She bounced off to gossip and name drop, while Dane wondered how Brooke would like these parties. Well, she wouldn’t, and that was that, but she’d look better than any of the other women here.
Dane glanced around. Over in the corner sat the Maddox County Treasurer, a guy whose hand had recently been caught in the till. Now it was caught in a bird’s nest of blonde hair while a woman sat on his lap. She could’ve passed for that skanky wife of one of the Tweed Law partners, Jackson. Poor Jackson.
Then Dane’s stomach clenched when the aging blonde looked over and winked at him. He looked away quickly, his skin crawling. Poor, poor Jackson.
He could wallow some more about losing Brooke to that Crosby jerk, but the truth was Dane had no one to blame but himself. With more than a decade to do something about his feelings for her, he’d delayed, telling himself the time wasn’t right, that he was walking around with a neon Rockwell sign flashing over his head, and Brooke couldn’t have that stigma— not until he cut the power to it by finally doing something right. Big and right— graduating from law school and passing the bar and getting a real job at a real law firm.
Yeah, the very instant he could reach the pull-chain to shut it off, he’d raced toward her— too late. Too slow. Too bad.
He took a stuffed mushroom for himself and shoved it all in his mouth in a single bite of self-loathing.
Well, an excuse surfaced, the first few years of knowing Brooke didn’t count. He’d been too young and dumb, and she’d been a gangly giraffe, not to mention Quirt’s kid-sister.
And then came the accident. The weighty stuff that changed everything for him and his mindset and his focus.
Whether or not Quirt still hadn’t talked about it— what did they call that? Survivor’s guilt? Just because Quirt had been the only Chadwick not in the car that tragic night— Brooke had lost their parents, too. She’d needed someone to talk to, and Quirt hadn’t been up for it. Their aunt who’d taken Brooke in had been busy mourning her brother. Nobody else had been there for Brooke.
So though Dane had never been much for talking about heavy stuff, and there’d been nothing to say, at least not from his end, he’d tossed her that baseball, over and over again— on the hospital lawn where she sat until she could walk without crutches, then down at Chadwick Field during the hot summer’s humidity like steam, and later on the packed sand of the beach.
Eventually she talked. Some. And he tossed the baseball. And he knew: Brooke could fill the emptiness. All the emptiness. He’d known her forever. Maybe he’d loved her all along.
Six weeks ago, he finally was ready to make his move, grad certificate and diamond ring in hand, so in spite of brotherly objections, Dane had kissed Brooke at church that day, the second that jolly-good-fellow of a pastor gave him such a clear opening. Not like Dane would pass up that golden ticket, and he’d been rewarded well, the way Brooke’s lips had been honey and cinnamon. Even better and more surprisingly, they’d returned his passion, mixing up his innards and renewing his faith, until—
The bombshell that she’d agreed to marry that Crosby drip, and now an echo of her reaction. You helped me commit social suicide, she’d said, the words a scalpel.
Six endlessly long weeks ago, and nothing had been the same since. She was gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Dane found a spot on the red and gold wallpaper to lean against. Maybe Jeannie would change her mind and leave with that Yamamoto yahoo.
Uh, no such luck.
“Oh, my stars and garters. You are not going to believe what just happened. Guess. No, wait. Kidding. I know you hate to guess.”
Indeed, he hated to guess.
“Never mind.” Jeannie’s words bounced on. “I was talking to Marshall, when up walked Tiana Gorbett, and she told Marshall that Charli LaBarge eloped.”
Jeannie coughed on the last word, expecting a reaction, but Dane didn’t give one. The words meant nothing to his hollow shell of a gossip-ignoring man.
“Of course Charli LaBarge is no everyday bride.” Jeannie pressed on. “You know. Sergeant Faro LaBarge’s only daughter.”
Oh, that Charli LaBarge. Every red-blooded American male on the whole Chesapeake seaboard knew about Charli LaBarge. Owner of her own designer clothing label, as well as Miss Virginia the year Brooke competed, she was a ten in both categories of the Crazy-Hot Matrix.
“Shocking.” Dane pulled a shrimp puff from a passing tray, and Jeannie grabbed two.
“There’s more. Guess who snaffled her.” She didn’t wait for his guess, thank heaven above. “That baseball-player doctor from…hey, that’s your hometown. Maddox. Ames Crosby.”
Dane went deaf to everything else in the room for a minute.
Ames Crosby. Couldn’t be.
“That’s not good info, Jeannie.” He patted the air in front of her face to signal her to lower her voice. Dane couldn’t have her spreading gossip, not about the man Brooke was marrying, hatred for Crosby burning with the fire of a thousand suns notwithstanding.
“The interwebs do not lie.” Jeannie flashed him an article on her phone. “Eloped to St. Thomas a few weeks ago, and they just barely went public.”
Dane’s lip curled. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” No man in his right mind would trade in the perfection of Brooke Chadwick for crazy, no matter how hot— not unless blackmailed. And medical students were unlikely blackmailing candidates.
“You might get the chance.” Jeannie’s voice sparkled with the salacious gossip. “This is her daddy’s house, after all, and tonight’s party could be a post-wedding couple-debut party. Remember when Charli LaBarge won Miss Virginia— despite that awful talent number?” She coiled her arms around his torso. “Never mind. I guess it’s what every smart girl’s doing now, snagging the Maddox boys.” She batted her ridiculously thick artificial eyelashes at him for a second and then looked away— and practically jumped out of her skin.
Jeannie pointed far too boldly across the room. “See? What’d I tell you? Georgie was right.”
In a dim corner of the room with a tall pub table a couple sat, clearly romantically involved.
Dane strained his eyes. There sat Crosby. Beside him was Charli LaBarge, all right. Long black hair, and legs from here to San Francisco. They were the stuff of legends, stemming out from beneath her short skirt at the cocktail table. A hot anger blurred Dane’s vision.
So, Dr. Jekyll proposed to Brooke, and then two seconds later went all Mr. Hyde and married Sarge LaBarge’s hot, possibly crazy daughter. Bad move, Bucko.
Well, somebody was going to point out his error to him.
Dane stalked toward them with laser-like focus.
Who does that? Who proposes to freaking Miss Chesapeake in front of her whole town and then dumps her the second someone better-connected comes along?
Dane’s blood went from boiling to pressurized steam.
“Uh, how close are you planning to get to them, Dane?” Jeannie laughed nervously. “Oh, duh— you probably know him. Same town and stuff.” She giggled. “Maybe we’ll make the society papers— two It Couples side by side.”
No universe existed where a paparazzo would ever snap a picture of a Rockwell. News reporters, yeah, on the front steps of courthouses all over Virginia, of convicted, sentenced Rockwells blinged out in handcuffs and shackles, but not for tabloid celebrity consumption.
“You’d better stay back, Jeannie.” He brushed her off his arm and pushed toward the corner, his fists both flexing and opening in rhythm with his steps.
However, before Dane could get within ten feet of the traitor, a burly man stepped in his path. “No approaching Faro LaBarge’s family.”
Oh, so that’s how it was. The words sounded thunderous in Dane’s ears, a confirmation that that human maggot really had gone and married into the power family, dissing Brooke in the process.
A rift opened up inside him for Brooke, filled with pain he’d never actually experienced for someone else’s distress. And
with that he knew he loved her, truly loved her, whether or not that love ever came back to him in return.
Dr. Crosby needed a dose of doctor-becomes-patient, via Dane’s cracking knuckles, but to get there, he’d have to play it cool, even though he was a house afire inside.
So he shrugged a lazy shoulder at the security agent. “Just a Maddox guy. Dane Rockwell. Former baseballer.” On Matthew Chadwick’s little league team, sure, but still— not a pure lie. He extended his hand to shake, but it was ignored. “Just wanting to give my homeboy a gift. Nothing liquid, perishable, flammable, or whatnot. Just a gesture from all of us back home.” Dane was pretty sure he’d be speaking for the populace when he delivered his gift.
“ID, please.”
Dane gave proof of residency, and the brick wall of a man stepped aside. Adrenaline pulsed, icing his veins.
“Well, if it isn’t Doctor Mister Ames Crosby.” Jackwagon extraordinaire.
Ames looked up from his drink, distraught. Charli looked unhappy, too. Guess the honeymoon was over. Good. They deserved it.
Ames slid his chair back and stood, pulling a napkin off his lap. “I don’t believe we’ve—”
“Dane Rockwell. From Maddox. Just here to deliver feelings of the hearts of the people of my hometown.” He extended his right hand for a handshake.
“Well, that’s really nice of you.” Ames brushed off his suit jacket and reached for Dane’s outstretched hand.
However, when he took it, Dane gripped it hard, yanking Ames right up to him, meeting him chest to chest.
“I know what you did to Brooke Chadwick,” he hissed.
Ames looked sick.
But Dane was undeterred. “This is from all of us. For Brooke.” Clenching tightly his own fist in Crosby’s, Dane brought their joined hands up hard under the guy’s chin, jamming Crosby’s jaw up and knocking his head backward. Only then did Dane let go, just quickly enough to give Crosby’s shoulder a final shove to send him flailing backward to the floor, where he fell with a clatter of sliding chair legs and clinking silverware.
Dane turned on his heel and stalked off. “Congratulations from the people of Maddox,” he hollered at the ceiling just as he was caught by both shoulders and manhandled out of the ballroom by the goons running Charli’s protection detail.
He exhaled in satisfaction at the ache in his left knuckles.
The sight was worth every second of the ride in the back of the cop car.
Chapter Five
Infraction
Bottom of the ninth. The past eight weeks of coaching the Terror Turtles might as well have been eight millennia. Brooke definitely felt eight thousand years old, and she still hadn’t heard from Ames. She’d stuck his ring in her nightstand drawer last night, her dream over; it was time to wake up to reality.
The score stood at eighteen to nothing. Poor Turtles. It sounded so close to Terrible Turtles that she swore their team name had been a self-fulfilling prophecy: both slow and terrible. They’d lost every game, in spite of Brooke’s dedication to practicing with them every single day after school and into the summer on days when she didn’t have to pull double shifts at the hospital in order to save up for school tuition.
“Go, Turtles!” she called half-heartedly, hoping that just one kid, once this season, might get a base hit. “Come on, José, you can get this one! Make it to first and the pizza and root beer are on me.”
The pitcher wound up. José stared him down. Zing! The ball sailed right through the strike zone.
“Strike three!” the ump said. “Game.”
Game. And season. Over.
It was all just so metaphorical.
“Bring it in here, guys!” Brooke gave high fives all around. “We’ll do pizza next week. My house.” They gave the other team a cheer, and then eleven little green t-shirts headed back to their minivans and hot summer days watching TV.
“Did I just hear you offer my house as party central for ten million pre-teen boys?” Quirt walked up, his hands in his pockets.
“What are you doing here?” She gathered up bats and equipment, slinging them over her shoulder to take out to her car. “Olivia out of town?” Quirt had been pretty engrossed in his girlfriend lately. Granted, Olivia was highly engrossing. Quirt had found himself an incredible girl.
“Let me carry that.” He took the bat bag and walked with her toward the parking lot. “Too bad about the Terrible Turtles.”
“At least they deserve to win the award for Most Consistent.”
“Consistently terrible.”
Brooke looked back at the field. Now that little league was over, how could she fill her thoughts, keep them healthy? Because they liked to go places they shouldn’t.
“So, dinner tonight? I’ll make Chef Boyardee.”
“You gourmet, you.” Brooke unlocked her car. “What’s the catch? Do you need money, or something?” Maybe he was going to buy Olivia a ring. The thought, of course, stung, but Brooke still wanted Quirt happy.
He let the ball bag slide to his feet. “Always, but no. It’s not that.” He’d blown through his life insurance money already, spending it on his bachelor’s and master’s degrees. Brooke had been too young to tap into hers before her birthday last week, and scholarship money had had to come from that dreary beauty pageant system. Until it dried up at Miss Virginia, thanks to that politician LaBarge and his chronic pulling of strings behind the scenes to get anything he wanted.
Thanks, Mr. LaBarge. Thanks ever so.
“What’s going on? Don’t beat around the bush, Quirt. You know how I hate that.”
“Fine.” He put his phone up, displaying the Naughton News home page. Brooke scanned it.
Earthquake in Pakistan. Sad, but probably not the salient article. Lawyer Assaults LaBarge’s Son-in-Law. People she didn’t know were always fighting. Whatever. Someone who could’ve been a dead ringer for Dane Rockwell frowned in the photo. She almost clicked on it, but Quirt snatched the phone away and punched at its screen.
“Here.”
She let her eyes focus, and then she wished she hadn’t.
Sarge LaBarge’s Daughter Elopes with Doctor.
Great. Good for LaBarge, speaking of the jerk.
But then she looked closer. Beside the headline was a beaming photograph of Sergeant Faro LaBarge’s gorgeous daughter Charli. Charli the a Fulbright Scholar who had spent time dating a royal, the one with her own brand of capri pants selling at Target. But more to the point, the Charli LaBarge who beat Brooke at the pageant, possibly thanks to her dad’s influence, effectively dimming Brooke’s shot at a college education last year.
But who was that guy, blurring off to the side, her eloping cohort…
Ames.
Brooke’s eyes burned like a splash of lava had hit them. The fire raced over her entire body, and then spread to her insides, where they seared every nerve ending of all her feelings. This had to be a lie. And elaborate prank.
Or a nightmare. She pinched hard the skin on the back of her hand, but nothing woke her from this horrific dream.
Roaring in her ears put her into a cocoon.
“This wedding was a long time in the making. But we’re together at last!” the new Mrs. Crosby said. “We’ve been destined for this for years. Our dads went to school together, you know. It’s just no one expected it so suddenly. But St. Thomas was a beautiful spot for a destination wedding. Our parents flew out and my daddy gave me away.”
A few lines down burned a quote from Ames. “Charli’s amazing. I’m a lucky guy.”
Brooke squinted at a kissing picture through a traitorous well of tears.
Charli LaBarge, of all people? Really? Her knees threatened to buckle.
Get it together. Together. Together. Don’t let Quirt see you fall apart.
“Huh,” she said, shoving the phone back at Quirt. “Well, that explains that.” She flung open her car door and tossed the equipment bag in the back.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Numbness took over her body, dulling the searing pain of it all, but she heard herself answer. “What is there to say, Quirt? He didn’t choose me. He chose her. They’re married. It’s done.”
She was a robot. The Ames Crosby Excuse Robot. Self-loathing option activated.
“I’m so sorry, Brooke. He’s a jerk.”
She whirled on him. “No!” They didn’t know the circumstances. He could have a valid reason.
Except what could it be?
The last vestiges of her Ames Crosby dreams expired right there at the edge of Chadwick Field. They were as dead as her plans for a good scholarship from the pageant to attend school somewhere more upscale than the Maddox Community College.
They were as dead as Mom and Dad.
“Maybe I’ll go make Aunt Ruth some dinner.” Her voice sounded like it came from far away. “Rain check on the Chef Boyardee.”
And rain check on ever again putting her trust in a man who claimed he loved her.
Chapter Six
Order to Appear
THE FOLLOWING SPRING
Brooke swiped her ID on the doors to the pediatric ward at Maddox General.
“Lunch break in the cafeteria tonight?” Up walked another LPN on staff, a guy she’d been trying to avoid ever since he told everyone she was the most dateable of the nurses on staff. Not for him, she wasn’t.
Possibly not for anyone.
“I’m going off campus. Checking in on my aunt.” Thank goodness for Aunt Ruth. Since Quirt and Olivia had married and Brooke moved in with her aunt, they’d agreed to let each other be the other’s perfect excuse for not doing something distasteful. Like lunch with Chevy.
The hallway in pediatrics had carpet, unlike the highly-shined tile of the rest of the hospital. Brooke liked that her shoes didn’t squeak as she walked along.
“You working med-surge tonight?” She should at least change the subject.
“No, ER. But I could ask for a floor change, if you want to team up.”
“That’s okay. I’m here tonight. See ya.” She peeled off and went a different route to the nurses’ station, relieved to get off his radar.
Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3) Page 5