The Practically Romantic Groom (Cobble Creek Romance Book 2)

by Maria Hoagland

  Almost an hour later, Brooke was waiting when Frankie rang her doorbell. “Hey, friend.” Brooke hugged Frankie and let her in. “You are a lifesaver.”

  More than needing her piano tuned, she needed friend company. The best cure for getting over a bruised heart.

  Frankie shook her head. “You know I’ve tuned your piano every year since you got it.”

  “I know, but now you’re going to teach me to tune it myself.” Brooke led her into the front room where she’d already disconnected the music holder. “That’s progress, right?”

  Frankie dropped onto the couch, allowing the satchel of piano tuning equipment to fall from her hand. “I don’t necessarily see it as a progression thing, but if you want to … okay.” Her eyes fluttered closed for a second longer than blinking and opened again slowly.

  “You look exhausted. Are you okay?” Brooke tried not to hover over her friend, but she really did look pale. “You’re not sick, are you? Because we could totally do this another day.”

  Frankie breathed out a short laugh and sat up straighter. “Just a little queasy, nothing to worry about. Unless … Hey, you’re good with plants and you have that beautiful herb garden. Any ideas what might help?”

  “Okay, now I know you’re sick, because not only are you queasy, but you also seem to be confusing me with Mr. Graham. And I’m not talking about the peppermint shake.” Not a bad idea, considering her garden. “But I do have mint. In fact, I have so much of it, I looked up recipes and came across one I was going to try for a cucumber, ginger, and mint lemonade. How does that sound?”

  “I’ll try anything.” Frankie stood and took in a long breath as if determining that mind over nausea was a thing.

  “All the ingredients are in my fridge, so it’ll only take a few minutes for me to assemble it.” Brooke took a few steps toward the kitchen, but looked over her shoulder to check on her friend one last time. Frankie stood with a hand on her stomach, but moved it as soon as she noticed Brooke looking her way. There was something up, but it wasn’t an illness, and Brooke knew exactly what it was.

  “I’ll just get started on tuning the piano while you make the lemonade,” Frankie called as Brooke stepped from the room.

  Working to a background of piano keys being struck repetitively, Brooke could hear the warbling of the out-of-tune notes. She’d known it was time to get it done again when things were sounding a little sour the other day, but she hadn’t taken the time to listen to each individual note so closely.

  She chopped cucumber, squeezed lemon, grated ginger, and added ice water and fresh mint leaves. It would probably be stronger if she’d prepared it the day before, but what could she do last minute? With her suspicions of Frankie’s stomach issues, Brooke added a couple shortbread cookies to a plate and brought out a tray with the refreshments beautifully laid out, feeling like Wyoming’s Martha Stewart.

  “How goes it?” Brooke set the tray on the coffee table near the piano. “Ready for a break and to tell your best friend about your pregnancy?”

  Frankie did a double take and then laughed. “I guess I blew that one if I wanted to keep it a secret any longer. I should have known you’d figure it out.”

  Brooke looked at her askance. “I think it’s a good thing you let the clues slip, because you know I’d be upset if you didn’t tell me first.” She handed a sweating glass to Frankie and then lifted her own in a toast. “Congratulations!” She sipped her drink. It actually was quite refreshing. “How long have you known?”

  “Only a few weeks,” Frankie said. “We won’t start telling people for another couple of months, I assume.”

  Brooke nodded. That made sense, but she was glad to be in the know. “So how do you feel about it? Are you excited, nervous, disappointed?”

  Frankie wrinkled her nose in anticipation of a distasteful answer. “All three, if I’m honest.” She waved her hand through the air. “I don’t really mean that. I’m not disappointed. But it’s a bit quick after a December wedding, you know. I’m going to miss the newlywed phase of life, I think. Though it’s never really been the two of us, so in some ways, it won’t be all that different.”

  The easy way she spoke about it and Frankie’s carefree body language said it all. There was no way the woman regretted the decision.

  “I’ve loved having this time to get to know Harper too. I never knew having a daughter could be so much fun.” Frankie picked up a cookie. “Having an eleven-year-old is the best. She’s great with conversation, always wants to help, and so very loving. I’m afraid I’ve gotten spoiled, and a newborn will be quite a challenge after Harper. Though the experience with Harper may also give me hope of what the payoff will be.” She grinned at that. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

  Brooke shook her head emphatically and crossed her feet at the ankles, settling in for more girl talk. “No, you aren’t rambling, you’re sharing. Which is exactly what I need right now.” Over the last few minutes, Brooke had been able to push her own concerns out of her mind. It was way more fun to be happy for a friend’s joyful circumstances. She raised her eyebrows, encouraging Frankie to go on.

  “My only concern is that I don’t want Harper to feel replaced when the baby comes. But we also didn’t want much more time between Harper and her sibling either.” This time when Frankie laid a hand on her stomach, she let it stay for a moment longer, and Brooke could see the protective mother in her childhood friend. Frankie continued, “I really am excited. A year ago, I never would have thought I’d go from being single to being part of a family of four.”

  “You’re such a great mom with Harper; you’ll be a fantastic mom of two.” Brooke watched Frankie nibble on her cookie and decided to have one of her own. “But this is exactly why you need to teach me to tune my own piano. You aren’t always going to have the time for me.”

  “Oh, not true. I will always make time for you. I’ll need it too, you know. Especially if you agree to babysit for me,” Frankie teased. “That might be the perfect trade-off.”

  “Maybe it will.” Brooke pictured the joy in Isaac’s demeanor when he and Gemma were together. She could have fun being Auntie Brooke.

  “What about you?” Frankie finished her cookie and followed it with another sip of the lemonade. She reached for the piano wrench, moved the rubber mute to the next set of strings she planned to tune, and hit the key for a listen. “What’s going on with Isaac?”

  How could she even hear well enough to tune and have a conversation at the same time? But Frankie didn’t seem to worry about it.

  “Isaac is such a skeptic—occupational hazard, he says, but he insists love doesn’t work.”

  “And you seem to think it works for everyone but you.” While the words themselves were harsh, Frankie spoke them with no malice.

  Brooke took a moment to think it over, remembering her previous relationships. “You might be right, but can you blame me? This thing with me and Isaac—case in point. I really thought we were progressing toward something.” Brooke wiggled in her seat, trying to figure out what she was actually feeling and what she wanted to say about it. “You think you jumped in rather quickly. Well, it seems I might have too.”

  Frankie hit the key she was tuning, turned the wrench, and hit it again. The warble was gone. “How so?” She really wasn’t doing all that much teaching, but that was okay.

  Brooke set her glass on the end table and tucked her feet up underneath her. “We almost kissed this morning and I was ready. Then, maybe half an hour later, he tells me why he’s glad we’re just good friends.” Saying it out loud made her chest hurt again. “Somehow over the past few weeks, I have moved past the friendship point. Way past.” She didn’t want to be too dramatic, but she needed to tell someone. “With Logan, it wasn’t bad to be friend-zoned.” She was pleased when a smile tugged on Frankie’s lips. “Mutually friend-zoned,” she corrected herself. “But for a good reason—you.”

  Realization made Brooke’s stomach clench tighter, and she took a drin
k of her lemonade. If it worked for Frankie, maybe it could settle her insides as well. “You don’t think Isaac’s seeing someone, do you? Am I too late?”

  Frankie shook her head. She was busy moving up an octave. “You said yourself his problem is with love, not you.” She struck the key and tightened the string, raising the pitch incrementally. “He’s not seeing anyone else. So your job is to get him to believe in love. Then he’ll see you.”

  “Oh, easy-peasy.” Brooke laughed sardonically. If they had made no headway the past few weeks, there wasn’t anything she could think of that would change his feelings.

  “I’m sure working the Rowe case hasn’t helped his theory of doomed love.” Frankie shook her head. “Defending Steve Rowe would challenge anyone’s belief in a happily ever after.”

  Brooke wrinkled her brow at the sudden shift in the conversation. “He’s Steve Rowe’s attorney?” The whole town knew about Steve and Victoria’s divorce. “Steve is an absolute jerk. Who leaves his wife of less than two years with a baby? She quit school for him, quit her job for the baby. Then, just when Steve made sure Tori was completely dependent upon him, he threw her—and his own baby—out with the trash. Ugh.” This information was making her head hurt worse than her chest and stomach. If this kept up, she’d end up in full-body pain. She had to convince herself Isaac wasn’t worth making herself sick over. Only a man who didn’t believe in love—or decency—could stand up for the decrepit Steve Rowe.

  “I thought you knew,” Frankie said so softly, Brooke almost didn’t hear her.

  “That Isaac is defending the jerk? No, I didn’t.” Brooke didn’t want to believe it was possible. Embarrassment at not knowing shrouded her along with a layer of shame. What kind of man was Isaac?

  Two entire notes were tuned with silence between them before Brooke spoke again. “Maybe I’m better off without him, then.”

  Frankie swiveled on the piano bench, turning away from the instrument to face Brooke. “I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. I’m just saying make sure you really know him—what he values, his level of integrity—and make sure you listen to what he is telling you about himself before it is too late.”

  Brooke would definitely need some time to process what she was hearing. While Isaac didn’t care about romance, did that extend to a complete dismissal of responsibility and common decency in a relationship? Her stomach clenched again. She couldn’t think about it anymore. Not while Frankie was here.

  “So morning sickness … not such a great thing, huh? Is it absolutely awful?” Brooke wasn’t sure she’d ever want to go through it herself.

  “It’ll be worth it.” Frankie went along with the subject change. “Also, the lemonade helped. Mind sharing the recipe?”

  “Of course. And I’ll send you home with the ingredients. Anything for a friend.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The fourth time his call to Brooke went straight to her voicemail, Isaac knew he needed to force a face-to-face meeting. Something had happened that morning at his house, but danged if he had a clue what it was.

  Here Isaac was, sprawled out on the floor inches thick in popcorn texture pieces to rest, ears rubbed raw from wearing the mask for several hours straight, lying in pretty much the same spot again where he and Brooke had been when they were discussing Cody and Danielle. Everything had been fine with Brooke then, as far as he could tell. It had been an amazing morning—better than he’d planned with the impromptu foosball competition, and— His stomach swooped at the memory of Brooke’s teasing almost-kiss. He wished he’d reached out and pulled her to him at that point. She had him wrapped around her little finger, and he enjoyed every second of it. But if he had kissed her when he had the chance, would things be better now?

  So was she upset that he hadn’t done just that? Is that what changed between them? She’d slowly gotten surlier and surlier until they were both relieved for her to leave, and it made absolutely no sense.

  He was done scraping the ceiling in this room. That only left about a million more square feet of ceiling to clear in the rest of the house. Or so it felt. In actuality, this was a rather small house, and he’d recently found himself wondering if he would sell it sooner rather than later if things worked out between him and Brooke. He’d even daydreamed about calling up Tess Graham, the real estate agent, to take the two of them house hunting. He’d pictured the whole scenario with an engagement ring on Brooke’s graceful hand as she ran it across countertops or trailed it up banisters. Ha. Not now.

  Now he was getting the silent treatment.

  Unless something else was wrong.

  As soon as the idea popped into his mind, Isaac started obsessing on it. Brooke had mentioned she was going to be home all afternoon, so why wouldn’t she answer her phone? If she was bugged by him, the least she could do was give him the opportunity to apologize for whatever it was he’d done or said.

  Without bothering to shower, he jumped, covered in texture dust, into his car—he’d pay for that later when he had to get his car detailed—and landed on her doorstep within minutes. Brooke would either find the gesture romantic or downright creepy. He was aiming for the first.

  The same melody he’d recognized from the bookstore played, this time a little longer than he remembered from a week ago, and he hoped she was happy with the progress. It was a catchy tune. When he rang the doorbell, the song stopped mid-phrase, but after a moment, the music started again. Had he seen the curtain move out of the corner of his eye? Had she looked out, seen him standing there, and decided to ignore him? Fire sparked in his chest. Common decency said she should hear him out. Why would she avoid talking about what was bothering her?

  Isaac considered ringing the bell again, but he opted for a text instead. Even if she wouldn’t open the door, she’d probably read a text. Hey, MM, it’s me on your doorstep. What did I do to make you mad? Could you please come talk to me?

  After a few more measures, the tune stopped again. So she was reading his message. That was good. Better if she responded, but he’d have to wait to see.

  When nothing happened for a few seconds, Isaac turned to leave. He’d done what he could. He wouldn’t put up with the silent treatment. If she didn’t want to talk, he was done trying to make her. It was eighth grade all over again. Given their history, he should have expected this eventually, but he’d thought—erroneously, obviously—that she’d matured a little since then. So much for that idea.

  He was almost to his car when the door opened behind him. He was determined not to turn around.

  “I thought you believed in love. I thought you believed in loyalty. How in the world can you defend Steve Rowe?” Each sentence was sent like a poison arrow, sharp-toned and aimed at his heart.

  She wanted to talk of loyalty? What did she know about the case? He couldn’t let it slide, and turned around and stomped toward her. “I guess I should have expected something like this from you.” The hot flame of embarrassment welled up in Isaac’s chest. Was she really doing this to him all over again with some made-up, false accusation as an excuse to no longer see him? “I suppose I should count myself lucky you’re telling me why this time.”

  “Seriously, you’re bringing up what happened more than a decade ago? Get over it already. This isn’t middle school.”

  With a death grip on his patience, Isaac ignored her comment. She was the one acting like it was middle school. Somehow instead, he managed a halfway civil “There might be more to the Rowe case than you or the community knows. Not every relationship is a love song. Not every relationship should be saved.”

  Isaac couldn’t believe how good it felt to have the last, and only, word on the situation. He turned his back on Brooke, sequestered himself into his car, and drove off with her still standing in her doorway.

  * * *

  Maybe the vindictive part of him felt satisfied for a moment or two that Saturday evening as he drove away from Brooke’s, but regret flooded in as soon as he passed The Flower Girl shop minutes l
ater. Of course he hated that she jumped to conclusions, but the whole town was, so why wouldn’t she? In fact, it had been a strategic decision made more by Victoria Rowe but thoroughly endorsed by Isaac. Knowing the judge as he did, Isaac felt Steve stepping back from town gossip would be more persuasive than trying to fight back or besmirch Victoria’s name in any way. To the judge, Tori would look petty. And wrong.

  And yet, to have Brooke think the worst of him cut Isaac deeply.

  Isaac thought he’d developed thick skin over the years. Lawyer jokes with their pointed barbs had prepared him for people’s prejudiced ideas against his profession. Add to that the assumption that he, as a family law attorney, enjoyed “tearing apart” families when his real motive was to protect and give a voice to those who were unable to speak up for themselves.

  He understood that as a public defender, he wouldn’t have been able to choose his cases, which Brooke might have been able to handle. But with his being a private practice, she probably felt he had the leeway to choose only cases he could morally get behind. Which was probably why Brooke was so upset. She thought she knew the issues behind the Rowe divorce—as if it were the community’s business in the first place—and therefore, she’d convicted Isaac of being a reprehensible slime. Maybe not in so many words, but she sure acted like that’s what she thought. The thing was, she didn’t know the truth. And he couldn’t tell her.

  Which was why here he was, two weeks later, still agonizing over the argument between them. Isaac wanted nothing more than to tell Brooke the truth, to justify his actions once and for all; but would it make a real difference? Was it too much to ask for someone to know him, love him enough not to question his motives when he was doing his best to help?

  He allowed the frustration to burrow deeper, widening the gap between them, yet thoughts of it were never far away. The more he analyzed that Saturday at his house, the more convinced he was that there was something more driving that wedge between them.