“Well, well, well.” He turned to Cal. “What are your intentions with my daughter, young man?”
Cal glanced her way and his face softened. “I love her, sir. I promise I will take good care of her and Taz.”
“I’m not impressed with your money. Taking care of my daughter has more implications than just paying the bills.”
He nodded. “I agree. I will do all I can to make sure they’re happy and able to have all the opportunities and experiences they’d desire.”
Trevor pursed his lips. “It’s a pretty speech. What does it mean, son?”
Haley schooled her expression. They’d moved from young man to son pretty quickly.
“I’m going to be there for her when she needs me. A hundred percent of the time. No exceptions. Taz too.”
Haley swallowed down the emotion in her throat, but tears still threatened to spill. She wanted to be there for Cal too. She loved him completely.
Taz sprinted back into the living room and jumped onto Cal’s lap. He extended half of a crumbled cookie.
“Thanks.” Cal took the offering and popped it into his mouth. “Those are good.”
“My papa is a good baker.” Taz gave Cal a hug and looked at his grandfather. “Can Cal be my daddy, Papa?”
“I’m thinking on it, son.”
“Stop thinking so we can start having some fun!”
Trevor and Cal chuckled. Haley softened the clamp she had on Cal’s hand. “Dad? I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
Her dad’s eyes met hers. “I understand how that goes.” He nodded quickly, his eyes bright. “Okay, okay, okay. Stop all the pressure. If you two think you’re in love, I’m not going to stand in your way.”
Tears slipp from Haley’s eyes.
“Thank you,” Cal said.
“Does that mean okay?” Taz asked.
“It does.” Trevor studied them. “But you need to commit to forever. This divorce nonsense is not happening in my family. You got that?”
Cal released Haley’s hand and wrapped his arm around her. “Forever doesn’t seem quite long enough.”
Trevor held up his hands. “Enough of the sissy talk or I might take back my decision.”
Cal laughed. “Got it. Do I have your permission to kiss your daughter, sir?”
“In front of me?” Trevor shook his head in disgust. “Come on, Taz. Let’s go check on your horse while these two smooch and whisper sissy bull.”
Taz gave Cal one more squeeze then slid off his lap. Haley stood and crossed the small space, giving her dad a quick hug and a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
“You too.” He nodded to Cal then picked up Taz and quickly exited through the front door.
Cal stood and Haley turned to face him. “I think he likes you.”
Cal took her face in his hands. “I can see why you were so nervous.”
“He’s softened over the years. I’m pretty sure one of my prom dates peed his pants during the ‘interview’ they had.”
Cal laughed and lowered his head until his breath warmed her lips. “Well, he gave me permission to say sissy words and smooch you.” He pumped his eyebrows. “I love you, Haley Turnbow. I love you more than I’d ever imagined I could love someone.”
“I love it when you talk like a sissy.”
“You’re going to love it more when I kiss like one.”
He dipped his head and molded his mouth to hers. Haley savored each movement of his lips and hands, but mostly the feeling of being loved so completely. She took a quick breath and muttered, “There was nothing sissy about that kiss.”
“No?” Cal grinned against her lips. “Let’s try it again.”
Also available:
Protect This
Blog This
Redeem This
Oh, Come on Be Faithful
The Broken Path
Dead Running
Dying to Run
Christmas Kisses: An Echo Ridge Anthology
Full Court Devotion: Christmas in Snow Valley
A Touch of Love: Summer in Snow Valley
Running from the Cowboy: Spring in Snow Valley
The Fourth of July
Reality Ever After
Poison Me
The Colony
Cami is a part-time author, part-time exercise consultant, part-time housekeeper, full-time wife, and overtime mother of four adorable boys. Sleep and relaxation are fond memories. She’s never been happier.
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www.camichecketts.com
The Billionaire Bride Pact
“I, Holly Frances Clarke, do solemnly swear, that someday
I’ll marry a billionaire …
OR I will have to sing the Camp Wallakee song
(with the bird calls) at my wedding.”
THE DIAMOND RING WAS RIDICULOUSLY LARGE, even by Holly’s standards. She liked blingy jewelry as much as the next girl, and when it came time to pick an engagement ring, she’d steered Brit toward Grace Kelly’s famous ten-carat diamond. Holly’s seven-carat stone wasn’t quite as big as Grace’s, but it was the same emerald cut and it did have the same diamond baguettes inset on either side.
She’d hoped Brit would be inspired by Grace Kelly’s ring. Turns out there was such a thing as too literal a translation.
There was a slight hissing sound and Holly looked up, directly into her mother’s frosty stare. Surprised, she scanned the banquet table, where the rest of the ladies who made up Le Ciel resort’s charitable planning committee had lapsed into silence. Holly looked back in time to see her mother’s glance shifted to her left hand, and Holly realized she was tapping the back of her engagement ring against the table like a judge banging a gavel.
Oh.
“Sorry,” Holly muttered. She clasped her hands together in her lap.
Her mother gave her a practiced smile, then turned back to the discussion she was directing. “The executive chef told me today he’s found enough squab for the seventh course after all. I was afraid we’d have to substitute with Cornish game hens, but he pulled some strings and they’ll be flown in from Toronto the day before the party.”
There was murmured approval at the news, and Holly’s mother beamed. The brunch was the last planning meeting before Le Ciel’s annual October ball to benefit the hospital, and as committee chairman, Frances Clarke was in her element.
Frances looked younger than her fifty-seven years, with an olive-tinged complexion and straight dark hair that she wore in layers, reminding Holly of a brunette Sharon Osbourne. A rigorous regime of yoga, juice cleanses, and healthy eating had helped her maintain a slim figure, and the regular Botox took care of any wrinkles that dared appear. She never left the house without full hair and makeup, and her designer closet was the envy of her social circle.
“Julia, did you speak to the videographer?” she asked.
Julia Higgins wore a ring with a chocolate diamond almost as big as Holly’s. The stone flashed in the late morning sunlight as she tucked a strand of silvery hair behind her ear. “Yes, and they have a computer program to make the video look vintage. I don’t know how it works, but he assured me it will look straight out of 1912 by the time he’s finished.” The theme this year was “A Night Aboard the Titanic,” and the foundation would spare no expense to make the ball authentic.
The women fell silent as Frances consulted her agenda. Holly glanced around the table, where many of the Wastach Front’s most influential families were represented. Some of the women were prominent in their own right, but most were here as representatives of their larger families, such as wives of politicians, business moguls, and sports stars, and heirs of family dynasties that had been running Utah for generations. All were
impeccably dressed in designer suits or dresses, all with plentiful amounts of jewelry on display. They’d finished the main course and were nibbling delicately on the raspberry sorbet and lemon butter cookies provided by Le Ciel’s catering.
“As you can see, the Barn is coming along.” Frances waved her hand around the room. “The Barn” was the informal name for the primary reception center on Le Ciel resort—a world-class vacation destination that was owned and operated by Holly’s family. Why it was called “the Barn” was anyone’s guess, the place resembled more of a fort than a barn with its stone walls, high, timbered ceiling, and central courtyard. Sounds of construction drifted into the brunch from the huge main room, where workers were busy transforming the space into the Titanic.
“If you’d like to stop by and check on the progress throughout the week, you’re more than welcome,” Holly’s mother continued. “Send me or Holly a text first so we can alert security. Are there any questions?”
Tanya Emery, wife of a respected Utah oncologist, raised her hand. “I think we might need to find one or two more activities. I’m afraid people won’t stay for the auction if the only thing to do is dancing.”
There was a pause as everyone considered this; then, the women all began talking at once. Most agreed with Tanya. From the general tone of barely contained hysteria around the table, Holly gathered this could be a catastrophe in the making.
“Ladies!” Frances raised her hands, and the women quieted instantly. “Let’s not panic. We don’t need anything too involved. We’ve all done our research; let’s brainstorm another activity that would go with the theme.”
The women immediately launched into chatter.
“Shuffleboard?”
“Cards?”
“What about a second- or third-class activity?”
“What else suggests ‘Titanic’ to you?”
“The ice bucket challenge?” Holly said loudly.
Conversation screeched to a halt, and for the second time in less than twenty minutes, Holly was acutely aware of her mother’s pinch-lipped stare.
“At least it would be historically accurate,” Holly said. She tried to lighten her tone and turn it into a joke, but from the frowns around the table, she knew no one was buying it.
Frances continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Shuffleboard might be fun. We could set up a game area in one of the rooms across the courtyard.”
The idea caught on and soon the committee buzzed with ideas for more period-specific games.
Finally, after making sure everyone knew their assignments, Frances dismissed the meeting. Chairs scraped against the hardwood floors as everyone rose. Some of the women made their way outside, but most lingered, obviously wanting a private word with Frances.
“Holly, wait,” Frances ordered when Holly made a move to follow those who were leaving. Holly had no choice but to sink back into her chair. She answered emails on her phone while various women asked her mother for costume advice, her opinion on the seating chart, and even the recipe for today’s lemon cookies. Frances handled them all with the decisive air of one who likes being in charge.
Finally the room cleared, and Holly was alone with her mother. “The ice bucket challenge?” Frances said, glaring at Holly. “That was extremely inappropriate.”
“And throwing a Titanic-themed party isn’t?” Holly said. “Over a thousand people died, mother.”
“The charity ball is about raising money for a good cause, and the best way to do that is to generate excitement,” Frances pointed out. “People identify with the Titanic; you heard how enthusiastic everyone was about their costumes.”
Yes, Holly had heard. The entire first half of the brunch had been devoted to updates on custom-ordered dresses, included riveting topics such as what color each woman planned to wear, whether a dress copied Kate Winslet’s costume from the movie too closely, and whether it was absolutely necessary to wear a corset to bring the look together—the women had decided it was.
Holly bit her lip. When they’d chosen the theme back in January, she’d been as excited as everyone else. She’d designed her own gown, and Genevieve, her costume maker, had done a superb job. Standing in front of Genevieve’s three-way mirror at her final fitting last week, Holly had felt every inch a Titanic-era princess.
Le Ciel’s charity ball had a long tradition, dating back as far as Holly could remember. As a child, she’d always kept a close eye on the preparations, and watching her mother get ready for the evening was a highlight every year. When she’d been old enough to start attending the ball herself, she’d had even more fun designing her costumes and watching Genevieve bring them to life. Her costume from last year’s fairy tale ball, a replica of Giselle’s turquoise dress from Enchanted, still hung in the closet of her spare bedroom.
Usually Holly couldn’t wait for the party. So why did she feel so cynical about the whole thing this year?
“I’m sorry, mother,” Holly finally said. “I guess I’m just tired and feeling overwhelmed.”
Frances adjusted the hem of her gray Chanel suit jacket. “You need to make better use of your time … not to mention your help. There’s a reason we hired Marion.”
Marion, the wedding planner, who returned texts with a phone call and never met a cupcake tower she didn’t like. Frances hired her when Holly had shown a distinct lack of enthusiasm for planning her own wedding. Holly wasn’t in any hurry; they hadn’t even set a date yet. But the parents were getting restless.
She and Brit had been engaged for six months, but they’d been betrothed for well beyond that as part of a murky business deal no one liked to talk about. Holly had grown up knowing someday she would marry Brit Anderson, the son of her father’s partner. Like her, Brit had lived on the resort his whole life in an idyllic, sheltered childhood. Holly had never really given the betrothal much thought, but lately it had become impossible to push it from her mind, like a splinter beginning to fester.
In the hollow behind the cotoneasters, Holly dropped her head onto her knees as confusion and resentment flashed through her. Brit didn’t look at her the way Darrin had looked at Nikki—and she didn’t want him to look at her that way. He was a friend, nothing more, yet she was expected to make a lifetime commitment to him. Had her parents even considered what that meant? Their marriage wasn’t the best, but at least it had been formed from love. Why didn’t they want the same for her?
Her muscles were starting to cramp, and her secretary was probably wondering where she was. It wouldn’t do any good to sit here moping. Holly unfolded herself with a sigh and crawled back through the tunnel toward the patch of sunshine at the end.
She poked her head out from around the swing in time to see a man pick up one of the shoes she’d left by the fountain.
“Hey!” Holly yelled.
Startled, he dropped the shoe, which bounced off the rock edge of the fountain and into the water with a splash.
Holly bounded to her feet and stalked across the grass. “Those are Jimmy Choos and they’re expensive!” Glaring at him, she plunged her hand into the fountain’s pool and pulled out the shoe, the soggy green suede now much darker than its original shade of celery.
“I’m sorry. I thought someone had gone off and forgotten their things.” The man gestured to the grass, where Holly’s other shoe sat alongside her soft leather briefcase. “What are you doing lurking in the bushes like some kind of goblin?” He dug in his pocket and offered her a folded white handkerchief.
“None of your business.” Holly snatched the handkerchief and tried to sop up some of the water from the suede. “These are ruined.”
“To be fair, only that one is ruined,” the man said. “The other one seems fine.”
She stared up into his eyes. They were dark, almost black, and were dancing with mirth under his heavy brows. He was several inches taller, broad-shouldered and big. She took in his clean-shaven, rather square jaw, and full lips set in a slightly cocky smile and felt the stirrings of butterflie
s in her stomach. His light brown hair curled over the edge of his collar and was adorably tousled.
Adorably? Wait … no.
“I’m very sorry for baptizing your shoe,” he said, keeping the grin in place. “I’ll reimburse you for it. Also, did you know you’re bleeding?” He reached out and plucked the soggy handkerchief from her fingers and lightly brushed it over her cheek.
It must have been a scratch from the bushes, but Holly didn’t feel anything beyond the zing of her nerves igniting at his touch. She jumped back.
“Whoa, settle down.” He extended the handkerchief, showing her the small spot of red. “Bleeding … see?”
“Thanks.” She took the handkerchief from him and pressed it to her cheek. “I’m Holly Clarke; who are you?”
Read more or buy The Rebellious One here.
EXCERPT FROM
A DESTINATION BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE
THE GROCERY STORE. It was a unique form of torture for Emmy. She used to be in her element picking out delicious produce and meats, envisioning the food she could create. Now she had no one to cook for, and it was the curse of living in a small town that she always ran into someone who knew her gruesome story. The pity in their eyes ruined what was once an enjoyable experience.
The theater was different. Her fellow actors resided in their character’s heads, and she was completely happy to pretend to be someone else when she was with them. Those who attended the theater saw the mask she wore and accepted it. They’d moved past the oozing compassion stage. But the rest of the Cannon Beach populace handed pity to her like a neighbor bringing cookies—well-meaning but still going to make you squishy if you take it all in.
She lifted a gala apple to check for bruises, already anticipating the crunchy sweetness.
“Oh, Emmy, you pretty little thing.”
Mrs. Baxter. Not now.
Emmy forced a smile, meeting the lady’s age-clouded eyes. The eyes were always the hardest thing to focus on, but she couldn’t allow herself to be a wimp.
The Independent One: A Billionaire Bride Pact Romance Page 15
