The Practically Romantic Groom (Cobble Creek Romance Book 2)

by Maria Hoagland

  Also by Maria Hoagland

  Billionaire Classics

  Beauty and the Billionaire Beast

  Her App, a Match, and the Billionaire

  Falling for Her Billionaire Best Friend

  Cobble Creek Series

  The Inventive Bride

  The Practically Romantic Groom

  The Combustible Engagement

  Romance Renovations Series

  Home for the Holidays

  Kayaks & Kisses

  New Year’s Resolutions

  Love for Keeps

  Santa Cam

  Still Time

  The ReModel Marriage

  The Practically Romantic Groom

  Maria Hoagland

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  The Practically Romantic Groom Playlist

  About the Author

  The Cobble Creek Series

  Copyright © 2018 by Maria Hoagland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To my fellow dreamers:

  Creativity & love are always worth the risk.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Brooke Holt was so ready for the wind to stop blowing.

  Well, okay, fine, the wind never stopped blowing in western Wyoming. But with the calendar touting the end of April, shouldn’t it be a bit tamer than it had been throughout winter and early spring?

  Another gust pushed against the side of the delivery van, and Brooke white-knuckled the steering wheel, trying to keep the vehicle on the road and not overcompensate when the force would unpredictably let up. If someone didn’t know, they might mistake her for an impaired driver swerving around.

  She cared less how she appeared, however, than assuring that the flower arrangements she’d so carefully crafted stayed in their upright positions and that not one blossom got crunched on any left- or right-hand turns. Thank goodness for whoever invented the van’s rack system that allowed her to drive without holding her breath or chugging along at a snail’s pace.

  One of her favorite songs came on the radio, and she turned it up, belting out the words because no one else was around to care.

  Brooke glanced at the address in her delivery notes to remind herself where she was going. Having grown up in Cobble Creek, Brooke knew every nook and cranny of the small town. It hadn’t changed much over the years, but what had expanded or been swapped from one business to another she’d been able to keep up on with her daily deliveries. Honestly, it was a fun part of her job. While she loved the creativity of her shop—the colors, the textures, the heavenly fragrance she never tired of—she had to admit, even the mundane task of driving around town was something she looked forward to: the fresh air and freedom, the looks of surprise and joy when someone accepted an unexpected gift, and being able to talk to friends and people she’d known her whole life.

  413 Linden. The cute Victorian-style house had been remodeled into a couple of law offices on the main floor. This had to be the place. Since the delivery was for Gloria Carlisle, an older woman Brooke was pretty sure didn’t have a job outside her home, Brooke hadn’t expected to deliver somewhere other than a personal residence. Yet the address written in careful script by her new assistant, Sydney, matched the number on the plaque at the door.

  Brooke parked the van and headed to the back to extract Mrs. Carlisle’s vase of pink carnations and white daisies. They weren’t the most elegant arrangement Brooke had ever put together, but the order was very specific. While she’d been tempted to add a couple of orange roses for pops of color, Brooke decided to stick to the order and chose to break up the monotony with generous amounts of greenery.

  She pulled the vase from the tote at the back of the van, straightened the card, and made her way up the sidewalk, her heels clicking time to the catchy new tune she had running through her brain. She hummed it a couple more times, afraid it would evaporate with the morning fog. If she could remember the partial melody until she got the chance to write the notes down, it would be a great start to a song. And if she could come up with the lyrics. That was always the hardest part.

  Two wooden doors with glass cutouts sat at odds from each other on the wide plank porch. Suite B was assigned to Isaac Murphy, Attorney at Law. Underneath were the words Family Law. Two simultaneous thoughts occurred to Brooke after reading the words. First, what in the world did Gloria Carlisle need with a family lawyer? Maybe a relative passed away and someone was trying to cheer her up with flowers while she met with Isaac about the will.

  Brooke’s second thought was . . . Isaac Murphy?

  She felt her confidence blanch along with her face. Seeing her first-ever boyfriend sent ripples of anxiety and excitement through her, even after all these years, and she hadn’t held an actual conversation with him since senior year of high school. History. Ancient history. In fact, she was pretty sure middle school qualified as prehistoric history, if that wasn’t an oxymoron.

  Telling herself to grow up and act professional, Brooke squelched her uncomfortable feelings the best she could, took a deep breath, and depressed the thumb latch.

  Why should she be nervous to see Isaac Murphy? They’d been great friends in high school. So what if she’d had a crush on him pretty much her entire life. So what if he’d had to rescue her from her most humiliating moment ever. So what if she’d never actually gotten over that moment, as if she were stuck in the loop of her senior year, afraid to move on while everyone else passed her by. If she was lucky, she’d hand the flowers off to the receptionist and never see Isaac anyway.

  Bright sunlight reflected off the glass in the door, obscuring her view so that she was surprised to find Isaac standing right in front of her.

  So much for being able to slip in and out unnoticed.

  “Brooke Trout!”

  Thankfully, he was the only person who’d ever called her the name of a fish. Isaac’s goofy salutation took her right back to high school as if no time at all had passed. Except that he was way more handsome than he had been even then, and that was saying a lot.

  “Sir Isaac Fig Newton Murphy!” Memories washed over her. There was a story for each of the names she’d added for him, like ornaments to a Christmas tree, each of them a bright spot in her otherwise rocky teenage years.

  Brooke couldn’t help but admire the man Isaac had grown into. She remembered well the short-cropped brown hair with its blond highlights on the longer pieces up top. His brown eyes, as always, focused on her as if she were the only person in the room, and his lips pulled up slightly on the left, as if caught off guard by something humorous. Those features were all exactly the same. Yet somehow in the six years since high school, Isaac had gone from nerdy trumpet player with arms barely thick enough to support his instrument to looking quite good in a suit, the jacket barely covering a well-defined chest and broad shoulders. At this realization, she felt her onc
e-white face pinking to somewhere near a magenta color—a response just as telling, and embarrassing, as her pale look of shock had to have been when she first walked through the door.

  He reached out playfully for the flowers. “For me? Aw, Trout, you shouldn’t have.”

  Rather than taking the vase, Isaac engulfed Brooke in a surprising, yet deliciously comfortable hug. He seemed to have overcome his problems with doling out affection.

  After the briefest of moments, Brooke twisted away, shortening the hug by trying to appear that she’d been headed for the reception desk. Being around him, with his casual friendliness, could be dangerous.

  “I didn’t. They’re for . . .” Brooke craned around him to see if Gloria Carlisle was in the room. Aside from spotting Isaac’s older sister at the reception desk, no one else was there. Isaac and Danielle were definitely molded from the same DNA. Thick, brown hair, deep brown eyes that turned down slightly in the corners, long eyelashes. Brooke waved at Danielle who watched their interaction curiously. “ . . . a client, probably. Mrs. Carlisle?”

  “Like those are going to help.” Isaac waved it off. “Another case of too little, too late—if it even would have worked in the first place.” He shook his head.

  While he wasn’t going into the specifics of Gloria Carlisle’s appointment, it didn’t take a private detective to surmise that she was about to file for divorce, if what Mr. Carlisle had instructed Brooke to write on the card for the flowers was any indication. Though she was as protective of her customers as any lawyer was with client confidentiality, there was no use denying what they all already knew.

  “Maybe if there had been more deliveries like these”—Brooke shook the flowers, the water sloshing and the daisies’ heads looking like they might snap off with the movement—“she wouldn’t have made the appointment at all.”

  Isaac scoffed. “You’re such a romantic. You always were.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Brooke carefully weeded out the whine of complaint in her voice. She was a firm believer that if romance was valued more, there would be less of a need for divorce lawyers. “Is there something wrong with giving a gift you know someone will enjoy? Is doing something nice for someone a waste of time?”

  “Your words, not mine.” He paused. “It’s just . . .” Isaac shifted his feet and flicked his eyes toward Danielle. She was still listening, zeroed in on their conversation. “You need to be realistic. Romance doesn’t last. Do you think we’d have all this if it did?” He gestured at his plush office. Gleaming wood floors, expensive oriental rugs, and heavy antique furniture that gave an air of stability and money. It even smelled rich. Brooke tried to place the scent, but it wasn’t floral.

  “So basically, what you’re saying is that my whole life’s work is a big waste of time?” She tried not to be offended, but how could she not?

  “Of course not.” Isaac let out a breath that resembled a laugh. It sounded forced. “Divorce makes me cynical. Sorry.” He shifted so his back was to Danielle, his eyes searching Brooke’s face with an intensity that made her wonder if she had lipstick on her teeth. He was definitely no longer interested in the flowers—if he ever had been. “How is life treating you? I can’t believe we haven’t had a chance to catch up since graduation. It’s been so long.”

  Like it was her fault. Brooke had been in Cobble Creek the entire time. It was Isaac who had left.

  “Same old, same old,” she said, and shrugged.

  “So you still live with your parents on Steeples Drive and go to good old Cobble Creek High School every day?” he teased, but then got serious. “Do you teach high school?”

  Brooke’s eyes widened in surprise. If Isaac remembered anything about her, he should have known better—standing up in front of a room full of people, even if they were all younger than her—was more like her worst nightmare than her dream job.

  “Right, and I’m spending my planning period delivering carnations to random townspeople at a law office.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You dork.” Isaac was just as much a joker as he ever was.

  “I know I am, but you’re not.”

  Brooke burst out laughing. She hadn’t expected that.

  “No, I’ve seen your little shop on Main Street—The Flower Girl. It’s quite impressive, though I’ve never had a reason to go there myself.”

  Brooke quirked an eyebrow at him. She wanted to interrupt, say that anyone could, and everyone should, find a reason for flowers, but she let him continue to talk.

  “I also happen to know you don’t live with your parents. Jed—” Isaac tipped his head toward the wall, indicating the other suite in the building. “—told me you live a couple blocks from me?”

  Seeing as how she didn’t know where Isaac lived, all Brooke could do was shrug her ignorance, but what was most confusing about the subject was why the two men had been talking about her at all. She decided to dismiss it.

  “Are you doing anything with your music?” Isaac asked.

  Not that she let anyone know about. Someday she would, but she wasn’t quite there yet. The thought alone gnawed at her insides with regret and worry. “I still play.”

  Brooke shifted, thinking about the pile of orders she had waiting for her back at the shop. Prom weekend was staring her down, but she wouldn’t let it win. Even if she was haunted by the ghost of proms past. Especially in the present company. She had one more delivery to make, and then she’d start on the mountain of prep work for the boutonnieres and corsages, but she didn’t want to brush him off.

  “I guess I don’t have to ask what you’re up to.” With his name on the door, it couldn’t have been more obvious. “How long have you been back in Cobble Creek?”

  The door squealed in protest, and Gloria Carlisle followed as it swung into the room. Dressed in a tweed business suit with a daffodil-colored blouse buttoned to her chin, the graying woman was easily in her late fifties, if not more.

  With three people looking at her, Mrs. Carlisle turned pink. “Am I late?”

  Isaac cleared his throat. “Of course not, Mrs. Carlisle.” All traces of humor were gone. Isaac had once again transformed from teasing teenage boy to professional man. “You’re right on time.” He stuck his hand out to shake hers. “I’m Isaac Murphy. Nice to finally meet you.”

  “I’d better get used to going by just Gloria now. No missus anything.”

  The woman turned questioning eyes on Brooke, the only one with no apparent reason to be in the room except for the rather large arrangement of flowers that poofed like an elephant in the room. At least now the choice of blossoms made sense. Hardy and practical.

  “I’m here to deliver these.” Brooke handed the vase to the woman.

  “For me?” Uncertainty tinged her words, and she placed a hand to her chest. “You must be mistaken. Nobody’s going to send me flowers.” She shook her head, pinching her lips together.

  “Now, Gloria, don’t call your husband nobody.” Brooke again proffered the vase to her.

  Mrs. Carlisle’s small eyes went wide, and she stepped back as if she’d seen a spider in the arrangement. Cautiously, her hand eased forward and she plucked out the card from deep in the greenery. After taking a moment to read it, Mrs. Carlisle swiped at one eye before accepting the flowers, wrapping a beefy arm around the clear glass of the vase, and walking back out the door without another word.

  When the wooden door was firmly closed, Isaac turned to Brooke. “That was interesting.”

  “It seems the flowers did the trick.” Brooke allowed her tone to rub in her triumph as much as possible.

  That was a new one, witnessing firsthand such a positive impact her work had on a relationship. Having her hand in saving a marriage, however briefly, felt great. Isaac may not believe in love, but Brooke knew one day when she least expected it, love would swoop in and sweep her off her feet. She was sure of it.

  She bounced up on her toes, pleased with herself—until she realized that meant Isaac didn’t
get his client.

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Carlisle’s silent exit was laughable, especially with the way she hugged that vase of flowers as if it had been Mr. Carlisle personally begging her to stop. Not wanting to appear insensitive, Isaac managed to keep the mirth inside by tightening his jaw. Besides, when he thought about it, it was sad, actually.

  “I didn’t mean to lose you a client, though,” Brooke said. Perhaps she’d misread his expression.

  He couldn’t hold his laugh in any longer. “I’m not worried about it. The flowers might have worked for now, but I’d be willing to bet she’ll be back.” He turned to Danielle, who was probably posting pictures of her daughter Gemma on Facebook to appear busy. “Pencil Mrs. Carlisle in for a month from now, same day of the week, same time.”

  “Don’t you mean Gloria Carlisle?” Brooke emphasized the first name. “She doesn’t go by missus anything.”

  “Funny,” he said dryly. “My point, however, remains the same. Pretty words and prettier flowers may work for the moment, but without the actions to back them up, Mr. and Mrs. aren’t going to stay that way for long. They’ll be right back where they were sooner rather than later.”

  “Oh, I’d have to agree with that.”

  He’d expected her to fight him on this.

  A flicker of light flitted in Brooke’s eyes for a moment. Those gorgeous blue eyes that filled that perfect face of hers. Her beauty had intimidated him throughout high school, convinced him she was out of his league enough that he didn’t try again after their brief, but mutual middle school crush. She would always and forever be the one who got away.