A Timeless Romance Anthology: Summer Wedding Collection

by Melanie Jacobson

  Chapter Nine

  Lexi clenched her hands in her lap as Mrs. Faga typed furiously on her keyboard. The college admissions counselor had already downloaded Lexi’s transcripts and seemed pleased with what she’d seen so far. The question was, which classes would transfer?

  Mrs. Faga paused then looked up, adjusting her purple-framed glasses. “Almost everything will transfer. We do have two classes here that are required by us that aren’t offered at San Diego.”

  Lexi nodded. This was good news, right? But there was the matter of the scholarship… She couldn’t dismiss the fact that she was a nonresident who’d have to pay a higher tuition.

  “And,” Mrs. Faga said, peering back at the computer screen. “Your grades are good enough that you can apply for an academic scholarship.” Her eyes were back on Lexi. “Although you wouldn’t be able to apply until after you transferred and paid summer tuition.”

  Lexi exhaled. “What do you think my chances would be of getting a scholarship?”

  “Very good, but I can’t guarantee anything,” Mrs. Faga said. “So it will be a bit of a setback if the scholarship isn’t granted. But we do offer financial aid, of course.”

  Lexi moved her hands to her knees and leaned forward. “Do you think I’ll fit into the program? This would be a big change for me. Out of all the students you see, what is your personal opinion about my case?”

  Mrs. Faga raised a high-arched brow. “You’ll do very well here. We have excellent professors and a top-of-the-line research facility, but it’s your decision.”

  “Thanks,” Lexi said. “I appreciate all of the information.”

  Mrs. Faga slid over a piece of paper. “This would be what your schedule would look like if you transfer and want a December graduation. Summer semester starts Thursday.”

  The schedule on the printout looked neat and organized in black and white.

  “Another thing that might help you decide,” Mrs. Faga added, “is that if you apply for our graduate program, you won’t have to worry about nonresident tuition.”

  “Oh,” Lexi said, not expecting that kind of news. “That’s great.” It was wonderful, really. She knew she’d have to go into some debt for college but wanted to keep it to a minimum.

  Mrs. Faga handed over another paper. “This is information about student housing. Summer apartments always have openings, and that will give you time to find something for fall.”

  Another complication to consider. She’d have to find a job to pay rent. Was she really seriously considering this? Changing everything? Just to be close to David? He was waiting outside for her, said he didn’t want to influence her decision. Grinning when he said that.

  “Well, thanks for all of this,” Lexi said. “I’ll be back in your office soon if I decide to transfer.”

  Mrs. Faga smiled and stood. “I can help you with whatever you need.”

  Lexi rose and shook the woman’s hand then gathered the paperwork and slipped it into the U of H folder Mrs. Faga had given her.

  Lexi walked out of the building and toward the parking lot, her heart rate speeding up. Her credits would transfer. She had a chance to finish out the year on scholarship. Sure, there were other things to consider, but staying wasn’t impossible. In fact…

  She looked up as she stepped off the curb; David leaned against his jeep, arms folded, waiting.

  Their eyes met, and Lexi literally felt hope and expectation coming from David. She realized it was her same hope. Even with all of the adjustments she’d have to make, she wanted to make them. She wanted to give David a chance… give them a chance.

  Lexi couldn’t help but smile as she crossed the parking lot. She wanted to run but forced herself to walk, even though her heart ran full speed. He straightened as she grew closer, his gaze curious.

  She stopped a couple of feet away, unsure how to start.

  “What did the counselor say?” David asked, watching her closely.

  “My credits will transfer, but I lose my scholarship.”

  His brows pulled together. “No tuition break?”

  “Not at first. I can apply for a scholarship after I transfer and could possibly get one for fall.”

  His eyes searched hers as he said, “That’s good, right?”

  Lexi lifted a shoulder. “If I get it.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  She took a step closer and slipped her hand in his. “Then it might still be okay.”

  David’s fingers threaded through hers. “Really? You’re still considering a transfer even without the scholarship?”

  “I’d need a job,” she said.

  “I’ll hire you,” he said with a smile.

  Lexi laughed. “You’ll teach me how to make your famous chicken?”

  David slipped a hand around her waist, drawing her close. “Of course.”

  “And I need a place to live,” she said, moving her hands to his shoulders.

  His smile broadened, and he looped both of his hands around her waist. “You can stay with me.”

  “Oh really?” Lexi asked with a smirk. “What would your mother say?”

  “Then maybe you can stay at Apelu’s parents,” David said, leaning down and speaking into her ear. “Or another place very close by.” Goose bumps broke out on her skin as David’s breath tickled her neck and ear.

  “How would I get to campus?”

  “I’ll drive you,” he said in a low voice.

  Lexi drew back, studying him. “Every day? Don’t you think that will get old?”

  “Never.” David tugged her against him, his mouth finding hers.

  Lexi’s heart hammered as he kissed her. Was she really staying in Hawaii—‌changing her life? It was a risk, and it was for a man, but it felt right. In David’s arms, the complications didn’t seem so complicated. Something told her that things would work out.

  David pulled back. “You can take the jeep.” His gaze held hers. “It’s yours. Everything I have is yours, Lexi. Even my heart.”

  “Good,” Lexi whispered. “Because your heart is all I need.”

  Heather B. Moore is the author of nine historical thrillers, written under the pen name H.B. Moore (so men will buy her books). She’s the two-time recipient of the Best in State Award for Literary Arts in Fiction and the two-time Whitney Award winner for Best Historical. Heather is also a coauthor of The Newport Ladies Book Club series (2012, 2013) and the coauthor with Angela Eschler of the inspirational Christian book, Christ’s Gifts to Women. These coauthored works are written under her real name (so women will buy them). Other women’s novels include the historical suspense, Heart of the Ocean, and A Timeless Romance Anthology series.

  Heather owns and manages the freelance editing company Precision Editing Group, just because she isn’t busy enough. Her editing website is www.PrecisionEditingGroup.com.

  Heather lives in the shadow of Mt. Timpanogos with her husband, four children, and one pretentious cat. In her spare time, Heather sleeps.

  Author website: www.hbmoore.com

  Blog: http://mywriterslair.blogspot.com

  Twitter:@HeatherBMoore

  Facebook: Fans of H.B. Moore or Heather Brown Moore

  Other Works by Heather B. Moore

  Click the covers to link to Amazon’s author page:

  Chapter One

  There was nothing quite as dangerous as a Brit-obsessed romantic planning a dream wedding. For weeks, Abby Grover had followed her sister, the bride-to-be, from one possible venue to the next.

  “It’s not English enough,” Caroline had declared of a ritzy hotel.

  “A British lake would have different trees,” she’d said of an upscale country club.

  The day they visited a historic-church-turned-reception-hall, Abby thought they’d found the perfect place. It was old and elegant and antique-y. Caroline had seemed almost convinced. She even spoke at length with the event planner. But on the drive home, she deliberately crossed the reception hall off her list.

  �
�No one there has an English accent,” Caroline explained quite firmly.

  “This is Oregon.”

  Unfortunately, logic cannot compete with Anglo-mania. “There will be accents at my wedding. I must have accents.”

  My sister is insane. Completely insane.

  And so, for the fifth Saturday in a row, Abby and her sister drove to yet another location too swanky for ordinary people. Caroline, however, was aiming far beyond ordinary.

  “Sainsbury House was built in 1880,” Caroline told her, scanning the venue’s website on her phone. “It has gardens. I need gardens.”

  Abby could appreciate the need for a garden. She loved plants. Loved them. She drove down a narrow lane.

  Caroline’s voice jumped an octave. “And there’s a conservatory.”

  Apparently conservatories were reason for excitement. Caroline sounded ready to jump out of the car and run the rest of the way.

  “You realize,” Abby warned her. “No one there will have a British accent.”

  “This will be perfect. I can feel it.”

  They pulled into the parking lot. Abby had developed a keen eye for venues. Plenty of parking. Easy to find. These were points in Sainsbury House’s favor. Or would have been if Abby were the one choosing. Of course, there was absolutely no chance of Abby choosing a wedding venue. She hadn’t been in a relationship in a year, and the guy she’d been with then had proven to be such a complete jerk that she had no plans of ever dating anyone again. No, the realm of wedding plans was exclusively Caroline’s.

  She looked at her sister, wondering what she thought of her first glimpse of the Sainsbury House grounds. Everything would probably depend on how historic and English and fancy the house itself looked, and on how well the staff could pretend to be British.

  Abby got out of the car and stepped onto the cobblestone walkway. The sooner they had their tour and Caroline ran down her list of requirements with the event coordinator, the sooner they could be on their way again.

  “Five acres of land.” Caroline was still inhaling every piece of information she could find online. “Five acres.”

  “Remind me again why you need five acres for a small, family wedding.”

  “Because.”

  “That isn’t actually a reason.”

  Caroline shook her head, sighing dramatically. In her “I’m quoting something very English” voice, she said, “Why must every day involve a fight with an American?”

  “You are an American.”

  Caroline waved that off. “It’s a thing people say.”

  Abby eyed her sister more closely. “And these people who say this, they don’t happen to be British people in period dramas on public television, do they?”

  Caroline looked the tiniest bit guilty.

  Abby had to smile. “I don’t know how Gregory puts up with you.”

  Caroline’s entire face lit up at the mention of her fiancé. “He loves me.”

  “Of course he does.” For all of Caroline’s flittiness and fantasies, she was quite possibly the most lovable person Abby had ever known. It was little wonder their great aunt had named Caroline her only heir. Great Aunt Gertrude hadn’t been a millionaire by any means, but Caroline’s inheritance was paying for her dream wedding.

  “Oh, Abby! Look. It’s perfect.”

  They’d only just emerged from the thick canopy of trees to a rather amazing view of the house. Historic. Fancy. Two out of three so far. Abby didn’t know what qualified a place as “looking English.” She didn’t see a Union Jack flying out front or Audrey Hepburn selling flowers or anything. Still, if Caroline thought the place looked perfect, Abby wasn’t about to argue.

  “Fantastic,” Abby said. “Let’s go inside.”

  They stepped inside the open front doors and walked, slowly, eying their surroundings, to the front of the entry hall. Polished tables flanked the room, with fresh-cut flowers in porcelain vases. Old-style paintings hung in gilded frames. A turning staircase with an intricately carved banister led up and past a wide row of tall windows. Even the ceiling was fancy.

  She’d been in upscale places like this. Her last boyfriend was rich, with high-class friends and connections. He felt most comfortable in places where Abby felt too poor to even breathe the air.

  “Welcome to Sainsbury House,” a man’s voice said from just behind them—‌a man with an English accent.

  Caroline squealed. Abby did her best not to roll her eyes and looked back. Mr. English Accent was young—‌she’d guess not yet thirty, and handsome—‌the man had green eyes, for heaven’s sake, and a ridiculously amazing smile; his teeth stood as a one-mouth testament against the widely-held belief in universal English dental issues.

  “Have you come for a tour, or do you have an appointment?” he asked.

  “Both.” Caroline even bounced a bit as she answered.

  They’d found a place that was old and elegant and where at least one person spoke with a British accent. Abby couldn’t be entirely certain Caroline wasn’t about to explode with excitement. Or faint—‌she’d been doing the whole back of the hand pressed daintily to the forehead thing a lot lately.

  “You must be Caroline and Abby Grover.”

  Abby leaned closer to her sister and spoke under her breath. “You gave them my name? This is your tour.”

  “Don’t you love the way he said ‘Caroline’?” her sister whispered back. “So elegant.”

  The Englishman watched them with admirable patience.

  “We are the Grover sisters,” Abby told him. “That sounds like a lame band, doesn’t it?”

  “The name is lovely, I assure you.”

  “I assure you?” Who talks like that?

  He looked between them. “Which of you is Caroline, the bride to be?”

  Abby didn’t wait a single instant. She pointed across herself at her sister. Mr. Elegant’s green eyes lingered on Abby. He smiled the tiniest bit, before his gaze moved to Caroline.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Grover,” he said. “If you will follow me this way, we shall take a moment in my office to discuss your needs and wishes for your wedding before going about the estate to see if Sainsbury House can meet those needs.”

  Smooth, Brit Boy. Smooth.

  Caroline followed almost glassy-eyed. If only the guy realized he’d likely sold her on the location simply by opening his mouth. Caroline would have her English-accented wedding, and Mr. Green-Eyed-Hunk-of-Britishness would get whatever commission came with booking the event.

  “My name is Matthew Carlton, by the way,” he said to Caroline.

  “Matthew?” She sounded ridiculously happy about that. Apparently Matthew was a good name for her fantasy wedding.

  Matthew wasn’t the least bit weirded out by that. He just nodded and held open a door. Abby stepped through behind Caroline. The office wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t tiny, either. It was almost as nauseatingly elegant as the entry. They sat in two leather armchairs facing the desk, where Matthew sat.

  “Tell me, Ms. Grover, what would make your wedding day perfect?” The man was feeding an addiction.

  Abby watched as he nodded in agreement with Caroline’s crazy ideas. He didn’t even seem surprised when she mentioned the hope of convincing Grandma Grover to wear a bustle. When Caroline spoke of polished silverware, spotless crystal, starched white aprons on appropriately silent maids, Matthew simply said, “Of course.”

  Of course? No one Abby had ever known would think these kinds of demands were normal or expected or not insane.

  Matthew took notes, listening closely and asking questions. He was handsome, too good looking, actually, for Abby to stop herself from looking at him again and again. He seemed nice enough, in a snobby sort of way.

  For Caroline’s sake, and the sake of Abby’s future weekends, she sincerely hoped Sainsbury House worked out for the wedding. But for her part, Abby definitely had enough of all the haughtiness and fake fanciness.

  The Grovers weren’t that kind of people. They
were simple, down-to-earth, hovering somewhere near the bottom end of the middle of the middle class. People like Matthew Carlton would never understand that.

  Chapter Two

  Matt grabbed a cold bottle of beer from the fridge before stepping through the glass doors onto the balcony of his flat. His neighbor was out, watering the impressive herb garden he’d cultivated on his own balcony. Barney had a green thumb, a talent he’d carefully cultivated over his seventy-some-odd years of life.

  “Good evening, Barney,” he said as he sat in his Adirondack chair. “Your garden is coming along nicely.”

  Barney’s wrinkles clearly showed he’d spent his life happy. “You always speak so proper. Makes me feel like I should be bowing or something.”

  “You forget, I’m an American citizen now.” He raised his bottle as if making a toast. “No more bowing for this bloke.”

  “Americans don’t say ‘bloke,’” Barney warned him.

  Matt leaned back, settling in for a relaxing evening in the cool summer air. “I thought American citizens had the right to say anything they wanted—‌that bit was on the test, you know.”

  Barney pointed at him with his gardening clippers. “You can say anything at all, but you might get beat up for it.”

  Matt nodded. “We do that in England, as well.”

  He enjoyed their chats. Barney had been the one to start them not long after Matt moved in. They spent quite a few evenings each week talking across the small space that separated their balconies. He was grateful for the friendship.

  “How was your day?” Barney asked, snipping expertly at one of his plants.

  “Not bad at all. I booked a wedding for late June.”

  Barney nodded slowly, his eyes not straying from his task. “A June wedding.”

  “I know it’s very cliché, but I have my suspicions that this particular bride is very... particular.”

  Matt had learned a thing or two about dealing with dreamers and bridezillas and the occasional lunatic. He was certain Caroline Grover fell in the dreamer category. She knew exactly what she wanted on her wedding day, and that she was nearly panicked at the thought that something might go wrong or deviate from her imaginings. He’d worked with that before.