The Practically Romantic Groom (Cobble Creek Romance Book 2)

by Maria Hoagland

  Frustrated, he slammed the pen behind his ear and crumpled the paper he’d been scratching on into a ball, his fingers tightening around it, choking the life out of it.

  Isaac allowed the wooden legs of his chair to scrape noisily across the wooden floor as he stood. Surely alerting her that someone else was close by would startle her into silence. He didn’t want to be rude, but how else could he get any work done?

  The melody persisted. Isaac took a deep breath and rounded the bookshelf, mentally preparing what he would say, until he was startled into forgetting every word.

  “B-Brooke?” he stuttered. She was the last person he’d expected to see here. How had he not recognized the hum as hers? “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  Brooke looked up from her spiral notebook, her hair falling over one shoulder in a curtain of blonde waves. There were no headphones, earbuds, or listening devises of any sort. “Hey, Isaac.”

  His frustration dissipated immediately. He may not get much done now, but he hadn’t been before anyway.

  “Are you . . .” He leaned over the table to take a look at her notebook, but she playfully slammed it shut before he could figure out what the words were. “Are you writing too?” Oops. How did he let that slip? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. “Let me guess . . . a romance novel?”

  Brooke didn’t take the bait. “Too?” she echoed. “Are you writing a novel?” Her eyes pinned him, and though he wriggled uncomfortably, he wouldn’t lie.

  “Dabbling.”

  “Dabbling.” She placed her pen next to her pink, sparkly notebook. He liked that she didn’t care if she came across as a six-year-old girl. She gestured to the seat across the table from her. “Where . . .” Her eyes seemed to take in his disheveled appearance, the pen behind his messed-up hair, the crumpled ball of paper in his hand.

  He loosened his grip on the paper and tipped his head to the side, pointing to the stack he’d just come around. “Next table over.”

  “Mind if I join you?” She picked up her notebook and pencil and grabbed her purse off the back of her chair. Apparently she was coming no matter what he said. She smiled, and everything was forgiven. Even if that meant he wouldn’t get a word written tonight.

  “Oh, uh—” Panic reminded Isaac her coming around to his table meant she would see his notes and outline and laptop. What if she thought he was stupid to think he could write a book? He’d rather her see it than him blow her off now. “It’s just on the other side . . .”

  He beat her to the table and gathered up some of the sprawl, straightening the papers into a stack and hiding them in the manila folder where he kept his outline.

  “This looks a little more serious than dabbling.” Did she sound impressed? Maybe this wasn’t the awful revelation he’d worried about. “What are you writing?” She wrinkled her brow. “You’re not taking work home with you?”

  How come he hadn’t come up with that excuse on his own?

  He wouldn’t have told her that anyway.

  “I—” Isaac plopped into his chair heavily, drawing out his announcement to make it sound more important than he felt it was. “—am writing the next great American novel.”

  “Impressive.” Brooke settled into the chair across from him but made no move to open her work.

  “Not really.” He laughed at himself. So what if he didn’t ever reach this goal? At this point it was more about the challenge of making it happen. “Not when there are about fifty billion other people trying to do the same thing.”

  Her face softened at his hyperbole. “I doubt that. But even if that’s true, I think it’s great you’re writing a book. What’s the genre? What is it about?”

  “You would ask that.” How could he sum up an entire plot in one line or two? “I’m aiming for literary—poignant. Very . . . I don’t know . . . important.” He sighed. “I want to be Anthony Doerr when I grow up.” Now he felt silly. “But it’s missing something.”

  “Romance, of course.” She gave him a self-satisfied smirk, which looked pretty dang good on her. “Every book needs a little romance.”

  He was pretty sure Brooke had meant that as a joke, but as he reflected over his plot, he realized he didn’t have any. She probably had a point. “Is that what you read?” Isaac asked, more interested in Brooke than the book he’d been wrestling with for roughly five years.

  Brooke’s petite frame somehow got even smaller as she seemed to squeeze into herself and then let go. “There’s nothing wrong with romance.”

  Isaac sucked in a breath. “Of course not.” He hadn’t meant to offend her. “I don’t exactly read it, but I guess some people do.”

  Brooke raised her chin, ready to take him on, he could tell. “Why do you read?”

  “To learn . . . to experience . . . to escape.” What was she going for here?

  “Exactly.” She pounced like a cat on the last thing he’d said. “I read for the same reasons—especially the escape. And we’re not the only ones. It boils down to what is escape for you is different than it is for me. For some people it’s sci-fi or fantasy. For me, my fantasy is a happily ever after.”

  “I can’t say that my book has a happily ever after,” Isaac mused. “In fact, I can guarantee it doesn’t—”

  Brooke raised both hands to stop him. “Spoiler alert,” Brooke complained.

  Isaac looked up to the ceiling in mock frustration. “If I ever get the dang thing written, the ending might have changed, so don’t worry about trying to remember that.” He knew she was kidding. The genre would have given that much away already. “What about you? What are you working on?”

  Brooke’s cheeks instantly flushed pink, and he thought about backing off since his question obviously set off her own fight-or-flight reaction. Flight, he decided. Should he allow her to evade the question?

  “I think it’s great if you are writing a romance novel.” He tried to be encouraging, even though he might not be able to force himself to read through her whole book if it was romance—except that if she wrote it, maybe he could.

  Brooke gave him an indulgent look and then sighed. A swell of fondness for her washed over him. She was adorable.

  “You’re half right. But not on the novel part,” she said.

  Okay, not what he was expecting.

  Isaac felt his eyebrows pinch together. “What does that mean?” He reached playfully for her spiral but resisted the urge to pull it toward him. “Why so cryptic? Either tell me or don’t.” Actually, the banter was a heck of a lot more fun. Where would the challenge be if she folded and told him everything?

  “Come on, Isaac. Don’t you have any guesses? Take what you know about me and think about it . . .”

  Romantic. Romance novel. Not a novel. Only one idea occurred to him, and he threw it out there even though it couldn’t possibly be. “Poetry?”

  “You’re on the right track . . .” Brooke leaned back in her chair and pulled her long, highlighted tresses over one shoulder, exposing her long neck. A silver chain and pendant slipped down the front of her black shirt. She had no idea the effect she was having on him as she continued to shake her head back and forth slightly, her dangly silver earrings swaying in rhythm. “What else do you know about me?”

  Rhythm. “You’re musical . . .”

  She nodded encouragingly, the earrings swinging like pendulums now. She had her eyes open wide, but her lips clamped together as if she might tell him, but he needed the hint. He still wasn’t getting there. Would she write blogs? Reviews?

  “You can’t be writing music, not without an instrument . . .” But he thought about the tune that had brought him over in the first place. That tune that he heard over and over.

  “You don’t need an instrument to write lyrics.” The highlights on her cheekbones and the exposed skin of her neck flushed pink again and he wondered if it felt warm to the touch.

  “You’re writing songs?” Now he was impressed. As if he wasn’t before.

  “Yes.” Brooke chuckled wryly. �
�Your favorite kind—country.”

  Disappointment tinged his former excitement. He should have known. Even if it wasn’t the first thing that had gone through his mind, it made sense. “So you’re going to be the next Taylor Swift, huh?”

  Dread filled his stomach. Hopefully she wouldn’t write a song about him. The last thing he wanted was a song immortalizing whatever he’d done to cause her to break up with him all those years ago. Then again, he’d finally find out what went wrong. The thought made him smile.

  “Ha ha. And you’re going to be the next John Grisham.” Brooke raised a finger in the air. “Taylor and I may share some similarities, but you won’t ever hear me rap—mark my words.”

  “Duly noted.” Isaac tried not to smile, and flipped his manila folder over to the back. Brooke will not rap, he wrote, and dated it. “Perhaps you should sign this.” He twisted the folder so it was right-side up for her.

  “See?” Brooke took the pen from his hand, her fingers soft as they brushed against his. “I have fans begging for my autograph already.” She signed with a flourish. A wave of nostalgia washed over him. He recognized the handwriting, even if it had matured a little over the years.

  She placed the pen back into his hand, quite the feat from across the table, but he loved every second she fumbled to position his fingers into a writing position. “Should we get back to writing, then?”

  Like he was going to be able to concentrate now. He watched her flip open her notebook, but she tipped it up so he couldn’t see it, giving him a watch-it look over the top of the pages.

  “Unless you want to play another round of gin rummy.” He dangled the offer for a second. “You owe me a movie and popcorn, but if you’d like some soda to wash it down . . . ” Gin rummy was something he could win in his sleep, so her powers of distraction would not control him.

  “I don’t know. I’ve lost so much already.” She tipped her head as if it were the hardest decision of her life.

  “You could win some of it back.” Even as he said this, Isaac knew she wasn’t going for it. It was entertaining watching her squirm, though.

  “I would, but I really wanted to work on this. I was actually making some progress until some burly man stomped around the bookcase to stop me.” The mirth in her eyes showed she was teasing, but he hoped he hadn’t come across that way. “Rain check?”

  “Fine.” He picked up the stack of papers in front of him and rapped them on the table, forming a crisp pile. “Back to work.” Suddenly he wanted to anyway. “Slave driver.” But his mind was already spinning about how he could add a romantic story line to his book.

  He looked up and Brooke was already back to it—her lips silently forming words only she could hear, moving so quickly he couldn’t figure them out. She scratched out something and then looked blankly across the room.

  This was the first time since reconnecting that they hadn’t either talked about the bet, Danielle, Gemma, or Cody, and he liked it.

  “As long as you sing it for me one day,” he mumbled under his breath, already knowing who he needed to add to his outline.

  Chapter Nine

  It didn’t matter that the judge hadn’t found in his favor that morning or that his left sock hadn’t dried out since he’d misjudged the curb in the rain; Isaac was having a good day. The ruling wasn’t that big of a deal—he would find a way to make it work to his advantage—and even if his left foot was soggy, his right was nice and dry.

  Isaac pushed the elevator call button, knowing he should probably take the stairs. He was about to turn when a familiar form joined him.

  “Hey, Jed,” Isaac greeted his buddy, the defense attorney who occupied the other half of the Victorian house-turned-office. “Where are you headed?”

  “I have to be back in court in an hour, so I thought I’d grab a sandwich at the snack bar downstairs. Want to join?”

  Isaac shrugged. “Sure, why not? Everyone’s got to eat.” He’d have plenty of time to write the appeal, and doing so here would give him an opportunity to file it with the court before he left the building.

  The elevator dinged and the two got on, riding to the basement, thick in conversation about the Redrocks’ pre-season until it was their turn to order. A couple of gyros and lemonades later, they found a rickety wire bistro table in the basement courtyard to sit around.

  Jed set a napkin on his lap before taking the lid off his lemonade. “I’m not a huge fan of straws,” Jed explained. “Old habits.”

  The detail fit. Jed was more uptown lawyer than small-town cowboy despite growing up in Cobble Creek. “Hey, do you listen to country music, Jed?”

  His friend stopped folding the gyro’s wax paper into a placemat to look up at Isaac. “Of course. We live in the west. While it’s not the only kind of music, it is part of our culture, and I don’t know about your family, but I was weaned on Randy Travis.” Jed’s sandwich sat untouched while he spoke. “Why?”

  Isaac felt silly, but he hadn’t had any other idea where to begin. “Randy Travis, huh? Would you say he’s good? Or who are your favorite country singers? You know, for reference.” Isaac pulled out his phone to make note of anyone Jed suggested.

  “For reference?” Jed laughed. “That’s a new one.” There was no way the guy would take a bite of his sandwich now. He was laughing too hard to eat.

  “Supposedly they’re good storytellers.” Isaac didn’t want to make fun of Brooke, but he was skeptical. “I figured I might listen to a few, you know, to see if I concur.”

  That made Jed laugh even harder. Isaac kept busy by working on his gyro while it was warm. The gooey combination of pork, feta cheese, hummus, and tzatziki sauce had his taste buds and his stomach happy in a way they hadn’t been in a while. Why did he always forget about this place for lunch?

  Jed surprised him by finally getting himself together. “Okay, dude, who is she?”

  Isaac schooled his face in a bland expression while he forced himself to finish chewing and then swallow a bite. “Who is who?”

  “Oh, no.” Jed shook his head emphatically. “I’m not falling for it. It’s pointless to pretend this sudden willingness to give country music a try doesn’t have something to do with a woman. Fess up—who is she?”

  It probably was pointless, but Isaac could try. “A friend,” he said dismissively.

  “A friend who makes you smile like that?” Jed pegged him with a look. “Don’t put yourself in a position where you’ll commit perjury. I’ve got skills to make you crack.”

  “Ha. I know your tricks.” But why not tell him? He decided it wouldn’t hurt. “Brooke Holt.” He took a sip of his lemonade. “She and I have a bet going.”

  “A bet about country music?”

  “Not exactly.” He would keep it vague.

  Luckily, Jed didn’t push him on it. “Think you’ll win?”

  “I already have—I get to spend time with her.” Isaac realized after the words had slipped out exactly how cheesy that sounded. He needed to save face…and fast. “So … who’s your favorite country singer?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think about it that much. Maybe Darius Rucker. Brooke probably likes Brad Paisley, of course—most women do. I don’t know, man.” Luckily Jed allowed the diversion. Smart man. He pulled out his phone and toggled to the music app. “Pick one and hit play. They’re all good.”

  Chapter Ten

  Brooke checked the time on her phone again and set it back onto the reflective piano top. She wasn’t sure why she kept checking. Isaac would get there when he got there; she’d just finished getting ready way too early. She was pretty glad no one was around to witness how excited she was about this double date—umm, rather, outing—they’d planned with Cody and Danielle.

  Sometime after meeting Gemma, it occurred to Brooke that with her horse obsession, a little impromptu hippotherapy might benefit her. If nothing else, riding might be something she’d enjoy.

  When Brooke pitched the idea to Isaac, he’d been thrilled. “You r
emember Willa Jameson, our second-grade teacher forever ago?” she’d asked him. “Now that she’s retired from teaching, she took over her father’s ranch outside of town where she teaches riding lessons and rents the horses out for excursions. Clearly, she’s great with kids and horses can be therapeutic, so why don’t we see if riding helps Gemma with her anxiety? What do you think—would Danielle be okay with that?”

  Brooke drifted back to the tune she tinkered with on the piano. What had started as a couple of musical phrases was finally forming into a proper song. If she performed it onstage ever, she’d play it on the guitar while she sang, but the piano fit the melody better. If only she could get the words right. More scratches filled her spiral than actual words at this point, starting with cliché country music lyrics about wanting the guy to like her more than his pickup truck and moving to extolling the virtues of small-town life. While true, the song lacked the sincerity necessary for a hit song.

  Brooke perused versions of the song as she flipped through the pages of her pink, sparkly spiral notebook, the boldness of the cover lending her courage where the scratch-outs marked her progression. A decade after the first inklings of desire, Brooke was finally working on the dream she’d had since she was fourteen but never shared with anyone. Until now. She couldn’t believe she’d told Isaac.

  Her fingers kept playing, filling in the bass cleft effortlessly. All those music theory lessons her piano teacher pressed upon her were worth something after all. Did Isaac think she was ridiculous for trying to write a song?

  Hey, that was good. Her thoughts stumbled to a halt when her ears picked up on the next phrase she’d been missing, and if she didn’t stop to write it down, she’d lose it completely. Brooke stopped and pulled the pencil from her messy bun and wrote down the chord progressions, making sure to get the run she’d added for a little fun.