Nesting in North Carolina

by Kirsten Osbourne

  Nesting in North Carolina

  At the Altar Book 16

  Kirsten Osbourne

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  Also by Kirsten Osbourne

  One

  “No. You can’t eat that.”

  Becca Jones grinned at her best friend, Emily Callahan. Emily was glowing with pregnancy—and irritation—as she scowled into a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. “What do you mean I can’t eat it? I’m pregnant. I should be able to eat anything I want, and I want to eat this now.”

  “Not if you don’t want to give you and your little one Salmonella poisoning,” Becca retorted calmly. “You’re going to have to bake it first.”

  “But you know what’s going to happen when I bake it. It will burn!”

  “Oh, stop. You’ve been practicing for months now. Your success rate is up to at least fifty percent.” When Emily stared her down and reached a finger out for a scoop of the cookie dough, Becca whipped out her wooden spoon and smacked the back of her hand. For a moment, she felt just like her Granny Jones.

  Emily screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue. “You’re getting to be as bad as Brodie. Such a little mother hen.”

  To her horror, Becca felt tears rush to her eyes as her face heated in shame.

  “What? No! What did I say?” Emily hurried around the kitchen island as fast as her baby belly would allow and scooped Becca up in a hug. Between them, a sharp kick alerted both women to the presence of the new little Callahan, and Becca gulped back a full-on sob.

  “I’m never going to have a baby.” She pulled away from Emily and grabbed a paper towel to blot at her eyes. “I’m an old maid.”

  “What do you mean ‘an old maid’? You’re only twenty-nine. Who told you that?” Emily demanded, planting her fists on her curvy hips, green eyes flashing.

  Becca blew her nose. “My cousin Evie.”

  “Who does this ‘Evie’ think she is? Do I have to beat her up?”

  Becca gave her a half-smile. “No. Evie can’t help it. She’s always been outspoken. She’s right, though. Ever since she said that, jokingly, at my parents’ New Years party, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. How am I supposed to meet a man if I can’t even look a stranger in the face?”

  Emily herded Becca into one of the chairs at her little pink-and-green enameled dinette table. She poured Becca a mug of coffee and added cream and sugar, just the way Becca liked it. “I’ve been thinking for a while, too,” Emily admitted, sitting down across from her. “I think you should call Dr. Lachele.”

  Becca had heard of Lachele. She owned Matchrimony and had been responsible for introducing Emily and the love of her life, Brodie, a sweet, handsome cowboy from South Dakota . . . at the altar. It wasn’t a conventional way to go about getting married, but Emily now had a beautiful little family—which included the grandfatherly William, Emily’s former doorman from New York who lived in an apartment over the garage, her nephew and soon-to-be adopted son, Alec, and a new baby on the way—and Emily was creating a happily-ever-after life with all of them in a sprawling old Tennessee farmhouse.

  Becca couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t thought of the matchmaker as a solution to her problems. She was cursed with a crippling shyness that made it difficult to speak to anyone, much less a man, and the idea of not having to meet her future husband until she said her vows was appealing.

  She sighed but finally nodded in acceptance. “You’re right. It’s not the way I’d always dreamed it would happen, but unless I really do want to become an old maid, I think Matchrimony might be my only hope.”

  Emily smiled delightedly and clapped her hands together. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Dr. Lachele has a perfect track record. I’ll go find her card, and I just know she’ll find you exactly the man you need.”

  Archer Hayes was looking for the nearest exit.

  He hadn’t really wanted to come to the charity gala to begin with, but since he had a younger sister who had died from the disease at only six years old, he believed in the Children’s Leukemia Foundation’s mission and always did all he could to support their cause. The glittering event was held annually in Asheville, North Carolina, and drew big, wealthy crowds, so theoretically, it was a good time to network for potential clients for his family’s investment firm. At least that was his mother’s opinion. To Archer, the idea was distasteful.

  And right now, his mother was heading purposefully in his direction like a ship in full sail, with a lovely blonde hooked on one arm.

  He was trapped between a potted palm and an elderly couple when his mother, Lavinia Elaine Sutton-Hayes, cornered him. Surrounded in a cloud of Chanel No. 5, she wore a gleaming smile that shone like the gold beading in her formal-length dress and the determination in her pale blue eyes.

  “Sweetheart,” she cooed, leaning forward to air kiss him on one cheek and brush a little nonexistent lint off the lapel of his tux, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She turned to the petite blonde next to her. “I wanted to introduce you to the daughter of a dear friend of mine. This is Harper Woodham . . . her daddy is Wade Woodham. You remember. He owns that chain of restaurants in Raleigh. Her mama and I play racquetball at the Biltmore on Tuesdays.”

  Archer squashed down his annoyance and smiled politely at Harper. It wasn’t her fault that his mother drove him crazy every time she tried to set him up with another young “society” girl. He held out his hand and took her delicate, demurely manicured one, bowing his head slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Woodham.” Harper stared back up at him, her brown eyes wide, lips parted, not saying a word. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, and he almost winced at how young she looked, speechless in her pretty white dress. Archer would be thirty-six on his next birthday and was far too jaded for a naïve little girl like Harper.

  “My apologies,” he said smoothly into the awkward silence, “but if you’ll both excuse me, I see someone across the room I need to speak with.”

  Lavinia grabbed his sleeve with a deceptively tight grip. “Archer, don’t rush off,” she ordered. “You look so handsome in your formal wear. Doesn’t the black and white just suit him right down to the ground with that dark hair of his, Harper?”

  Archer felt himself flush a little, but Harper just stared at him, her mouth still open a little, and gave a faint nod.

  “Mama,” he said firmly. “I’ve got to talk to Devon Halloway. You know, the Devon Halloway that owns the Mercedes dealership in Hendersonville?” If there was one thing that could trump his mother’s matchmaking efforts, it was business.

  “Oh,” she fluttered, releasing him. “Well, if that’s the case, off with you!”

  As he gave Harper an apologetic smile, he quickly moved away, hearing his mother’s voice trailing after him. “Such a devoted son,” she was saying. “He took over Hayes Investments after his father passed, the dear man. He works too hard. He needs a wife to look after him . . .”

  A wife, Archer thought with a wry twist to his lips, ducking out of the ballroom through a side entrance. If he had a wife, he wouldn’t have to deal with Lavinia’s attempts to set him up. Unfortunately, he was too busy running the Hayes empire to find a wife, so the only way he was going to get one was to let his mother play matchmaker.

  He tipped the coat room attendant and headed out into the chilly February night to wait for the valet to bring his car. The cold air felt good after the
heated crush of the gala.

  He slid into his sleek black Jaguar, still brooding over the embarrassment of having Lavinia throw women at him. He was doomed to marry one of the colorless girls she was always parading in front of him . . . unless he found another matchmaker instead.

  “Stop pacing, Rebecca,” Granny Jones boomed out from her easy chair in the corner of the living room. “You’re going to wear a rut in your mama’s floor.”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve changed my mind,” Becca said, a panicky feeling crawling in her stomach as she pulled back the flowered curtain to look down the street again. It was still empty of cars.

  “You can’t change your mind now. That doctor is on her way here, and she’s flown all the way from New York. I know your daddy’s not convinced, but if you ask me—” Granny thumped her cane on the floor for emphasis. “I think an arranged marriage is a fine idea.”

  Becca peeked out the window again. She felt herself start to hyperventilate. A little white sedan was pulling into the driveway. “Answer the door,” she begged her grandma. “Tell her I’m not here.”

  “Good lord, child,” Granny Jones said, scandalized. “I’m not going to lie to the poor woman.”

  The doorbell rang, and feeling lightheaded, Becca went to open it. A petite woman stood on the steps with a briefcase, bright smile and hair the color of the Concord grape juice Becca’s mom canned every fall. “You must be Becca!” she said cheerfully. “Your voice sounded so soft and pretty over the phone, but you’re a stunner in person, aren’t you?” She stepped in without waiting to be asked, or answered, and pulled Becca into such a warm hug that she was reminded of Emily.

  “Ask the woman in, silly!” her grandma hollered from the living room.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” Becca stammered. “Please. Welcome.”

  “Don’t you be nervous, girlfriend,” Dr. Lachele said, giving her a sweet smile. “You’d be surprised at how many of my future brides are scared to death of their interviews.”

  Suck it up, Becca, she told herself fiercely as she took Lachele’s coat. “Welcome to my home,” Becca tried again, pleased when her voice didn’t shake. “If you want to come on into the living room, I can get you something hot to drink.”

  Dr. Lachele chuckled. “You mean you think it’s cold out there? Back in Manhattan, I just missed a raging blizzard that would have cancelled my flight, and the wind chill is almost five below zero. Thirty degrees in Tennessee feels like a heatwave!” She accepted the offer of hot chocolate, though, and introduced herself to Granny Jones, who eyed her purple hair speculatively. Lachele kept up a light chatter as she settled in on the worn sofa with an ease that Becca envied. What would it be like to be that confident?

  But Dr. Lachele was such an easy person to be around that before Becca knew it, she was conversing with no trouble at all. Lachele asked about Emily and the baby—the newest Matchrimony Munchkin, she said. She wanted to know all about Becca’s family, her parents and brothers, and what life was like in the rural mountains of Tennessee. So casually that Becca hardly noticed, Dr. Lachele finally worked her way around to the true reason for her visit.

  “She needs a man,” Granny Jones said bluntly. “Our Becca’s a good girl, but she gets tongue-tied when she tries to talk to people.”

  “Granny . . .”

  “It’s true, and you know it,” Granny Jones shot back, the wrinkles in her face deepening in a frown.

  Becca adored her grandmother, but her outspokenness was so embarrassing sometimes. She looked at Lachele miserably. “It’s true. You’re probably my only chance at marriage, Dr. Lachele.”

  Lachele smiled back kindly. “Don’t you worry about another thing—from what I’ve seen, any man would be lucky to get a woman like you. I’m just surprised they haven’t been beating your door down before now. Maybe they’re intimidated by that grandmother of yours,” she teased, winking at Granny Jones, who cackled appreciatively. “What kind of man are you looking for, Becca?”

  “Tall, dark, and handsome,” she blurted without thinking and blushed hotly.

  “Ah, an old cliché for a reason.” Lachelle flipped a notebook open and chuckled as she started making notes. “What about personality? Likes? Dislikes?”

  “Really, I don’t mind. I can get along with all sorts of people.”

  Granny Jones snorted. “You let me handle this part, Rebecca. You’re too sweet for your own good.” Becca tried to protest, but Granny Jones levered herself creakily out of her chair, standing as tall as an 89-year-old 4’ 11” woman could make herself, and thumped her cane on the floor again. “She needs someone to take care of her. Our Becca bends over backward for everyone else. She cleans nine houses a week, working those pretty hands until they’re callused and worn, and if she keeps it up, she’ll be old before her time. Gives all her money away, too, to the church and charity and family and what-have-you. Find her a rich, handsome man, Dr. Lachele. She deserves it.”

  “Really, Granny? No,” Becca insisted. “I don’t care if he lives in a shack, and I was kidding about the dark and handsome thing. I’d be happy with a widower with children to take care of. I honestly like to work. It makes me feel useful.”

  Dr. Lachele just watched the two of them with interest, a broad smile on her face, and went back to jotting notes in her book.

  In the three weeks since the charity fundraiser, Lavinia had been showing up wherever Archer happened to be, at least once a day, dragging poor Harper along with her. Enough was enough. He had an appointment in just a few minutes that would stop her matchmaking efforts in the most permanent way possible. When his personal assistant rang through to tell him that his one o’clock had arrived, Archer pushed his chair back from his heavy cherrywood desk, and headed for the hallway. His assistant, Donna, was just rounding the corner with a woman who looked like a short, plump, purple-haired elf.

  Hiding his surprise at Dr. Lachele’s appearance, he shook her hand. “Well, aren’t you just the epitome of ‘tall, dark, and handsome.’” She grinned, returning his handshake briskly. Donna looked between the two of them, her eyes wide.

  Archer’s lips quirked reluctantly in a grin. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Simpson. Why don’t we step into my office? Donna, could you bring us a couple of bottles of water please?”

  Donna dragged her curious gaze away and trotted down the hall.

  “Call me Lachele. Well, Mr. Hayes, you have quite an office here.” She ran an appreciative gaze over the floor-to-ceiling windows, the antique, masculine furniture, and the heavy Turkish rugs on the floor.

  “Thank you,” he replied wryly, sitting down at his desk and motioning Dr. Lachele to a chair. “I can’t take credit, though. It was my father’s.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lachele said, her eyes glimmering sympathetically. “You said that in past tense. Has he passed away?”

  “Yes. About twelve years ago. I was twenty-four when I took over the firm.”

  “Hmm. Young for that kind of responsibility.”

  Archer laughed humorlessly. “I’d been groomed for it.”

  Donna tapped tentatively at the door and brought in their bottles of water. “Mr. Hayes,” she whispered. “Your mother is here to see you. She’s, uh, she’s brought Miss Harper.”

  Archer let out a sigh and only just managed to not roll his eyes. “Tell my mother I’m in an important meeting and I’ll call her later please.”

  “Mother troubles?” Dr. Lachele asked kindly when Donna had left again.

  “You have no idea. She’s trying to set me up—again—with a girl of her choosing. That’s why I called you. If I’m being pestered into marriage anyway, I’m going to need someone who doesn’t care about money and who is strong enough to stand up to a meddling mother-in-law.”

  “Mr. Hayes.” Lachele’s voice was firm, and she sat forward to pin him with her gaze. “I match people who I believe will make a good life together, people who will care for and support each other, fall in love, share in trials and troubles, and
provide me with Munchkins to spoil. I don’t deal in marriages of convenience. You need to be prepared to treat your match with as much consideration as you would if you had known and loved the woman for years. Unless you can convince me that you are interested in a real marriage—and not just a convenient arrangement to stop your mama’s meddling—we have no further business to discuss.”

  Archer leaned back, somewhat surprised but impressed by Dr. Lachele’s obvious dedication to her . . . craft. He let himself actually think about it; he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not under threat of torture, but he was tired. Tired of his mother’s scheming, of course. Tired of being solely responsible for the Hayes’s millions. And most of all, tired of coming home to a big, empty house, where he rattled around like a pebble in a tin can, all by himself. He wanted someone to like him for himself, and darn it, he was lonely.

  “Yes,” he finally replied. “I’m willing to give marriage my full dedication. I need . . . I would like a wife to share my life with.”

  “In that case,” Dr. Lachele responded, her expression softening into a smile as she took out a purple notebook and a sparkly pen, “tell me all about yourself, Archer.”

  Two

  “I’m going to hyperventilate.” Breathe, she told herself. You can do this. But Becca couldn’t help it. She was coming close to panic territory. She looked around the pretty retiring room of the church with frantic eyes, wondering if there was a drainpipe outside the window she could slide down and escape. Not that she could get far in what she was wearing. Her entire family had chipped in to buy her a wedding gown—even her cousin Evie—and it was beautiful. Virginal white, with smooth satin and lace so delicate it looked like it was woven from cobwebs. She was afraid to move, much less run.