A Suitable Wife: A Sweetwater Springs Novel

by Carol Burnside

  “Hey,” Sam coaxed. “It’ll be fine.” With one finger under her chin, he tilted her face. Rosie kept her lids lowered, reached for the misaligned button and secured it. She tried unsuccessfully to hide her desire. When she dragged her gaze to Sam’s, it was her breath that hitched in response to the smoldering look reflected there.

  Time screeched to a halt.

  Nothing existed except this.

  Sam’s head dipped forward. Rosie swayed toward him. Their combined breaths mingled, whispering across her lips seconds before he repeated the soft kiss.

  Rosie draped her arms around his neck, her nipples pebbling as they came into contact with his solid chest. She opened her mouth to him. His tongue touched hers, igniting a firestorm that engulfed them both in its intensity. A jolt hit Rosie’s midsection, the heat sliding lower, pooling deep in her abdomen. Sam urged her closer, one hand pulling her lower body toward him. Breast to chest, thigh to thigh, it still wasn’t enough.

  His firm hands clamped around her bottom, pulling her in tight, a blaze flaring where his rigid length pressed into her pliant belly.

  Her fingers furrowed into the silky softness of his hair. His roamed her back, settled at her waist. His thumbs slid under the front of her baby tee, stroking, inching upward.

  Yes. Touch me. Need built, raging through her now. A high-pitched mewl escaped her throat, the sound exploding into the room like a gunshot.

  Rosie jerked back, only to find herself sandwiched between a hard male and an equally hard desk.

  Their ragged breathing joined the faint tick-tock of an old-fashioned pendulum clock on the side wall opposite the desk. By slow degrees, they pulled apart, smoothing hair and clothes without their gazes meeting.

  With her eyes downcast, Rosie’s attention caught on the swell at the front of his pants—one she imagined must be very uncomfortable right about now. Pride swelled in her, knowing she was the cause of his condition.

  Sam huffed around a mirthless chuckle, drawing her gaze upward. There was no censure, no apology, no blame staring back at her, nothing but tightly leashed desire.

  He wanted her. Her. If they got this hot over a kiss, what would sharing a bed with him be like?

  Sam’s brows lifted over a knowing gaze. “Still think we’ll look awkward?”

  The question was a dousing of ice water so thorough, not even a warm coal remained. Of course he wanted her. He was a man, and she’d practically thrown herself at him. While she’d lowered her guard, he’d been thinking about the effects they’d have on their audience.

  Rosie shoved him away and stepped around him. “A few minutes ago, I had my doubts. But that’s what rehearsals are for, right? The performance is always better when you throw yourself into the role.”

  Safely out of arms reach, she turned, chin raised. “I made a few minor adjustments to the wedding plans. You know.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “To make it look more convincing.”

  Sam regarded her through narrowed eyes, his expression hard. “As long as it doesn’t delay things. Weddings are your business, but I don’t see much leeway in a civil ceremony. We’re already having attendants instead of witnesses. What else should I know about before we go back out there?”

  Relief left her feeling a little giddy. She really had to quit expecting Sam to react like Dean would have.

  “I found a wedding dress. Not a formal one, but nice. So I thought—”

  A quick knock sounded on the door before it swung open.

  “Daddy!” Rosie shrieked.

  John Thomas’s tall, lanky frame filled most of the doorway. “Y’all gonna hide in here all day,” he asked with a lazy drawl. “Or come and join the party?”

  “On my way, Daddy.” Rosie glanced back and found Sam standing nearby. “Coming, Sam?”

  “You go ahead. I need to talk with John Thomas for a minute.”

  She nodded, waiting for her daddy to step into the room before slipping out. Sam closed the door behind her.

  Now what was that all about?

  * * *

  A half-hour later, Sam hitched a hip onto the porch railing and congratulated himself on successfully avoiding embarrassment. After nearly getting his eyebrows singed with that kiss, it had taken all his concentration to sound unaffected and casual.

  Though he knew Rosie had enjoyed the kiss as much as he, she’d recovered awfully fast. Too fast for her reaction not to have been part performance. Her being a good actress shouldn’t bother him. Didn’t bother him. It was exactly what he needed from her. Now wasn’t the time to let his ego mess with his focus.

  The screech of an overused hinge drew Sam's attention. Reba and Sara shouldered their way through the screen door, letting it slam behind them, their arms loaded with sweating pitchers of iced tea and mesh covers to protect the food from insects.

  “You’d better come on, Sam. When it comes to meals with this family, stragglers could end up with an empty plate,” Sara warned with a grin.

  “I’ll be right there.” Two folding tables in the shade of a large loblolly pine were piled with tantalizing dishes. He doubted they’d run low on food any time soon.

  Two more tables with chairs all around had been placed under a nearby oak, sporting yellow plastic tablecloths. “Come and get it,” Reba sang out, her voice easily carrying over the din. Everyone surged toward her, filling their plates while laughing, talking and trading good natured insults. Everyone except Travis, the reputed Casanova in the Baxter clan, and Claire. Both were more interested in flirting than what they were putting on their plates.

  Given the place of honor at the head of the line, Rosie was the first to be seated. She turned toward her family, eyes searching until she spied him and waved. Nice touch, Rosie. He returned the gesture.

  Sam hung back until he and Reba were the last to go through the line. Although he was used to the noise and bustle of the city, this was different, more oppressive somehow.

  “You go ahead, Sam.” With one hand at his elbow, Reba motioned for him to precede her.

  “Oh, no. Ladies first.”

  She squeezed his arm on her way past him. “You always were a gentleman. Even as a boy, you had better manners and were much more responsible than my heathens.”

  He forced a smile, the magnitude of what was to come weighing on him. “Gran would have had my hide if she’d heard otherwise.”

  “Well, I guess that’s true enough.” Reba launched into a nostalgic story about his grandparents and Sam tuned out, having heard it all before. He nodded occasionally, his mind too focused on his own plans to enjoy her reminiscing. Without pausing, she lifted two heavy-duty paper plates and handed him one.

  Sam filled his plate, following Reba. Had the Baxter’s always been so touchy-feely? He honestly couldn’t remember. Everyone he'd talked to today had touched him. Handshakes, backslaps, pats and squeezes. And plenty of personal contact with Rosie earlier. Even John Thomas had pulled him into an awkward hug after their conversation, putting him on tactile sensation overload.

  He’d also gotten an inkling of the conscience-pinching Rosie experienced at the diner. As a kid, he’d often fantasized about what it would be like to be a Baxter. He’d envied their close ties, even the occasional sibling rivalry and bickering. Having the matriarch of that same family call him “son” after Sam asked for John Thomas’s daughter’s hand in marriage had been both heart-warming and guilt-inducing. Especially the latter, because it came on the heels of a deception.

  After today there would be no more practicing. No more kisses without witnesses, no more fighting to hide his enjoyment of them. Good thing, too. Otherwise, he’d be spending a lot of time in a cold shower.

  “You like pickled beets, do you? Most of my family can’t stand them.” Reba’s words filtered through his thoughts, and he stopped, horrified at the mound of dark fuchsia on his plate.

  He hated beets. Their insidious juice had already begun to spread toward nearby foods, contaminating everything it touched.


  “I usually don’t put many on the relish tray, but there's more if you want them,” she offered, her look questioning.

  “This is plenty,” he assured her, quickly, afraid she'd make good on the offer. “Thanks.”

  He settled into the empty chair beside Rosie. She leaned in close and whispered, “What’s up with you and Daddy?”

  His talk with John Thomas was an idea inspired by the need to put distance between himself and temptation in a snug pair of capris. It had felt right, asking for Rosie’s hand.

  Rosie had worried about them looking awkward. For a man unused to casual touch, he'd found plenty of excuses to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. Never once had it felt awkward, and therein lay the danger. She was familiar, knew things about him he’d shared with few. With her he could easily slide into wanting too much, letting himself feel, though he knew better.

  Ever conscious they had an audience, he half-turned, leaned in and draped a hand over the back of her seat, effectively creating the illusion of intimacy. His nose brushed against the delicate shell of her ear. The flowery fragrance of her shampoo mixed with the more earthy one of perspiration taunted him. His fingers curled tightly around the chair back.

  “What could be more convincing than asking for your hand in marriage?” He drew back, catching Rosie’s startled reaction, needing the distance. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough to be had today.

  Avoiding her gaze, Sam glanced around the table and frowned. “Where's Lorelei?” He’d half-risen from his chair when Rosie detained him with a hand on his arm.

  “She’s sitting with Ryan.” Rosie pointed in the direction of the table where J.T. and Sara’s youngest helped the little girl into a chair which contained an old booster seat. Sara assisted in pushing the chair in.

  “I hope you don't mind. He’s very protective of her, and Sara’s supervising.”

  “No. It’s fine.” And it was. Amazingly, Lorelei was more at ease around Rosie’s family than anyone else she'd encountered. He’d feel the same way if he weren’t lying to people who readily accepted him as their own. That he’d become negligent in keeping an eye on his daughter was a fine example of why he couldn’t relax his guard.

  Rosie picked at her food. Though it was delicious, Sam’s nervous anticipation made it difficult to force down what little the beet juice hadn't ruined. He tried to catch Rosie’s attention, but she was listening to Travis tell a joke. The punch line brought a round of laughter—the perfect pause in conversation he needed. Under the table, he nudged Rosie’s knee with his own, stood and asked for everyone's attention.

  Except for the intermittent buzz and whirr of an insect, silence fell around the tables and all eyes focused on him with curiosity.

  Nobody made speeches at a Baxter family celebration.

  “As you all know, we’re here today to celebrate a very special lady,” he began the little speech he’d written and rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror. “When this excellent meal settles, we’ll wish her a happy birthday with cake and ice cream. But in the meantime, I’d like to share some exciting news with you.”

  He offered his hand to Rosie. She took it and stood beside him. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

  “While corresponding by phone and e-mail, Rosie and I discovered the friendship we established over two decades ago changing, growing, becoming something totally unexpected.” Murmurs and chuckles from his audience gave him pause.

  “Cut to the chase, man. We’ve heard the gossip,” J.T. heckled from the next table, making everyone laugh again. “Are you two dating or what?”

  So much for his pretty speech. “Better than that. Rosie and I are getting married.”

  Following a split-second of shocked silence, noise erupted around them. Over it all, a whoop of joy came from Reba, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Good. They had both elder Baxter’s approval, which would go a long way toward community acceptance of their hasty engagement.

  Sam endured the congratulatory affection he'd thought he'd prepared for, but found his throat squeezing around a lump when Travis made a comment about them finally being brothers.

  Reba pushed through to Rosie. “Where’s your engagement ring?”

  “We haven’t had time to talk about a ring,” she hedged.

  “Actually . . .” Sam pulled the small velvet pouch from his shirt pocket. “I thought I’d surprise you. If you don’t like it, you can exchange it for something else.”

  She cupped her hand, and he spilled a plain solitaire into it. If a decent-sized brilliant cut diamond in a platinum setting could be considered plain, that is. The diamond caught the sunlight, drawing gasps from the ladies.

  Sam looked into blue eyes glistening with unshed tears and for a brief moment he couldn’t help wishing all this was real. Ridiculous. His writer’s imagination was working overtime. Hadn't he seen how quickly Rosie had recovered from their encounter in her dad’s office? How she’d crowed about throwing herself into the role? Well, get ready, baby. Performance time.

  He pulled her into his arms for a quick kiss as a cheer rose from their audience, and J.T.’s boys sent up a loud chorus of “eww.”

  “Well, put it on. Let’s see how it looks.” Claire clapped her hands as Sam did the honors.

  It fit Rosie’s left ring finger perfectly.

  “Thank you, Sam.” She leaned in for another quick peck, and he couldn’t help thinking their kiss in private had far surpassed anything needed for this audience.

  After everyone had admired the ring and offered more good wishes, they all found their seats again and the questions rolled in.

  “Have you set a date yet?” Sara asked.

  “Next week,” Rosie said.

  Reba choked on her iced tea, and John Thomas patted her on the back. The others stared as if Rosie had announced they were getting married on the moon.

  “Next week?” Reba squeaked. “Very funny. You can’t pull things together that fast. We’ll need longer than that to arrange the kind of wedding our only daughter deserves. How many attendants are you having? What about dresses and tuxes for you and your attendants, not to mention food, cake, music, reserving the church, ordering flowers. And what about our minister? He may be booked already.” She shook her head. “We need months.”

  “We don’t want a big wedding. Sam’s been there, done that, and I’ve planned so many weddings through the shop, I’m over it. We thought a quick appointment at the courthouse next week would take care of the legalities.”

  “I don’t think so.” The four words, quietly spoken by John Thomas stopped all conversation. He shot Sam a hard look and stood. “We’ll discuss this inside.”

  Rosie’s brows knit together in concern as they followed a short distance behind her parents. “Did you know about this?” she whispered.

  “No. The ceremony didn’t come up.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Let’s play it by ear and see if we can compromise. I’d like to have their approval.”

  “So would I. Thanks, Sam.”

  Within a few minutes, they’d all compromised. Sam insisted on keeping it small but agreed to a minister. The afternoon wedding would take place in two weeks time, using the park gazebo near Rosie’s house.

  “The flowers and rentals are a no-brainer since I have connections.” Rosie perched on the wide arm of the sofa, next to her mama, gesturing animatedly as she expanded on the plan. She incorporated flowers, tuxes, digital photographs and a small reception within minutes.

  Good Lord. Not only did she know her stuff, but beneath Rosie’s practical demeanor still beat the heart of a died¬-in-the-wool romantic.

  “I knew the same little girl who planned every aspect of her wedding at the age of ten wouldn’t be happy with a courthouse ceremony on the fly,” John Thomas declared.

  “Oh, Daddy. Every little girl does stuff like that, but they grow up and realize there are more important things. I had a client tell me this week that she’d marry
her fiancé in a barn if she needed to, and she was right. It’s not the where and when or how that’s important, but finding the person who’s perfect for you.”

  “Augh!” Reba fanned her face with both hands and sniffed, her eyes watery.

  But it was Rosie’s far-away look that drew Sam’s attention. Who was she seeing waiting at the altar in her grown-up dreams?

  The ex-fiancé, no doubt. Dean. The name echoed in his head with contempt, though he knew nothing about the man except he’d apparently captured Rosie’s heart.

  On the ride home that night, Sam kept silent, unable to shake the thought of her pining for another man while married to him. Though it made no sense, the irritation grew, affecting him as nothing else had in a long, long time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Sam, it's Bill. Are you sitting down?”

  “I'm sitting.” Sam sucked in a deep breath and stared at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. Nothing good ever followed that question.

  “I received word. Jasmine is suing you for shared custody, as expected.”

  The central air kicked on, the normally quiet whooshing magnified in the silent room. In the corner of his monitor the time changed to 11:45, and his screen saver took over, the scrolling letters advising him to Keep Writing Every Day. As expected.

  “I guess this is where you say ‘I told you so’, and you're right. I was a fool to hope Jasmine would stick to our agreement.”

  “Right or wrong, we need to think strategy. We've got to think smart and act fast.”

  “About that. I’ve been meaning to call you regarding the wedding.”

  “You’re not married yet?”

  “No.”

  “But the wedding’s still on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then hold that thought. The conjectures in the tabloids after you were awarded custody, coupled with the fact she’s been unavailable for weeks, has sparked a lot of speculation since you left. There’s doubt regarding her squeaky-clean image. She’s going all-out for this, using the poor-mother-denied-her-child card.”