Major Dad

by Shelley Cooper

  Haven had spent the next two uncomfortable hours oohing and aahing over beautiful presents she didn't deserve and receiving well wishes from the people who mattered to her most. Her deceit had become unbearable. Small wonder she hadn't fallen asleep until after four in the morning.

  "Are you sure you two don't want to get away for a while?" Josephine asked as Haven buckled Anna into her car seat. "A weekend honeymoon with a toddler underfoot just doesn't seem romantic."

  The thought of a real honeymoon with Brady made Haven's stomach dip and sway.

  "It's our first weekend as a family," she replied. "Brady and I want to spend it that way, with all of us together." Lord, but she was becoming an accomplished liar, she thought in dismay.

  Josephine shrugged. "Whatever you say."

  * * *

  They were the first to arrive. The office of the justice of the peace, which was located in a six-story brick building, seemed deserted when Haven and Josephine entered, Anna between them.

  "Hello?" she called. "Anyone here?"

  "Be right with you," a man called back, his voice filtering through a crack in a door to her right. "Make yourself at home."

  The reception area was small and cramped. An old battered metal desk, matching file cabinet and four cracked vinyl armchairs the color of rusty water took up most of the floor space. The carpet beneath their feet, a fraying and faded imitation Oriental, released a musty odor with each footfall. Not exactly the surroundings Haven had pictured whenever she'd imagined what it would be like to get married. But then, in those same fantasies, she'd always dreamed she would marry for love.

  A glance at her watch told her it was five minutes after twelve.

  "He's late," she murmured. "Maybe he's standing me up."

  She didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed at the thought.

  "That's just bridal jitters talking," Josephine stated with confidence. "He's probably on his way up in the elevator right now. Don't worry, child. He'll be here." She snapped her fingers. "Before I forget, I brought you something."

  Haven suppressed a groan of dismay. "Oh, Josie," she protested, "you shouldn't have. You've done too much already."

  Josephine waved away her protest with one hand while rummaging through her purse with the other, and the old saying about tangled webs and lies echoed in Haven's head. It really was true that one small lie could snowball into something as big as the national debt. If she somehow managed to untangle herself from this mess with any friends left, Haven promised herself she would never tell another lie for as long as she lived.

  "Here it is," Josephine cried triumphantly. She pulled a black velvet jewelry box from her purse and thrust it at Haven. "Your dress covers the something new and blue. I thought you might also like something old and borrowed."

  Reluctantly, Haven lifted the lid of the velvet box. Nestled inside was a set of perfectly matched silvery white pearls. She stared at them wordlessly for a long moment before raising tear-filled eyes to her friend.

  "I don't know what to say. They're beautiful."

  "They're my mother's," Josephine replied with an understanding smile. "She wore them the day she married my father, and they've lived happily together for almost fifty years. I thought they might bring you luck."

  She'd need more than luck to make this marriage last, Haven thought as she blinked back her tears. She'd need a blooming miracle.

  Josephine lifted the necklace from the box and clasped it around Haven's throat. The pearls felt cool and smooth, and oddly comforting.

  "One more thing," Josephine said. Like Mary Poppins pulling a brass lamp from her carryall, Josephine reached into her purse and withdrew a small bouquet of red roses and baby's breath.

  "I know you didn't want to make a big production out of this," she said, handing them to Haven, "but you can't have a wedding without flowers."

  Haven couldn't take it any longer. She couldn't keep on lying. Not to this woman who had done so much for her. Determined to set the record straight, she drew a deep, bracing breath.

  "Josephine, I—"

  The words caught in her throat when the door opened and a man and a woman entered, followed closely by Brady. Haven barely had time to register that the man was built along the lines of Paul Bunyan and that the woman had a round, sunny face, before her gaze became riveted on her husband-to-be.

  For one long moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare while a disconcerting warmth suffused her. Brady was here. And he looked magnificent in a black tuxedo and crisp white shirt.

  When she saw that his shirt was open at the collar, and that his black tie hung loosely around his neck, she was blindsided by an overwhelming urge to fasten it for him. She had to curl her fingers into her palms to keep from reaching out to do just that.

  But what really took her breath away, and robbed her of her composure, was his hair. He'd gotten it cut. It had been clipped in a military style, not quite a buzz cut, but certainly shorter than the current fashion. Though she hadn't thought it possible, the close-cropped hair made him look even more masculine, more dangerous. It accentuated the planes and angles of his face, making his presence seem even more powerful. What it didn't do was make him look more respectable, and for that she was fiercely glad. She would have hated to see that part of him diminished, the way Samson's strength had been diminished by the loss of his hair.

  "Excuse me," the man who looked like Paul Bunyan said as he stepped forward, "but I have the feeling I could grow old and die before my friend here introduced us. I'll forgive him, though, since he's so obviously taken with the beauty of his bride-to-be." He held out his hand. "I'm Pete Loring, and this is my wife, Eileen."

  Absently, Haven shook the proffered hand. She didn't speak. She couldn't. She was too busy staring at Brady.

  "Josephine Clark," she dimly heard her maid of honor say. "As you've already guessed, the woman with her mouth hanging on the floor is the bride."

  Haven gave herself a mental shake and snapped her mouth shut. "Thank you for coming," she said, offering her hand to Eileen Loring.

  For the briefest of seconds, the woman appeared to hesitate, her probing gaze raking Haven from head to toe. Whatever she saw must have reassured her, because she gave Haven a broad smile before pumping her arm vigorously.

  "Happy to be here," she said. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world." She turned to Brady and added, "I don't think I'll be protesting this afternoon."

  Haven wondered what the woman meant, but didn't feel free to ask.

  The door to her right creaked slowly open on hinges that hadn't been oiled in years. When she looked over, she saw an elderly man framed in the doorway. His reed-thin body seemed so frail, and his shoulders so stooped, she almost expected his bones to creak in protest when he moved, the way his office door had.

  "Good morning, everybody," he boomed in a voice that was anything but frail. His step, too, when he approached them was surprisingly spry, and his brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and humor. "I'm Christopher Eriksson. I assume you're my wedding party?"

  "Yes, Mr. Eriksson," Brady said, reaching into his suit jacket for the necessary paperwork.

  "'Christopher' will do just fine. 'Mr. Eriksson' sounds so stuffy, don't you think? Makes me feel like an old man." He grinned, then looked at the papers Brady had handed him. "Everything appears to be in order. Are the witnesses here?"

  "All present and accounted for," Josephine said.

  "Excellent, excellent." He beamed down at Anna. "And who's this lovely lady? The bride?"

  Anna giggled. "No, silly. I'm Anna. Binny's getting mawwied to Unca Bwady."

  Christopher Eriksson nodded. "So she is. So she is. Shall we proceed?"

  "Just a minute," Eileen said, then busied herself with Brady's shirt and tie. When she finished, she patted Brady on the chest and smiled her approval. "Now we're ready."

  "Will the bride and groom please join hands?"

  Brady
moved to stand next to her. Eyes hooded, he gazed at her and offered his hand. "You look beautiful," he murmured.

  His words made her heart pound. "I like your haircut," she murmured back.

  Brady's hand closed over hers, and a rush of heat surged through her. Though she tried, Haven couldn't suppress the tremors that shook her body at the contact, especially when he squeezed her hand tightly and the pad of his thumb caressed the inside of her wrist.

  He lowered his head so that only she could hear him speak. "It's not too late, you know. We don't have to do this if you don't want to."

  Grateful that he'd mistaken the source of her trembling as nerves, she shook her head. "I want to."

  "Dear friends," Christopher Eriksson intoned, "we are assembled here today to witness and celebrate the joining of two lives in marriage. Brady and Haven have asked us to be with them, to rejoice with them in the making of this important commitment…"

  Haven tried to remain unmoved. She tried to remain level-headed and objective. This isn't for real, she told herself over and over like a mantra.

  But when, in a tone of awed reverence, the justice of the peace spoke the age-old words about love and the joining of two into one, she forgot her surroundings and became caught up in the spirit of the simple ceremony. Would it be so terrible to just, for one minute, pretend this was real, that she and Brady were pledging their troth to each other? she wondered dreamily. Who would it hurt? The outcome would be the same regardless.

  "Do you, Brady, take Haven to be the wife of your days, to love and to cherish, to honor and to comfort, in sorrow and in joy, in hardship and in ease, to have and to hold from this day forward?"

  Brady's eyes glittered down at her. "I do," he said, his voice strong and even.

  Behind them, she heard Josephine sniffle.

  "And do you, Haven, take Brady to be the husband of your days, to love and to cherish, to honor and to comfort, in sorrow and in joy, in hardship and in ease, to have and to hold from this day forward?"

  "I do," she whispered.

  "Who has the ring?" Christopher Eriksson asked.

  Pete Loring fumbled in his pocket, then handed the smooth gold sphere to Brady, who placed it on her finger.

  "With this ring," he repeated after Christopher Eriksson, his voice low and husky, "I marry you and pledge my faithful love."

  He really was a marvelous actor, Haven thought. The tone of his voice and the look in his eyes almost had her convinced that he meant every word of the vow. If she didn't know firsthand exactly how much rigid self-control he exercised over his emotions, she could almost believe he had become as caught up in things as she had.

  And she'd do well to remember that they were both play-acting.

  The justice of the peace spoke above their heads to the trio behind them. "For as much as Brady and Haven have consented together in wedlock, and have pledged themselves each to the other in the presence of this company, I do now pronounce that they are husband and wife. Let all others honor their decision and the threshold of their home." He looked meaningfully at Brady. "You may kiss your bride."

  Bride, Haven thought fuzzily. She was a bride. The significance of Christopher Eriksson's words penetrated her bemusement, and she felt her eyes widen. She'd forgotten all about the first, obligatory kiss.

  Brady's gaze, dark and restless, dropped to her mouth, and she caught her breath. Slowly, he reached out to her, his hands sliding up her bare arms and gently pulling her toward him. Helpless to fight the rush of desire that coiled in her stomach at his touch, Haven tilted her head back, closed her eyes and mentally steeled herself for the brush of his lips against hers.

  It's just a simple little kiss, she told herself. Nothing to get excited about. One second, and it'll all be over.

  She wasn't prepared for the jolt of electricity that shot through her at the gentle pressure of his mouth. Nor was she prepared for the way every nerve ending in her body roared to full, throbbing life.

  When Brady lifted his mouth from hers, she felt bereft. Time hung suspended as he gazed at her, his eyes questioning. Then, a low moan escaping his throat, his mouth crushed hers with an intensity that made Haven's heart ricochet against her ribs. Her knees went so weak she had to clutch at his lapels to keep from falling.

  The world turned upside down as his hands moved from her shoulders to her waist, molding her body to his so tightly she could feel the beating of his heart. Of their own accord, her hands lifted from his lapels to slide across his broad shoulders. She wound her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in the springiness of his hair.

  No man's kiss had ever made her feel this way. No man's touch had ever reduced her to such a mass of quivering need. At that moment, if Haven had had three wishes, the first would have been that the kiss go on forever.

  "Now, that's what I call a kiss," Pete Loring said, his voice threaded with amusement.

  Haven felt Brady's body jerk. The next thing she knew, he was prying her arms from around his neck and thrusting her away from him. Lips throbbing, she stared at him in stunned silence. He stared back, his breathing ragged.

  It dawned on her then. The emotion in his eyes was real. For once in his life, Brady Ross had lost control. He wasn't playacting. He was as affected by the kiss as she was.

  This was not good. Just how were they expected to live under the same roof—alone but for Anna—without giving in to the passion that still vibrated in the air like a tuning fork? A passion that was now sanctioned by law.

  It would be sheer folly to surrender to the emotions swirling through her. Because of Anna, she and Brady would always be in contact. If they slaked their passion for each other, once it was extinguished—as it inevitably would be—they would still have to deal with each other. It would only make things more difficult than they needed to be. And when Haven did give herself to a man, she wanted him to be able to share his deepest thoughts and feelings with her openly.

  No one could accuse Brady of being an open book.

  Embarrassed by her loss of control, Haven pulled her gaze away, only to discover Christopher Eriksson beaming at them with paternal approval. As for the women, it was painfully obvious they were both hopeless romantics. It was a toss-up who was sobbing louder, Josephine or Eileen.

  * * *

  He was a married man. Brady turned that thought over and over in his brain as he followed Josephine on a guided tour through Haven's house. He saw little and absorbed even less. The only reality that mattered to him was that he was now married, and all he could think about was making love to his bride.

  What had gotten into him? he wondered in disgust as desire roared through him. Everything was supposed to have been so simple. A short wedding, followed by a short marriage, and then a quickie divorce. But nothing, from the moment he awoke that morning till he said "I do," had gone the way it was supposed to. He had the sinking feeling the near future held more of the same.

  It all started when he'd opened his closet door and realized that barring his military dress blues, which were inappropriate for the occasion because he was no longer in the service, the only other suit he owned was a tuxedo. He'd felt ridiculous putting it on, even more so when he'd looked into a mirror and seen his hair.

  It probably had something to do with his military training; whatever the case, he hadn't been able to reconcile the formality of a tuxedo with long, flowing hair. Since he'd had only an hour until the wedding, he'd jumped into his car, tux and all, and driven straight to a barbershop.

  He'd withstood Pete's teasing about the monkey suit well enough on the drive to the justice of the peace. He'd even taken the sudden rain in stride, although the rapid change from clear sky to raging downpour and then back again had been more than a little disconcerting. But it had all fallen apart when they'd arrived at their destination and he'd seen Haven in that dress. He'd known then he was in trouble. Big trouble.

  That dress. Brady's mouth went dry all over again at the memory of how the folds had clung to her bod
y. She'd looked like a fairy princess, so chaste, and yet so provocative. His imagination had gone into overdrive trying to envision the precise dimensions of the curves the dress so teasingly covered.

  As disquieting as his overwhelming desire for Haven had been, it was nothing compared with his reaction to the wedding ceremony itself. What he'd never expected in a million years was that he would get so caught up in the whole thing. He wasn't a sentimental man. Even so, he'd been moved nearly to the point of tears by the eloquent words spoken by the justice of the peace. So moved that he'd found himself repeating his vows with a conviction that had been downright alarming.

  And then, of course, there was the kiss. He hadn't meant to kiss her like that. He certainly hadn't meant to lose all self-control. But there had been that look in her fathomless blue eyes when he'd lifted his head after the first brush of his mouth against hers. The look that had begged him for more. And her skin, where he'd touched her, had felt like silk; her hair had smelled like flowers. Everything about her had gone to his head, and he hadn't been able to stop himself. He'd had to taste more.

  So here they were, married, the two of them suffering from self-consciousness and going to great pains not to meet the other's gaze.

  "This is the guest room." Josephine's words broke into his thoughts.

  The walls of the room were pink, as were the rugs scattered across the hardwood floor. A flowered chintz spread covered the brass bed. Matching valances hung at the windows. Feminine, was the only word Brady could think of to describe it adequately. Ultrafeminine. His room, though Josephine couldn't know that.

  They were going to have to come up with an excuse for his using it, he realized. Just in case Anna let slip that he and Haven weren't sleeping together. He was fast learning that one couldn't always predict what would come out of a toddler's mouth.

  "It's … frilly," he said.

  "Haven likes frills."

  "I noticed," he replied, dimly recalling the ruffled gingham curtains hanging in the kitchen and the floral wallpaper that had been liberally applied to the walls throughout the house.