A fond smile crossed Belle’s face, then she winked. “Except I use skim milk now. Your father always insisted on whole.”
Annabelle swallowed the quick rush of tears with her first sip of flavored milk. “You never seemed to mind his little idiosyncrasies.”
“Your father felt loved when he was being taken care of.”
“You were so good at taking care of us, Mom.”
Her mother reached out to stroke her hair that had escaped the clasp when she fell. “I wanted to make the two of you happy.”
To make them happy? It had never occurred to Annabelle that her mother hadn’t enjoyed every single minute of being a housewife. Trying to steer the conversation toward the topic uppermost in her mind, she said, “Right now I’d be very happy to hear you say you’ll reconsider marrying Melvin Castleberry.”
“It’s ‘Martin,’ dear, and we’re very much in love.”
“Mom, how can you be in love with someone in such a short amount of time?”
Belle adopted an indulgent expression. “I can’t explain it, but I can tell you it was the same with me and your father.”
Annabelle chewed on her lower lip. It was a hard point to argue, considering her parents had been happily married for over thirty years. “Times have changed.”
But her mother only laughed. “Not so much, dear. Falling in love hasn’t changed over the ages. You’ll see.” She gestured in the air with animation. “One day you’re going through life and everything seems perfectly ordinary, and then you stumble across a person who makes you feel so alive!” She sighed, beaming.
Annabelle shook her head, mostly to banish the unbidden image of Clay’s face in her mind. “You sound like Mike. I’m sorry, but I see enough broken marriages every day to give me a slightly different perspective.”
Her mother sipped her milk and pointed her pinkie. “I know, which is why I’m being patient with your meddling.”
Annabelle gaped. “Meddling?”
“Uh-hm. You and Clay both. All your talk about prenuptial agreements and such.”
She set down her mug. “Mom, Clay and I are the only people around here making sense!”
Belle raised an eyebrow. “You and the man you just slammed the door on?”
Annabelle frowned. “He’s difficult.”
“So are you, sometimes. But—” Her mother held up her hand. “I know you’re only saying these things because you care about me.”
“That much is true. I don’t think I’m going to change my mind about this wedding, Mom.”
Belle gave her a little smile. “And I don’t think I’m going to change my mind, either.” She nodded toward the door. “How about if we continue this discussion with our milk in my bedroom?” She smiled. “Just like old times.”
Feeling a rush of love, Annabelle picked up her cup and draped her other arm around her mother’s waist. “Just like old times. Let me change out of this soiled dress, and I’ll be right in.”
“Oh, by the way, dear, Martin and I are going hiking on Mt. Paxton tomorrow and taking a picnic.”
Hiking? Her mother had never joined her and her father on their occasional hiking trips. Then she frowned into her milk—they had invited her, hadn’t they?
“And we were hoping that you and Clay would join us.”
Annabelle’s heart fell to her stomach. A full day in the company of Clay Castleberry? “But I thought you and I were going to spend every moment together before the—you know.” Else how was she going to convince her mother in the scant days left that marrying Martin was a bad idea?
“It’s my and Martin’s two-month anniversary, and we want to celebrate with a picnic.”
Annabelle glanced down at her bare feet. “I didn’t exactly bring the right shoes for hiking.”
“There’s a box of your things in the attic, and I’ll bet you’ll find those old boots of yours. It’ll be fun and give us all another chance to get to know each other better since I messed up our dinner plans. Please, dear?”
Please. How could she refuse when her mother looked like a hopeful child? Annabelle conjured up a smile. “For you, Mom, of course I’ll go.”
She padded to her bedroom and changed quickly, baffled by the spring in her step. Why would she be anticipating another almost certain run-in with Clay? Pushing the troubling thoughts from her mind, she shrugged into a robe, then walked down the hall to her mother’s room, only to find Belle fast asleep on top of the comforter.
Annabelle smiled, then covered her mother with a cotton afghan. She finished her lukewarm vanilla milk in her own bedroom, sitting in a chair next to the window. Her eyes kept gravitating to a lone light near the top of the Castleberry house. Was Clay still awake? If he was, she chastised herself, he wasn’t sitting in a chair thinking about her, unless he was plotting her demise.
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Why did she find this man so infuriating, so intriguing, and so…desirable? It was his energy, she realized, that made him different than any man she’d ever known. Brooding? Yes. Opinionated? Yes. Successful? Absolutely. But incredibly, exceedingly, and indubitably stimulating, both to her mind and her body.
One day you’re going through life and everything seems perfectly ordinary, and then you stumble across a person who makes you feel so alive….
Annabelle frowned at her mother’s words. She was not falling for Clay Castleberry. She simply wouldn’t let herself.
Chapter Eleven
HOW WAS IT POSSIBLE, Clay asked himself, that the woman could look more distracting wearing khaki shorts, bulky socks, and clubby hiking boots than in the bathing suit she’d worn the other day? He hadn’t been keen on hiking with the Coakleys when his father had suggested it first thing this morning, and upon seeing Annabelle, the merits of the idea continued to erode.
“A smile would be nice,” his father said, elbowing him. “Belle and I both wish you kids would make an effort to get along.”
Clay chewed on the inside of his cheek, the slam of the Coakley door still ringing in his ears. And the memory of that damned kiss had kept him awake, flipping through financial reports, unseeing, until the wee hours. He hoped Henry would furnish him with proof of the woman’s intentions soon. Then he’d send Annabelle Coakley packing back to Michigan, minus any ill-gotten gains. “No offense, Dad, but she’s not my first choice for female company.”
His father frowned.
“But for your sake,” Clay added with forced cheer, “I’ll be nice.”
His father’s broad smile made his heart lurch—when had he become so easy to please? Clay pondered the revelation until he was distracted by Annabelle bending over to secure a boot lace. How, he wondered, could he make the most of this inconvenient outing?
An idea occurred to him, triggering a smirk. So she wanted him to believe she was against this marriage, huh? Okay, he’d force her to demonstrate her opposition.
“Annabelle,” he called, walking over as she rose from her task at the end of his father’s driveway. Her face was flushed from bending over, and she’d pulled her hair back into a high ponytail. With the freckles, she looked all of seventeen. Clay suddenly felt old.
And cranky.
“Yes?” She asked, raising her golden gaze to his. From the expression on her face, she was looking forward to the day almost as much as he.
Clay nodded toward the house. “Would you mind giving me a hand with the camera equipment?”
She glanced to where their parents were loading food into the back of Martin’s sport utility vehicle, as if she wanted witnesses, then moved hesitantly toward the house.
As he followed her, he decided she must hit the gym pretty hard to keep her figure, and averted his eyes. “Do you hike a lot in Detroit?” he asked as he held open the door.
“Actually, I haven’t been hiking since college. My dad and I used to go when I came home on semester breaks.”
In the midst of their awkwardness, her words struck him—he’d almost forgotten they had somethi
ng in common, losing a parent. Contrite, he gentled his voice. “Sounds fun. You must miss him.”
She hesitated, then offered up a sad smile. “Enormously,” she said as she walked by.
He followed her into the foyer, stopping next to a table where his camera bag sat. He chuckled to lighten the mood. “I asked because I was wondering if I’d be the only one with sore leg muscles—sometimes I can barely keep up with Dad when we run.”
“I walk to work, and my office is on the twelfth floor.” She smiled. "I manage to get in my workout without a gym.”
Which explained her magnificent legs. Good girl—he preferred clearing the land he owned north of the city to working out at a gym.
“Where’s the rest of your equipment?” she asked, peering around the entryway that was large enough for a room itself.
“This is it,” he said, picking up the small bag. “It was an excuse to talk to you alone.”
Her face reddened. “If this is about last night—”
“Annabelle, are you truly opposed to marriage?”
She blinked.
Clay caught his gaffe—the woman was engaged, after all. “I mean, this marriage.”
“You know I am.” She fidgeted, tucking a loose strand of shiny hair back into the clasp.
He studied her face for insincerity, but was sidetracked by her cheekbones. He adjusted the strap on the camera bag, trying to sound casual. “Then maybe we can work together today and put a stop to this wedding nonsense once and for all.”
She crossed her arms and considered him for a few seconds. “I’m listening.”
“Why do you suppose our parents are so determined to be married?”
Her demeanor changed immediately. She scratched, she shifted, she squirmed. “I wouldn’t know.”
Clay smirked. “Give me your best guess, counselor.”
She studied the toes of her boots. “Well, they’re probably caught up in all the tingly, romantic nonsense that goes along with being engaged, you know what I mean.”
“No,” he said, amused. “I’ve never been engaged.”
“Well, surely you can imagine what my mother and your father are feeling.” She gestured vaguely in the air.
“Think they’re feeling,” he corrected.
She nodded. “From my experience with clients—”
“And your own engagement,” he reminded her.
“—most people don’t plan past the honeymoon. But reality sets in when it gets down to dirty socks and what’s for dinner.”
Having never contemplated marriage, he hadn’t given much thought to a honeymoon or dirty socks. Anxious for firmer footing, he squared his shoulders. “So today we’ll simply take every opportunity to remind our parents that marriage isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Of course,” he added wryly, “you might come across as less than convincing since you yourself are engaged.”
Annabelle paled slightly. “I’d rather you not mention my engagement.”
He was instantly alert. “Why?”
“Because…I haven’t told my mother yet.”
Intrigued, he cocked his head. “Why not?”
“Because…this came up…and I didn’t want to…muddy the waters.”
Something wasn’t right, he could feel it. Clay wished like hell he could read her mind. One thing was certain—he was more convinced than ever that Annabelle wanted to see her mother marry his father. But if she wanted to pretend otherwise, he’d make the most of it.
A frown marred her smooth forehead—she was probably realizing the corner she’d painted herself into. “I’ll go along with your plan,” she said, her tone cautious. “But I don’t want my mother’s feelings hurt.”
“Likewise,” he agreed. “If we team up, maybe they’ll come to their senses.”
A dubious look crossed her face, but she shrugged her acquiescence. “It couldn’t hurt, I suppose.” The same stubborn strand of hair slipped out of her ponytail and hooked around her cheek. The sun slanted in through the stained glass transom over the front door and highlighted the delicate angles of her face. She had a way of tightening her mouth when she was anxious that summoned her high dimples. This woman was a paradox. With her flaxen eyes, she looked catlike, with the potential of being lethal one moment, kittenish the next.
Which would he prefer? Out of the blue, the thought hit Clay between the eyes and he exhaled abruptly, realizing the day might very well require more endurance on his part than strong leg muscles.
*****
Annabelle stopped to shift the equipment on her shoulders, frowning at the backs of Belle and Martin several yards ahead of her on the rocky trail. Even weighted down with a backpack, her mother moved like a nimble mountain goat. Meanwhile, she had a boulder in her left shoe and a bug bite just high enough on the back of her thigh to be unscratchable in mixed company.
“Need to rest?”
At the sound of Clay’s amused voice, she looked over her shoulder and pursed her mouth. She wasn’t sure what bothered her most—the fact that she couldn’t keep up with her mother, or the fact that Clay’s rear position on the single-file trail afforded him the opportunity to scrutinize every inch of her, unobserved.
Assuming he was inclined to look, that is.
“No.” The word slipped out more tartly than she’d planned, so she tried again. After all, they were supposed to be working together. “No, I don’t need to rest, thank you.” She stopped and waited for him to climb closer. “I thought we were going to talk to them.”
He wiped perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. “We have to catch them first.”
“If you hadn’t yakked on your phone the entire drive up here,” she accused, “we might’ve already made some headway.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “What, you can’t talk without me?”
She jammed her hands on her hips, nearly throwing herself off balance with the heavy backpack. “Try to talk over you and the big band music they were listening to in the front seat, and be casual about the fact that this marriage is a dead end street.”
He propped one foot on a stump and leaned on his knee, slapping a streak of dried red mud from his navy canvas shorts. His legs were thick with muscle and covered with dark hair. Standing next to Clay, she felt diminutive. Her neck warmed because she knew she looked a fright. Her ponytail clasp hung loose, a tree branch had torn the sleeve of her white T-shirt, and the stripe of pink zinc oxide on her nose, while smart, she knew wasn’t exactly attractive.
Not that she was trying to be attractive.
“I presumed your job required you to be sly and persuasive,” he said, but the cynical gleam in his eyes squashed any hint of a compliment.
“No more than your job, I suppose,” she said, matching his tone.
“And are you good at your job?” he asked, surprising her.
“Good?”
“Squeezing lucrative settlements out of inattentive husbands?”
Anger sparked in her stomach, then quickly caught flame. She lifted her chin. “For your information, most of my clients do well to get child support, and I haven’t handled a case yet where the marriage failed from lack of attention.” She scoffed. “Besides, you act as if I receive a percentage of the settlements.”
“You don’t?”
In one glance, she took in the distinctive sunglasses tucked in the neck of his pale blue T-shirt, the hand-tooled leather waist pouch, the worn, but expensive lace-up boots—Clay Castleberry had always enjoyed a pampered lifestyle, and he was questioning her financial motives?
Her body sang with anger as she perused over six feet of unadulterated arrogance. Men! Her mother actually wanted to marry one of these? “My fiscal status is none of your business.”
She’d been known to make men flinch in the courtroom with that tone, but Clay stood as still as the pine trees around him, an innocent smile on his lips. His shrug was a mere ripple of shoulder muscles. “I was simply trying to figure out why an attorney would steal underwear.”
Annabelle looked around for something to gouge him with, but was interrupted by Martin’s voice ringing out above them.
“Are you two slowpokes ready to stop for lunch?”
She looked up to the tree-studded ridge, but their parents had already disappeared around a rock formation. Annabelle huffed and swatted furiously at a fat bee, then set her sights on the incline before her. But when she took a hurried step forward, the offending pebble in her shoe jabbed the tender ball of her foot. She yelped, lurching sideways.
Powerful hands encircled her arm and waist from behind before she hit the ground, and her momentary pain relief was overridden by the realization that Clay was holding her, and the now-familiar sensation wasn’t wholly unwelcome. Just unsettling.
“I’m going to start thinking you fall just so you can lean on me,” he said in her ear.
His words rankled her, but his tone sent a thrill up the back of her neck. “I’ve learned not to lean on anyone,” she said fastidiously, determined there wouldn’t be a repeat of last night’s lapse, no matter how tempting.
“Did you twist your ankle?” Clay asked, slowly righting her, but maintaining his grip. He sounded almost concerned as he lowered her to sit on the stump.
Though tempted to milk the situation as he molded his hands around her ankle, her conscience kicked in. “It’s just a rock in my shoe.”
He frowned and plucked at her thick brown sock that bagged around the top of her boot. “How did a rock get inside?”
“It must have been in my boot when I put it on, and I didn’t notice.” At the moment, all she noticed was that his eyes in the sunlight were the shade of blue that belonged in a television commercial selling diet soda. Or jeans. Or ice to an Eskimo.
Clay fumbled with the laces on her boot. She watched numbly as he loosened the boot from her leg and freed her foot. She wriggled her warm toes as he upended her boot to shake the rock into his hand.
“Did you lose a button?”
Annabelle frowned, then reached for the item he held out. But when the little pewter button bounced into her palm, she inhaled sharply. Memories assailed her, blurring her vision. Tears spilled over before she could gather herself.
Stop the Wedding! Page 12
