” He scratched the back of his neck and looked as cute and sheepish as could be, but he didn’t pick up on her hint. H
mph. She’d ask him more directly later, once she could figure out a tactful way of putting it.

  “They’re just about to change numbers,” he said, his hand warm on her back. “Do you want to sit down?” His voice took a different timbre than usual. Was he nervous? Maybe he really had planned something, just like everyone had insinuated.

  With this crowd there could be nowhere left to sit, but Ames took her hand, sending waves of pulsations through her chest, and led her to the front of the folding chairs right up next to the gazebo. Front row, prime seating. He held her hand, in public, like he had ownership over her, for all the county to see.

  Ames Crosby’s special girl.

  Ames was strength and security, two adjectives she’d been missing in her life for a long time. Not that she didn’t appreciate Aunt Ruth’s support, but it wasn’t the same. Aunt Ruth provided food and shelter, and she was a good pal, but they didn’t have that emotional connection, no shared dream other than to help the Chadwick legacy live on somehow after tragedy.

  “Where were you? I thought you were coming to First Pitch.” Tired of waiting for him to offer up an explanation, Brooke went with the direct approach.

  “Oh, did that already happen? I thought it was after the program.”

  Seriously? Brooke had given him the time more than once. Of course, he might have been caught up in whatever he was planning— that, or in saving them these great seats at the gazebo.

  “You need a drink or something? It’s a warm day.” He pulled a cooler from under his seat. “I brought guava pear juice.”

  “My favorite.”

  “I know.” He popped the lid for her. “I’m an expert.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. A Brooke Chadwick expert.” He winked and tapped his temple.

  She sipped the cool juice. “You are totally an expert.” A sigh escaped her lips as she leaned back against the folding chair.

  All the skittering voices in town weren’t wrong about Ames— he was nearly perfect. Kind, thoughtful, handsome, and now a doctor.

  Of course, she was going into this with her eyes open. He had his quirks, too. But they were quirks she’d examined over the past three months, pondered, and decided she could live with.

  Live with! Agh! Maybe she was hoping he’d ask her to marry him.

  The Irish dancers tapped to a Celtic song. “They’re so good.” She squeezed Ames’s hand.

  “Wait until you see what’s next.”

  Her face flushed hot. The thing Ames had planned. Her breath caught. The past three years since Mom and Dad died had been rough. Nothing in her life had gone quite right, from healing from the accident, to learning to walk again, to being feted as the miracle contestant and getting what seemed like pity votes at the pageant for the mere fact she could walk, to having to put off her schooling more than once, to being ignored for the past three years by Dane Rockwell while he put his nose to the grindstone at law school and forgot all about her existence.

  Maybe if I hitch myself to Ames and his goldenness, some of it will rub off on me and make my life sparkle. She wished she could sparkle, and not just like the sequins on this dress— from the inside out.

  The Irish dance number ended. The dancers left the stage.

  Ames looked into her eyes with a hint of childlike hope, and whatever dam had been holding back her hopes burst forth in a gushing wave.

  Brooke’s heart swept her mind past the expanse of her and Ames’s future together: wedding, honeymoon, children, home, struggles, triumphs, grandchildren, ’til death do you part. It splayed out in a grand array before her, all golden and shimmery and possible.

  “Look.” He nudged her. Above them, on the twenty-foot screen, they were projected. Brooke smiled and waved. Ames leaned in and kissed her, and a little laughter rippled over the crowd when she lifted an embarrassed hand to her cheek.

  A tech crew kid knelt on the ground in front of them, pulling a close shot with his camera on his shoulder and holding out a mic.

  Ames spoke, and the crowd instantly hushed. “Brooke.” A split-second later, it echoed from the huge speakers on the stage. Brooke’s stomach flipped. “At Christmas I came to Maddox to study for my exams where I wouldn’t have any distractions. Little did I know, I’d find the most divine distraction of my life.”

  The crowd laughed, but Ames’s words plucked a string in her heart, and the twinge triggered her tear ducts. Her eyes welled up to brimming. This couldn’t be real. She, Brooke Chadwick, was winning life’s lottery thanks to this man.

  Ames placed a supple kiss on her lips, one that made her sigh and forget she was anywhere but under his spell. He slid to one knee and looked up into her face, his eyes imploring, humble, vulnerable.

  Oh, she loved him so much! Her heart nearly exploded out of her chest. She’d never known this much love existed in the world.

  “Brooke, will you marry me?” He held out a velvet box, a blur in the sea of her tears.

  Silence hovered, as the audience held its collective breath.

  Yes. Say yes. She couldn’t speak for a moment, too overcome by the possibilities of life that now beckoned.

  “Yes.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him behind his ear. “I love you, Ames.”

  The audience sent up a cheer so loud it broke through to Brooke’s consciousness. When she finally pulled back, he slid the ring on her finger. She clutched it to her chest and they kissed again.

  A new musical group took the stage, and the spotlight left them, but it didn’t leave Brooke’s soul. Today she was fashioned solely of shining light. She rested her head on his shoulder, grateful to be alive in this moment, and let herself bask.

  Finally, she looked up at him. “Are we planning on coaching a team together? Team assignments are in a little while.” She’d signed up to coach, and today she’d meet her team of nine-year-olds. It was the point of First Pitch festival.

  “Aw, babe. I’m really sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’m getting sworn in, taking the Hippocratic Oath today. It’s at the LaBarge Mansion, and the state medical board members are going to be there.” He checked his phone for the time. “In fact, I have to jet pretty soon to not be late.”

  “The LaBarge Mansion.” The name curdled in her. Brooke had a history with that family. But all she said was, “Swanky stuff.”

  “Sarge LaBarge runs the county, and he has the mansion to prove it.” Ames smirked. “My dad knows him from way back, so it ought to be chummy.”

  “Well, that’s not something you can miss.”

  “Can’t you come with me?” He stroked her arm. “Skip the festivities here?”

  She’d rather chew shards of glass. “I doubt I’d be an asset to you at the LaBarge Mansion tonight.” Considering LaBarge’s daughter Charli had won the Miss Virginia pageant when Brooke competed and received runner-up. Afterward, Brooke had refused to take part in the gossip that suggested Charli’s dad was instrumental in getting the title for his recorder-playing daughter, when Brooke had been desperate for the scholarship money.

  “You’ll always be an asset. Sometimes I think you’re the entire plus column on my accounting spreadsheet.”

  His sweetness pressed away the Charli LaBarges of Brooke’s mind.

  “I can’t really skip out on the kids. Not on ‘meet the coach’ day.” If it weren’t about kids, she’d totally go with him. He knew this. “But you’ll be at church tomorrow, right? We’ll be a topic of conversation. Pastor Walden will want to make a big announcement out of this. I’d love to have you by my side.”

  Ames leaned down and kissed her, turning her insides to marshmallow fluff. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Chapter Three

  Neglected Minor

  Brooke glanced up at the chapel’s wall clock. Six minutes to go, and still no Ames. She shoved an already bitten fingernail back in her mouth.

  Where was he? She shot him another text: Hey, I’ve got your seat all saved.

  The
n she slid over on the pew and made an Ames-sized spot for when he arrived. Because that would be soon, right?

  “My, Brooke.” Aunt Ruth beamed down at her and plopped into the open spot on the bench. “Great pitch yesterday. Pansy Proust got a perfect action shot of it. We can put it up in the museum when we open it. Everyone will ignore the Babe Ruth Jersey and come to admire the pic of you pitching a fastball in an evening gown.”

  “It’ll be the stuff of baseball legends, for sure.” The snark rolled on. Ah, the Thunder Chadwick baseball collection museum. In all the swirl of dating Ames, Brooke and Aunt Ruth hadn’t bantered about their pretend plan in ages. “I think we can blow it up mural size and use it to wallpaper the bathroom.”

  “But seriously, your Grandpa Thunder would’ve been proud.” She beamed. Brooke had been Aunt Ruth’s life-focus too long. Three years, ever since the accident. It’d be good if Aunt Ruth found her own life now.

  Brooke glanced at the clock again. She checked her texts. Fifteen were there— all from everyone except Ames.

  Congratulations.

  That was so romantic.

  What color are your bridesmaids going to wear?

  Is Quirt going to walk you down the aisle?

  When’s the big date?

  Lots of questions, and no answers.

  Including no answers from Ames.

  Twenty hours— this was the longest she’d been without him in three whole months. He texted her every morning, and they called each other and talked before bed— about their days, their lives, their plans. She hadn’t told him yet about the life insurance money coming to her this summer now that she was reaching the legal age to collect it; that they could use it for him to open a practice, or as a down-payment on a little house for when they started their family. She’d wanted to surprise him with it after they got married— if he showed up on time to the ceremony and didn’t miss his own wedding.