“Hold on a minute,” Walt said. “That sounds like a long road trip.”
“It’s August,” Jeri reminded him. “We have about four more weeks until winter shuts everything down up here except the hunters. That’s just about enough time. It would be a wonderful trip through some beautiful country. I say, gas up and go. Mitch and Walt can do the flying while you’re gone, and I’ll man the office. You’re only young once, isn’t that right, Walt?”
Walt stared. “Whose side are you on?”
“And another thing, Walt,” Jeri continued. “That hovel Cameron’s living in should be condemned. She needs better housing. That should be part of her new pay package.”
“Pay package?” Walt was dumbfounded. What had come over her? A few moments ago they’d been going at it, hot and heavy on the couch. Now she was acting like the CEO of Tim Hortons.
“If you want Walt’s Flying Service to survive, you need to run it like a business,” Jeri said. “You have to hire the best pilots you can, and pay them the best you can. Cameron’s by far the best pilot you have, but Mitch makes more than she does because he’s a man. That sort of discrimination has to stop.”
“Mitch makes more than me?” Cameron asked. “How much more?”
“I left you because you didn’t appreciate me,” Jeri said to Walt. “I landed a good paying government job in Yellowknife because I’m talented, smart and a good worker. I was handed all the benefits from the get-go. You should’ve seen the office where I worked. Unlike you, the government spares no expense, but I’ll be the first to admit that money isn’t everything. It’s not even close. I was miserable there. I missed this place so much. I even missed you, Walt. Hard to believe, isn’t it? So I quit that easy government job, and I came back. I’m staying, but this time around things are going to be different. I’m not going to be your coffee maker, your errand girl, or your bed warmer. I’m going to be your wife, and I’m going to run this place the way it should be run, before you run it right into the ground. And, Walt, I promise I’m going to make you the happiest man north of 60.”
She bent and kissed him full on the mouth, and he stared at her afterward and forgot all the arguments he was going to make. “We’re getting married?”
“You’re making an honest woman out of me, in exchange for me saving your failing business. It’ll be a good partnership. As for the two of you,” she continued, shifting her attention to Jack and Cameron, “Jack knows what I’m talking about when I say life’s shorter than you think. Don’t waste a lot of time chasing after things that don’t matter. Find the things that really matter, and hang on to them. Hang on tight and don’t let go.”
She got up, grabbed a set of keys off the bulletin board next to Walt’s radio chair and tossed them to Jack. “Now vamoose. Have a good trip, and we’ll see you both when you get back. Right now, me’n Walt need to finish our serious discussion.”
* * *
CAMERON AND JACK exited the office trailer and stood for a moment on the porch. They cast sidelong glances at each other, then looked at the SUV. No further damage had been wrought by the dog sitting erectly in the passenger seat, waiting for Jack. It seemed Ky was settling down.
“I’m glad Jeri’s back,” Cameron said, “but I can’t help but feel a little sorry for Walt.”
“Jeri’s just what Walt needs.” Jack descended the steps, his car keys in hand. He paused when he reached the bottom. “About that four-week road trip,” he began.
She stopped beside him and felt the familiar tightness in her chest that made it so hard to breathe. “Oh, that Jeri. She likes to kid around.”
“Sounded like a good plan to me,” Jack said. “I’ll see if I can arrange an extended leave to see my mother, maybe even enough time for us to go visit Minnie and see that lodge you like so much. And I’ll start the ball rolling on my discharge.”
Cameron was astonished. Had she read him all wrong? Did he really want her tagging along when he went to visit his mother in Montana? Did he really want to go with her to see that lodge of Minnie’s in Yukon?
“Are you really getting out of the army?” she asked.
“I am,” he said. “I don’t know how long the discharge process will take, but I’m coming back here. I don’t know why you don’t trust me. Maybe it’s because of Roy, maybe it’s because of your mother, I don’t know. I only know Jeri gave us some good advice, and I think we should take it. We should head south together tomorrow morning. It sure as hell beats that clean break you were so set on. So what do you say? Want to see Montana?”
Cameron struggled to breathe. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She wanted to speak but couldn’t do that either, so she nodded, because a nod was all she could manage.
“Good. Now that that’s out of the way, what do you say we go back to your place and have a serious discussion of our own?”
She nodded again through a blur of tears, laughing and crying at the same time.
He drew her into his arms, and she hung on tight. She clung to him because she needed him more than she’d ever needed anything or anyone. Until Jack Parker had walked into her life, she’d been as lost as his dog, and hadn’t even known it. Jeri was right. She had found what really mattered, and she was never letting go.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from WOOING THE WEDDING PLANNER by Amber Leigh Williams.
Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!
Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003
Join Harlequin My Rewards & Instantly earn a FREE ebook of your choice.
Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever & whenever you shop.
Turn your points into FREE BOOKS.
Don’t miss out. Reward the book lover in you!
Register Today & Earn a FREE BOOK*
*New members who join before Dec. 31, 2016 will receive 2000 points redeemable for eligible titles.
Click here to register
Or visit us online to register at
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Superromance.
You want romance plus a bigger story! Harlequin Superromance stories are filled with powerful relationships that deliver a strong emotional punch and a guaranteed happily ever after.
Enjoy four Harlequin Superromance stories every month!
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
Wooing the Wedding Planner
by Amber Leigh Williams
CHAPTER ONE
MONDAYS SUCKED ENOUGH without the grim implications of Valentine’s Day.
Byron Strong thought seriously about calling in sick. Then he remembered what had happened the last time he’d done just that. Not a half hour after he’d vetoed the workday, he found his father, mother and two sisters on the threshold offering him a bevy of pity food and head patting.
Byron cringed. No. Not the head patting. The idea chased him from the seductive warmth of flannel sheets and into the shower, where he confronted the scalding spray, head up and shoulders back.
His ritual morning routine helped dull his unmotivated subconscious. He made himself a double espresso with the top-rated espresso machine he’d splurged on—money very well spent. Meticulously, he did all the things any other sane man in his shoes would’ve liked to skip today of all days—shaved, brushed, flossed... He checked the weather before choosing khaki slacks, a black tie and a bl
ack sports coat. He stuffed his dress shoes in his briefcase before donning his favorite Nike running shoes and an overcoat and hoofing it to work.
If the hot shower hadn’t shocked him awake, the chill whistling through the streets of Fairhope, Alabama, did. It was a brisk five-block walk to the office, mostly uphill. In the spring, it seemed everyone who lived close to downtown strolled to work in the mornings. In winter, usually only those who needed the exercise or a swift wake-up call ventured out without transport. Byron had memorized the cheery bright storefronts, quaint shops, charming courtyards, alleyways and French Creole architecture that were all trademark to Fairhope’s appeal.
Fairhope was nothing short of spectacular in the spring—like something from a book or a dream. By June, the weather was hot enough to melt plastic. By August, only the brave walked the scalding pavement. The rest—the wise—remained behind cool glass and central air. Winter weather didn’t show up until late November. Maybe. It rarely snowed, and when it did it came down more wet than fluffy, coating everything in ice.
The few months of cold made the residents of the bay-front village wish for their blistering summers that melted plastic and tarmac and made even the hummingbird mosquitoes fight for shade. Ducking his head, Byron kept his face out of the wind and prayed the office coffeepot had already punched in.
Grimsby, Strong & Associates was on Fels Avenue. Byron entered through the back door of the small accounting firm, which was his baby. He lifted the cross-body strap of his briefcase over his head.
The scent of coffee hit him. He almost groaned in relief and made a beeline for it.
Tobias Grimsby, his brother-in-law, planted his six-feet-seven-inch frame in the kitchen doorway and brought Byron up short. “Dude. You know what day it is. Right?” Wariness coated every inch of his espresso-toned face.
“I’m a human popsicle,” Byron muttered. Desperate to get to the coffee, he ducked under Grim’s arm. “Out of my way.”
Grim stayed on his bumper. “You want to go home?” he asked in his deep Kentucky baritone. “Go if you wanna.”
Byron tried not to dive for the pot. It was a near thing. He poured a mug to the lip, drank it straight. Refilled. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Stepinsky at nine. Your appointment with the Levinsens isn’t until eleven. You didn’t have to come in early.”
“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” Grim proclaimed with all the gravity of a general briefing his troops on a mortal campaign.
Byron offered Grim as deadpan a look as he could manage. “Damn. Sorry, man. I didn’t get you anything.”
Grim tilted his head slightly, measuring Byron’s face. “So...you’re okay?”
Byron jerked a shoulder and eyed the box of croissants their secretary, Kath, had picked up from the bakery. Yeah; he could do fifty extra sit-ups if it meant chowing down on one of those bad boys. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another Monday.” He sipped his coffee and clapped Grim on the arm. “Relax. You’ve got the Carltons today at two?”
“Two thirty,” Grim corrected.
“You’ll be lucky to get out of here before your hot date tonight.”
“Ah,” Grim said, reaching up to scratch the underside of his chin. “About that. I was thinking we could do a guys’ night. Just us.”
The mug stopped halfway to Byron’s mouth. He narrowed his eyes on Grim’s innocent expression. “This is your first date night with ’Cilla in weeks and you want to spend it with me?” He frowned. “Is this some half-cocked scheme the two of you cooked up?”
“There’s no scheme,” Grim said with derision that didn’t quite ring true. “Maybe ’Cilla’s sick of me. Maybe I’m sick of her. The further along she gets, the crankier she is.”
“It’s a mother-effing pity party with ’Cilla’s prints all over it,” Byron said, pointing at Grim. “And denying it further will only insult my intelligence.”
Grim’s eyes rolled briefly before he sighed, his shoulders settling into a yielding line. “I told the woman it was a bad plan. You can spot a lie miles offshore. She doesn’t listen.”
The sound of the phone in his office drew his attention. Byron snatched a croissant. “Do me a favor. Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
“It’s probably your mother,” Grim warned.
Dear God, he hoped not. They couldn’t be starting this early. Not all of them. Byron walked through the first door on the right. He set his briefcase behind the desk and settled into the rolling chair before reaching for the phone. Bringing it to his ear, he answered, “This is Byron Strong.”
“Byron. It’s your mother.”
Byron closed his eyes. He reached for his temples, where a headache was already starting to gnaw. “Hi, Ma. Happy Valentine’s.”
“That’s exactly why I’m calling—”
“So you got the flowers,” Byron interrupted smoothly. “I told Adrian orchids.”
“Yes,” Vera stated. “They’re beautiful. You did good.”
“My mitéra deserves nothing less.” He tapped his knuckles on his desk calendar. “Hey, listen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got an early meeting. Can I call you back?”
“No, you may not,” Vera said, undeterred. “I called to invite you to dinner this evening.”
Byron rolled his head against the chair. “Ma...”
“No, no. It’s all planned. We’re doing chickens. Your father wants to try his hand at roasting them.”
“That’s...tempting.” Byron fought a grimace as he recalled the last time his well-meaning yet culinarily deficient father had tried to roast something. His stomach roiled. “Yeah. I’m gonna pass.”
“And why is that?” Vera asked, tone sharpening to cleave.
“Because I’ve already fielded one pity party this morning,” he explained, frowning at the door to Grim’s office across the hall. “Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Byron’s gaze fell on the framed black-and-white photo on his desk. It was the five of them—Byron; his father, Constantine; his mother, Vera; and his sisters, Priscilla and Vivienne—standing on the beach in Gulf Shores. On Christmas Day, they always drove to the coast to sit shoulder to shoulder in the sand, drink eggnog out of flasks, wrap themselves in woolen blankets and watch the waves charge and thunder into shore. He scanned one smiling face and then another before closing his eyes again and pinching the skin between them. Nosy. But well-meaning. Every single one of them. He lowered his voice as he spoke again. “It’s been six years.”
“Six years today,” she reminded him.
“I’m aware,” he told her.
“So you won’t change your mind about dinner?”
Byron’s mouth moved into something like a smile. “I want you and Pop to go out. Find a Greek place. Drink a bottle of ouzo. Make out in front of somebody other than me.”
Vera gave a quiet laugh. “Well. I suppose we could do that. But only if you promise—”
“I won’t spend the night at home in my bathrobe,” Byron said quickly. “Gerald hosted a poker night at his place over the weekend and I lost, which means I’ll be picking up his wife’s shift at the tavern, since she’s still on maternity leave.”
“And after that?”
“I just got the new season of Game of Thrones on DVD,” Byron assured her. “With that and a six-pack of Stella in the fridge, Valentine’s Day couldn’t end any better.”
“Hmm.”
Byron went another route, a sincere one. “Hey, Ma? I love ya.”
Vera sighed. “I love you, too. You’re my only son.”
“I know,” Byron replied. “And I mean it—happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Call me later.”
“Will do. Bye.” Byron hung up the phone. He eyed his coffee. Cold now. With a fr
own, he turned toward his computer monitor to switch it on. “Hey, Kath,” he called. “Can you bring me another cup of coffee, please?”
No sooner had the computer hummed to life than the sunny voice of Constantine Strong filled the room. “No need, darlin’. I got what our boy needs right here.”
“Jiminy Christmas,” Byron muttered, exasperated.
“Christmas was a month and a half ago,” Constantine stated as he folded his tall, skinny frame into one of the guest chairs on the other side of the desk. With his too-long legs spread wide in a comfortable slouch, the effect was very praying mantis. “Wake up, son. It’s nearly Mardi Gras.”
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Byron asked suspiciously as his father set one of the go cups he carried onto the desk.
“Oh, just a little rocket fuel for my space pirate.” Constantine grinned, a reminiscent gleam in his eye that took Byron back to his childhood obsession with the final frontier.
He eyed the cup. Great. Now they were going after his weakness for controlled substances. This put last year’s cheese basket to shame. “I’m fine, damn it.”
The mantis eyed Byron through rose-tinted lenses. There weren’t too many lines in Constantine’s face, although his long hair, pulled back into his typical man bun, had gone gray a decade before. He sported snug mustard-hued pants, a red shirt and a navy blue peacoat, and had a silver loop on his left lobe, where a black shark’s tooth dangled. He looked absurd, off-the-wall and somehow together and completely at ease—one with the earth. An aging hippie who refused to be anything but himself. “Go on,” he said finally, gesturing to the go cup. “You know you want it.”
Byron reached for it. Hot. Mm, yeah. Just the way he liked it... “Only if we play a round of ‘Guess Who’s Not Coming to Dinner.’”
A Soldier's Pledge Page 25
