by Beth Ciotta
Or … she could ask Sam.
Something had shifted between them. She’d felt it last night when he’d talked her down and most keenly when they’d kissed. Then today when she’d spilled her fears and he’d commiserated. They’d talked, really talked. And though she didn’t agree with his stand on gun control, she respected his opinion based on his personal experience. Mostly she appreciated that he didn’t attack her own views and, instead of mocking her fears, offered to help her overcome them. For the first time in ages, Harper hadn’t felt alone and that sensation had bolstered her spirits as well as tempering her irrational anxiety.
“Why are you smiling?” Sam asked from across the table.
She glanced up from her menu. She’d been smiling? “I don’t know. I … I guess I’m happy. Happy that I made it into town. Happy I’m not stressing about an attack. I mean, nothing’s changed. The possibility still lurks, but I’m not obsessing on it. Instead I’m obsessing on you. Us.”
He arched a brow.
“I don’t get us.”
“That’s because we don’t make sense. Not yet anyway.”
The waitress approached and Harper immediately noted her penchant for goth. She wore black pants and a white top—the standard colors of the Shack’s informal uniform—but the pants were massively baggy with lots of buckles and the white tee was adorned with an embroidered skull and roses. Raven-black hair with deep purple streaks pulled into a high ponytail. Short blunt bangs. A small silver hoop in her nose. Big black-framed glasses that overwhelmed her small heart-shaped face. Her nametag read JOEY and she looked like she belonged in a sci-fi flick as opposed to a small-town pub.
“Hey, Sam,” she said.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Luke was short a waitress and you volunteered.”
“It’s not like he can’t handle the bar himself,” Joey said.
“Joey is Luke’s newest hire,” Sam said to Harper. “Although she typically tends bar. Joey, this is Harper Day. The Cupcake Lovers’ publicist.”
“The lady who lives in the haunted house.” Joey rocked back on her army boots and smiled. “Cool. Heard about you at the meeting last night.”
Then it clicked. “You’re the newest Cupcake Lover?” Daisy had mentioned a new girl, Joelle—Joey—saying she was a snazzy dresser. Only Daisy would consider gothic snazzy.
“I have a cousin and a couple of friends in the military,” she said. “When Luke told me about the Cupcake Lovers, I had to join. I mean, it’s a great cause, right? Plus I’ve been picking up some rad baking tips. I’m totally into broadening my horizons and keeping busy. Speaking of … What’ll you have?”
Harper envisioned a publicity photo featuring the all-American Cupcake Lovers, with the addition of cyberpunk Joey, and cringed. How was she going to spin this oddball member? Something to ponder later. Right now her mind was fixed on Sam and their impending marriage.
He ordered a cheeseburger and fries.
Harper ordered a salad—mesclun greens topped with dried cranberries, dried apricots, and toasted walnuts, served with maple vinaigrette. That pretty much summed up their relationship. Hell-raiser burger versus health-nut salad.
“Anything to drink?” Joey asked.
“Sparkling water, please,” Harper said.
“I’ll have a beer,” Sam said. “Something light on tap.”
Joey took their menus and left.
Sam eyed Harper. “No wine?”
She shifted, thinking about the last time they’d shared a bottle of merlot. A precursor to their last hot and sweaty tumble more than a month and a half ago. “I feel punch-drunk as is.”
Sam studied her with an enigmatic expression. “Feeling a little dazed myself.”
Not for the first time this afternoon, she noticed Sam wasn’t quite himself. Or at least the Sam she’d known up until now. She was used to seeing him with a five o’clock shadow, but today he had a close shave. Too close, considering the nick on his jaw. He typically sported faded, paint-splattered jeans and baggy T-shirts. Today’s wrinkle-free oxford shirt and stain-free jeans hadn’t escaped her notice. On any given day, Sam McCloud revved her pulse. Today he’d stopped her heart. The man had dressed to impress and that was both flattering and frightening. “You can still back out.”
“But I won’t. In fact, I found a way to speed things up.”
Harper’s pulse kicked and so did her ego. Typically she was the problem solver. The one who brainstormed solutions and set plans into motion. Sam had offered marriage less than twenty-four hours ago and, in addition to caring for his children and shifting the hours of his workload, he’d researched the intricacies of a Canadian/American marriage? She should have researched the details herself, but instead she’d jumped on the phone trying to mend bridges with various clients, her deportation shoved to the back burner.
“Now you’re frowning.”
“Just thinking.”
“Overthinking. Here’s the deal. Since you’ve already been living in the United States under another visa, we can circumvent the tedious interviews, marry in Vegas, and address the necessary paperwork for permanent residency later.”
Harper blinked. “It can’t be that easy.”
“I can expedite matters further by completing an online marriage preapplication for the marriage license.”
“Eloping to Las Vegas.”
“Before your L visa expires. Which gives us two weeks.”
So … in less than fourteen days she’d be Mrs. Sam McCloud, a wife and a mother.
“Now you look faint,” Sam said, his lips twitching into a teasing smile.
Harper toyed with her fork rather than squirm in her seat. He’d never teased her before. He’d never looked at her with such kindness. She didn’t know how to respond. Not without being snarky, and she didn’t want to fall back on that defense. Not now. The most guarded part of her ached for what she feared most—an intimate, emotional connection with a good and caring man. Even so, she couldn’t risk it. “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this business arrangement.” She raised a saucy brow. That she could manage. “With the exception of the hot sex.”
Sam reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. She thought it was to still her nervous fork action, but instead he curled his fingers around hers and brushed his thumb over her skin. A definite show of affection. She had no idea if it was for real or for the benefit of anyone and everyone watching. Either way her mouth went dry.
“About the sex,” he said.
But then Luke was there, two drinks in hand. “Whoa. Okay. Bad timing.”
“Don’t be silly,” Harper said, donning her publicist hat. “We were talking about a movie.” She casually slid her hand from Sam’s. Thankfully he didn’t stop her, nor did he refute her lie. Not that Luke looked convinced.
“Sure. Okay.” Sugar Creek’s former number one playboy set a foamy beer in front of his cousin and served Harper a glass of sparkling water. “Just wanted to say hello. Thank you in person for keeping my wife in the good graces of the press.”
“Rae makes it easy,” Harper said with a professional smile. “Her humanitarian efforts are impressive and her level of modesty almost unheard of. She has the respect of the media.”
“Unlike her mother,” Luke said with a scowl.
“Don’t go there,” Sam said. “That woman’s not worth an ulcer.”
Harper agreed. Olivia Devereaux and her husband of the moment, an arrogant, powerful businessman—filthy rich in his own right—had tried to manipulate and ruin Rae in order to gain control of her fortune. Seedy business. A tabloid reporter’s dream. Spinning the debacle for the better had been one of Harper’s finest efforts. Finest because Rae was a privileged soul with a pure heart. A rarity in Harper’s specific line of work. “I’m sorry I haven’t been over to visit,” Harper said, “but I did advise Rae on that matter she asked me about.”
“She told me,” Luke said. “Thanks. I’m going to break it to the family on
Sunday.”
“Break what to the family?” Sam asked.
Harper flushed knowing she, an outsider, was privy to a Monroe secret. After suffering from dyslexia for years—a condition he’d successfully covered up—Luke had made the choice to conquer his reading disability. Rae had been tutoring him for months and now he wanted to come clean, serving as a spokesperson in order to inspire kids and adults battling similar challenges. Harper couldn’t wait to promote his cause, but she was on hold until Luke came clean with his family.
“You’ll find out with everyone else at Sunday dinner,” Luke said to Sam. “Speaking of…” His expression turned downright ornery. “Why don’t you bring Harper along?”
Harper tensed. She’d heard about the traditional Monroe Sunday dinners. An ever-changing menagerie of family and close friends connecting over massive home-cooked meals. “I don’t think—”
“Good idea,” Sam said.
“But—”
“Great.” Luke smiled. “I could use the extra support,” he said directly to Harper, leaving her no gracious way to refuse.
Harper had to give Luke credit. Though she didn’t know his exact intent, he’d manipulated her big-time. “Absolutely,” she said with a perfected fake smile. “See you there.”
“I should get back to work,” he said. “Enjoy lunch.”
He left and Harper frowned at Sam. “Sunday dinner?”
“The perfect venue to cement our unexpected but amorous attraction. Luke just presented us with a gift, Harper. He picked up on the attraction and gave us his blessing.”
“This is wacky. Three months ago, you and Luke were at war.”
“Now we’re not. We’re family. Family trumps all else.”
Harper wouldn’t know. She was an only child. Her parents were divorced and estranged and more interested in their own lives than the life of the child they’d brought into the world.
Joey served their food with the speed and grace of a top-notch waitress.
Sam thanked her and Harper fought to temper her wayward emotions. “On second thought,” she said as Joey loaded the table with fresh condiments, “I’ll have a glass of your house chardonnay.”
“You got it.” Tray tucked under her arm, Joey zipped toward the bar, ponytail swinging.
Harper’s phone pinged with an incoming text. “Sorry,” she said to Sam. “It’s from Daisy.”
He doused his fries with ketchup while she read the text.
SOMETHING CAME UP. NEED TO RESCHEDULE FOR TOMORROW. MORNING AND MIMOSAS OKAY?
Damn. Although, on second thought, maybe tomorrow was better. Closer to Sunday. Harper planned on picking Daisy’s brain regarding her extended family. No way was she going into that Sunday dinner unarmed.
MORNING AND MIMOSAS … SPIFFY.
Harper tucked away her phone, stabbed her healthy greens, and blurted a flurry of concerns. “How are you going to break it to the kids, and when? Where are we going to live? I need to tell the Cupcake Lovers I was dismissed from the firm. Rae, too. Maybe they won’t want me to represent them anymore. I hope that’s not the case, but I owe them the choice. Are we supposed to pretend we’re in love or are we going to own up to a marriage of convenience? Although, if the truth got back to immigration, I’d be screwed. On the other hand, pretending, that doesn’t seem fair to the kids. And what if we’re not compatible? You and me? How long do we have to stay married in order for me to obtain U.S. citizenship? What if we can’t make it that long? Jesus, Sam. This has disaster written all over it.”
Harper abandoned her fork and massaged a throbbing temple.
Sam bit off a fry, raised a brow. “Are you done?”
“For the moment.” She hated and loved that he was so calm. She hated and loved the way he made her heart race with a single tender look. Joey showed with a glass of chardonnay and it was all Harper could do not to hug her. She cautioned herself to sip, not gulp. She handled complicated problems for a living, why couldn’t she methodically sort through her own mess?
Sam wiped his face and hands with a napkin, surprising Harper when he stood and rounded the table, sliding into the booth beside her. Her breath stalled as he casually draped his arm over the top of the cushion, behind her, around her, and angled in. He searched her face, her eyes. “We’re compatible.”
“How do you know?”
He leaned closer, enveloping her in his masculine scent, his heady charisma. He brushed his mouth over hers, a brief, chaste kiss that sizzled through her blood.
She blinked up at his handsome face. Yeah. There was that. The intense physical attraction. A definite perk to the business arrangement. If she could put up with contrary clients like Sapphire, surely she could handle one headstrong man and two little kids. Except the kids would put a damper on the kind of sex she’d experienced thus far with Sam, putting a serious kink in the kinky. “About the sex,” she said, picking up on the subject Luke had walked in on.
“It’s on hold until after we’re married.”
He had to be kidding. Yet he didn’t flinch. Harper frowned, still vibrating from that barely there kiss. “Surely you’re not that old-fashioned.”
“You’re right.”
“But—”
“We played by your rules first time around. Now it’s my turn.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you’re getting off on taking charge?”
To her libido’s distress, he just smiled.
TEN
Adam Brody strolled into Rock ’n’ Roll Lanes wishing he had better things to do than checking out a new hang for a bunch of single guy friends. But he didn’t. So here he was.
The establishment itself was pretty large. A fifteen-lane bowling center with a separate game room, featuring various arcade games. Two separate areas that offered billiards and darts. A snack bar, a café, and a sports bar offering live entertainment. Rock posters picturing bands from the fifties to eighties lined the walls along with vintage guitars and costumes and assorted neon signs.
At least three employees welcomed him within the first five minutes.
McCloud was right. Friendly staff. Fun atmosphere. The bowling alley was buzzing with a mostly adult Friday-night crowd.
Adam bypassed the counter that rented balls and shoes and went directly for the sports bar. He knew the bartender, Clive, from the ski slopes. They nodded in greeting and Adam ordered a beer while eyeing the nearby stage where five musicians—all women—quipped while plugging in various cords and amplifiers. “Who’s the band?”
“Mountain Fever.”
“Never heard of them.”
“You and me both. Easy on the eyes, though.”
Adam sipped his beer, watched the stage.
The woman front and center, bent over and intent on freeing a knotted microphone cable, straightened.
Adam perked up, too.
Hello, gorgeous.
“Who’s the chick?” he asked.
“Which one?” Clive asked.
Adam only had eyes for one. “The stunner blonde with the two long braids.”
“Ivy Vine,” Clive said. “How’d you like to have that climbing up your body?”
Adam didn’t answer but he imagined.
“What are you grinning at?” Nash asked as he moved in beside Adam and ordered a beer. “Sorry I’m late,” he added. “Where’s Kane?”
“Last minute hookup.”
“With who?”
“He didn’t say.” Adam sipped his beer, eyes glued to the stage or rather Ivy’s ass, as the woman turned to the drummer and set the tempo of the song with the pounding heel of her boot. “Know anything about her?” Adam asked over the blaring music.
“Which one?”
“The lead singer. Ivy Vine.”
“Nope. But I know the guitar player.” He pointed to the short-haired sprite in the flowery dress and cowboy boots. “Peppy Redding. Marvin Redding’s daughter. Vince’s granddaughter.”
“Sugar Creek native,” Adam sai
d. “Why don’t I know her?” he asked, even as his gaze gravitated back to Ivy.
“She was a few years behind us in school, plus she bounced back and forth between her mom and dad. Split custody. Her mom transplanted to Nashville. Peppy’s been bouncing around the country the last couple of years, chasing fame. Heard she fell on hard times and now she’s back and staying with her dad. According to Vince, that’s not going so well. Speaking of, I’ll be damned. Check it out.”
Adam looked to where Nash pointed. Vince Redding and Daisy Monroe sat at a table, close to the stage. Too close for Vince if the napkins he’d just jammed in his ears were any indication. Daisy, on the other hand, bopped back and forth to “Goodbye Earl,” an old hit by the Dixie Chicks. Not in time exactly, but bopping nonetheless. “Your grandma’s a riot, Nash.”
“She’s something all right.” Nash drank more beer then gestured back to the stage. “Ivy sort of looks like Rocky.”
What? Adam did a double take. Oh, hell, no. She did. Tall and curvy. Tight jeans, fitted T-shirt. Blond braids. Once upon a time Adam had had a secret friends-with-benefits affair with Rocky. She was married to someone else now and Adam had put whatever affection he’d felt for Rocky to bed, so to speak. Still, his heart had taken a beating. It wasn’t the first time. Aside from a short fling he’d had with a gorgeous brunette over Christmas, his apparent heartbreaker of choice was the stereotypical Hollywood blonde.
Nash nudged him. “Introduce yourself when they go on break.”
“She looks like trouble.”
“With a capital T. If you’re taking a pass, let me know. Ivy’s hot. Actually, they’re all hot. Except maybe Peppy. Don’t get me wrong. She’s cute. But subdued. You know, it might help her career if she showed some cleavage or curves or both. She’s in show biz, after all.” Nash polished off his beer then nodded toward the lanes. “Come on. Let’s knock back a few pins. Get a feel for this place.” He ordered two more beers then took the lead.