by Mia Kay
For six months, she’d counted on her intelligence to solve her problem. She’d watched people, asked questions and called the florist. It had gotten her nowhere. Sure none of the guys could keep quiet, she’d waited. Now she was relying on habit to keep her moving while she tried to find a reason for this slow torture.
Refusing to wallow, she focused on Tiffany Marx. “Sorry, Tiff. I thought we were still talking about the nursery.”
“Nope. I’m thinking we could do a theme with melon colors—honeydew green, cantaloupe orange, lemon yellow.”
“And I think pregnancy cravings are affecting her more than she wants to admit. It’ll look like a Baskin-Robbins blew up,” Charlene Anderson drawled.
“Well, you can’t do a black bridal shower. It’ll look like a funeral.” Tiffany bit her lip. “Sorry.”
“It’s not a dirty word,” Maggie said, smiling at her softhearted friend.
She’d walked into her college dorm and into an immediate friendship with Charlene Watson and Tiffany Wright and, following Nate’s example, had dragged them to Fiddler for vacation. After she’d introduced them to Kevin and Michael, dragging hadn’t been necessary. And now her best girlfriends were married to her best guy friends. Each woman had a unique role in their friendship. Tiffany was the conscience, Charlene was the sass, and Maggie was the glue. While they’d each rubbed off on the others, those roles never changed.
Faith joined the discussion. “Well, not red. It’ll clash with my hair in the pictures.”
Maggie was glad to see her almost-sister-in-law take an interest in the party since, after all, it was her shower. Besides, she needed to start socializing instead of staying cooped up in her office or holed up with Nate.
“A darker green?” Tiffany offered.
“No,” Charlene snapped, glancing at Maggie from under her brows.
Maggie rolled her eyes. She preferred Charlene’s sarcasm to overprotection. “It’s been ten years, Char. It’s not an outlawed color, and it’s pretty.”
Past Charlene, Fiddler’s matriarchs clucked over their multigenerational families in adjoining pews. Maggie knew those women gave thanks every Sunday that they didn’t share the Mathis family’s misfortune. It had started years ago, when her mother abandoned her husband and toddler twins. After two funeral services and three burials, Maggie had offered a happy ending only to yank it away at the last minute.
But now, for the first time in two generations, a Mathis had picked a winner. Nate’s impending wedding to Faith Nelson promised a brighter future and that the half-filled row bearing the family’s name would finally fill with the next generation of towheaded, wriggly Mathis children.
“Maggie? What time do you want us at the house to set up?”
“Umm, how about—”
Wait. This was a good chance to get Faith used to being a hostess, and everyone used to Faith being the hostess.
“What time would you like everyone at the house for setup, Faith?”
“Ten should be good. It’ll give Nate a chance to have his coffee and get out of the way.”
Maggie nodded, smiling in encouragement. Faith ran a company. She could plan a party. She just needed practice.
“And melon colors?”
“I like the bright colors. They’ll look springy. Thanks, Tiffany.”
Charlene changed the subject to lunch, and Maggie drifted again. More concerned gazes darted to the front pew and then away.
Poor Maggie. She could almost hear them. Nate’s getting married and her friends are starting their own families. Where will she sit? She can’t have her own pew without her own family. She’ll have to stay on Nate’s row and get pushed farther and farther away.
It was the same unspoken question every Sunday. And every week, she repeated the vow she’d made ten years ago, standing alone at the altar explaining why she wouldn’t be saying I do. She was Anne Mathis’s granddaughter, and she could be strong—at least when everyone was looking.
And now...maybe she didn’t want to stick around and sit on Nate’s row. Maybe she had plans of her own. No one ever considered that.
“What are you staring at?” Charlene grumbled as she looked over her shoulder. “Wow. I’d stare, too.”
Maggie focused her gaze. Gray had entered the church.
When Nate had suggested hiring his best friend as a business manager, she’d never expected him to accept. He’d always been intent on life in the big city, and Fiddler was so far from that it might as well have been the moon.
Over years of summers she’d watched him morph from a gangly teenager to a determined upperclassman and then into an exhausted law student. After each visit, her grandfather had praised his intelligence and his drive, and her father had been glad freewheeling Nate had found such a levelheaded friend.
She’d wanted to tell him that at the funerals, but when he’d found her in the pantry, she hadn’t been able to do anything but hang on to him and cry.
There’d been all sorts of hints that he’d end up a sexy man, and she’d not been wrong. He didn’t walk, he strode, angling his broad shoulders with the grace of an athlete as he moved through the crowd in the narthex until he reached Reverend Ferguson. Then he gave the elderly pastor his full attention.
Just like he’d done with her last night. From the moment he’d walked in and remembered their jokes, until closing when he’d put his large, warm hand on her shoulder and helped her avoid a fight with Nate, he’d made her feel like she was the only person in the room. And she’d found it hard to concentrate on her customers. Gray’s laugh had filled the bar, overwhelming the chatter and filling a spot in the crowd she hadn’t realized was vacant. “It’s just Gray Harper,” she said as she caught his eye and beckoned him forward.
He shook his head.
“Chicken.” She mouthed the word and grinned.
The taunt worked. He strode up the outside aisle and slid beside her as she turned around.
“Good morning,” he said.
God, had his eyes always been that blue, or was it the effect of the shadows under his eyes? The charcoal blazer and indigo shirt certainly enhanced his carbon-black hair and fair complexion. But the angles in his face were sharper than she’d remembered, and his clothes didn’t fit him well, as if he’d lost weight. Had he been sick?
“Did you get settled without a problem?” she asked, chalking her shiver of worry up to friendly concern. She’d feel the same if it was Kevin or Michael.
“I overslept.” He muffled a yawn. “Are you all right this morning?”
This wasn’t a man who’d slept much at all. If he could lie in church, she could too. “Better, thanks. The truck’s okay?”
His nod was slow and careful, as if his head hurt or he expected pain.
“The cab would hold my mom’s Prius, but yeah, it’s fine. I’m worried about finding it though. There are so many Mathis trucks out there it’s going to be like hunting for a specific penguin in Antarctica.”
She smothered her laugh and watched his eyes sparkle. “You’re number seven. Look under the driver’s side window.”
His gaze changed from humored to assessing. “You look good in yellow, Maggie.”
“Thanks.” She resisted smoothing the skirt of her favorite dress. The bright color and soft fabric usually lifted her spirits. Today it hadn’t helped. The arrival of Abby Quinn, her oldest girlfriend, did a better job. Maggie leaned around Gray and returned the woman’s infectious smile.
“Abby, you remember Gray Harper, don’t you?”
He turned and offered his hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Abby’s greeting was limited to a handshake and a nod before she turned to wave at the other couples. Gray draped his arm across the back of the pew.
“She still doesn’t talk?” he whispered.
Hoping he didn’t hear Tiffany’s squeak from two rows back, Maggie shook her head. “It’s getting better, though. She’s been running into more places and situations where it’s unavoidable.”
The choir filed into the loft, and he moved his arm from behind her as the service began.
She was accustomed to men, even ones who were taller and broader, but for an hour Maggie did her best not to notice how long Gray’s legs were or how he smelled like an apple orchard at harvest. All her work was shot to hell when they recited the liturgy and his quiet, clear voice rolled over her skin like hot fudge over ice cream.
“And now please stand and pass the peace of Christ to neighbors,” Reverend Ferguson intoned.
Years ago, Maggie had given up thinking it was weird to shake hands with people she saw every day. Today, with Gray here and his warm hand closing over hers, it took on a special significance. Then she turned to her friends. Charlene waggled her eyebrows. Beyond her, Tiffany flashed a conspicuous thumbs-up. In the background, every person in town craned to get a look at the newcomer on the front row—the guy sitting next to Fiddler’s only jilted spinster.
After the service, she urged him out into the aisle and away from her matchmaking friends. She stopped at the first single woman she found. This should stop the gossips. Introduce him to a pretty girl and use his title when she did it. Everyone would understand then. He was business. For the Mathis family, business always came before pleasure. Always.
“Gray, this is Amber Kendall. She teaches second grade, and her dad works at the lumber mill with Kevin. Amber, Gray’s our new business manager.”
She watched the two of them get acquainted. Amber was pretty, and friendly too. She had a good education, and she was settled in Fiddler. She dated. Gray could date her. There. See. I’m not interested. It doesn’t matter how blue his eyes are, or how tall he is.
When Amber left, Gray turned back to her, and Maggie cleared her throat. “The diner does great coffee and pie in the afternoon.”
“Oh-kay,” he drawled, looking between her and Amber. “Got it.”
Okay, so Tiffany’s matchmaking skills hadn’t rubbed off on her. Why would they? Maggie spent most of her time with married quarry men. She pressed forward. “And we do Sunday lunch at Nate’s house. You’ll be expected, but we’ve got room for another, if you want.”
“How about I get her number first?” Gray asked.
“I have it, if you—”
He held up his hand. “I can do it myself, thanks. I’ll see you at Nate’s.” He walked away and was quickly swallowed by a well-meaning crowd.
He really was tall, and his warm hands and deep, chocolate-sauce voice made her fingers twitch. No, Maggie. He’s an employee now. You don’t date employees. Or employees’ children. Or your broker, your banker, or your lawyer. No one who’s dependent on Mathis money. She walked out the opposite door and to her car, alone.
As she drove to her childhood home, now Nate’s home, Maggie rolled down the window and blared her stereo. Things were going well. Nate was happy. Faith would be a great Mathis wife, and Gray could be Nate’s business sense. The two of them would balance her impulsive brother and make sure the businesses were secure. Nate wouldn’t need her anymore, and she’d have a chance to do something else. Finally. Everything would be fine without her.
She waited until after lunch to start Faith’s first lesson. As they cleared the table, Maggie broached the week’s schedule. “Faith, do you think you can come into town at noon on Wednesday? The library auxiliary is meeting about their fund-raiser. It would be a great time to get you involved.”
“I can’t,” Faith said as she stuck her head in the refrigerator. “The ITD’s bridge bid is that day. Nate and I will be tied up watching the computer to see if we win.”
“Sure, of course. Well then, Thursday is the UMW meeting at church. They’re starting to make plans for Christmas in July.”
“Nope.”
“I get it. I’m not nuts about it either, but the older women love it.”
Faith turned to her, frowning. “Nate said he’d talked to you. He didn’t, did he?” She sighed. “Of course he didn’t. Maggie, I’m not good at this party stuff, and I’m not going to do it.”
What? “Sure, it’s got to be difficult driving back and forth. Once you’re here, though...” Maggie trailed off as Faith shook her head. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. She’d planned on handing over the reins for years. Grandma had promised. It’s not forever, Maggie. Your dad will get remarried. And when he didn’t, her father had promised. When Nate gets married, Maggie, his wife will want to step in. She’ll have the house, the name. You can stop then.
Faith was still talking. “Okay, that’s the last of it. Ready to start on the dishes?”
Maggie blinked and looked around the room at Faith, Char, and Tiffany, who were waiting on her to tell them what to do. They were always waiting on her. Everyone was. They always would be. Her throat closed off to block the scream.
“Why don’t you let me do them? Go on into the living room and enjoy the game.” She forced herself to smile. “Seriously. Go. I’ve got this, and you guys should have a little fun before Monday.”
As they left the room, she tied her grandmother’s frayed, faded apron around her waist. Normally it was like getting a hug. Today it cut off her air. The kitchen walls closed in on her.
She’d been in here since she was ten years old, standing on a step stool and staring over the kitchen counter out the window at the woods. The boys had been out there, playing Musketeers—truly three of them since D’Artagnan had been cursed and changed into a lady in waiting.
She’d gotten used to it. Faith would, too. She’d have to.
Maggie tackled the dishes and jerked in shock when large hands reached into the waiting water.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I ate. I clean.” Gray ignored the brush-off. “You’re quiet in here.”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
For a while, the only sounds were the muted thumps of submerged dishes bumping the sink and the rattle of silverware being loaded into the dishwasher. Searching for a distraction from her disappointment, she focused on the dark circles under Gray’s eyes. No matter what he said, he hadn’t rested. Maybe he was used to city noise.
“Will you be comfortable at Faye’s? We could try to find you something in town, if you’d prefer.”
He shook his head. “The house is awesome. I was expecting grandma kitsch instead of resort casual. Did you remodel it?”
She nodded. She’d spent countless hours with architects and designers, then dragged Charlene and Tiffany to store after store. She’d hauled lunch to crews until the kitchen was finished, then she’d cooked for them there.
“But you don’t live there?” he asked.
She’d tried. After a week of rattling around in it, she’d felt more alone than ever. “I love living over the bar. My commute’s down a flight of stairs.”
“My gain, I suppose. But there’s a problem with the lease.”
She frowned. “Really?”
“As your business manager, I’ll advise you that inadequate consideration risks voiding the contract. I’ve written in a suitable amount. You can initial it tomorrow.”
“You’re doing me a favor living there.”
“I pay my own way.”
Maggie recognized the pride and determination in his posture. Arguing would risk insult, and they needed to begin work on the right foot.
“Fine. Nate’s probably overpaying you anyway,” she teased.
They fell back into silence, moving in tandem to store leftovers. Gray gave up trying to keep the chicken potpie intact and scooped it into a container.
“For years I’ve ordered this in restaurants, hoping it would live up to yours
,” he murmured. “I still remember racing Nate for the last bite.”
“It was the first time he’d complimented my cooking.”
Gray’s laughter grew louder. “He said it didn’t suck.”
“Yeah, well from Nate that’s a compliment. In his defense, we probably would have starved if it hadn’t for Beverly Marx’s cooking while I was in high school. I really did suck at it.”
Frowning at a vacant spot on a shelf, she stood back and balanced on her toes, as if an inch of height would help.
“What are you trying to find?”
“There’s a stack of plates I use for Nate’s leftovers, and they’ve always sat in this cabinet. Do you see them up there?”
The question brought him closer, and her spine threatened to curve into the warmth seeping through her dress. She squared her shoulders and clenched her teeth. Business, not pleasure.
“It wouldn’t make much sense for Faith to put them up that high.” He opened the cabinet nearest the refrigerator. “Is this what you need?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Faith was getting to decide what jobs she wouldn’t do, so she should get to decide where the Tupperware went, too. It was going to be her kitchen after all. Maggie jerked the aluminum foil in a vicious tear and hissed when the sharp packaging grazed her knuckles.
“I’ve always thought they should register that razor thing as a deadly weapon,” Gray quipped as he lounged against the counter. “You all right?”
“I’ve had worse,” she muttered as she patted a towel over the scratches and flexed her fingers. She looked up in time to see him pop a cold roasted Brussels sprout into his mouth.
Her tongue twitched with the memory of buttery oil and the tangy contrast of garlic. When he sucked down another bite and licked the flavor from his fingers, the second twitch had nothing to do with food.