by Mindy Klasky
And she had to say, “You can’t mean that. Not after what you said.”
“I was an idiot,” he said. “I was pissed at that reporter, angry about the game. I was disappointed in myself, and I said things I never should have said. You were the last person in the world I should have hurt.”
She’d imagined him saying those words. She’d dreamed of his confessing, telling her it was all a misunderstanding. But it was more than that. Worse than that. She shook her head. “This can’t work.” He started to protest, but she barreled on. “You love the Foundation. It means more to you than anything else in the world. And after you buy the farm, you’ll get it back on its feet. All those townhouses… All that money…”
He shook his head, and he reached out to catch her left hand in his. “You’re wrong. No, not about the Foundation—I do love it. I love what we’ve done with it. I’m proud of every single child we’ve helped. But it doesn’t mean more to me than anything else in the world. It doesn’t mean more to me than you.”
His charcoal eyes were earnest as he spoke. His face was calm. His voice was rich and low, pitched so only she could hear him above the rising hubbub in the room. But his hand told her the truth, his fingers curled around hers. He was trembling as he spoke, nervous to the core in a way that he was trained never to betray.
Holding his hand, she thought of how he’d guided her down from the oak tree at the back of his property when she was seven years old. Holding his hand, she thought of how he’d taught her how to shift gears on his father’s crappy truck when she was fifteen. Holding his hand, she thought of how he’d helped her over the fence to the Reeves farm too many times for her to count.
The farm.
“A hundred thousand dollars is enough for Paws to buy the farm,” she said.
His lips curled up at their very edges. “I figured it would be.”
“What happened to ‘people are more important than animals’?”
“You’re more important than anything.” He tightened his wrist, curling her in a full step closer to him. “You’re the one who thought of buying the farm in the first place. You’re the one who convinced Reeves to sell. You deserve it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I was an idiot. It’s not either/or. It’s not kids or animals. If you stop doing your work, living things die. If I stop doing mine, kids’ lives are worse. They’re all important. Everything matters.”
“But where are you getting the money? A hundred thousand dollars after Reiter cleaned you out?”
“I took out a mortgage on the house.”
“It’s been paid off for years!”
He nodded. “Lots of equity. The bank loved the deal.”
“Adam—” she started to protest.
“Haley. I want to do this. I want to make you happy. The Foundation has a tough path ahead of it, getting Reiter back here, suing his ass, making everything right. Paws is ready to move forward now. I want you to do that. I want to help you do that. Please.”
His fingers tightened on hers, and she felt it again—that tiny shudder deep inside his muscles. He wanted her to say yes. He needed her to say yes. If she had any doubt, he raised his right hand, turning the ring so it caught a blinding beam of light. “Haley Thurman,” he said, and this time he raised his voice, pitching it to reach the last row in the hall. “Will you marry me?”
She looked into the face she knew so well. This was the Adam she’d grown up with, fought with, come to know like a member of her own family. This was the Adam who had listened to her all these years, who had comforted her when she needed comfort, who had teased her when she needed teasing. This was the Adam who had brought her deeper pleasure in bed than she’d ever felt with any man.
This was the Adam she loved.
She nodded, astonished to find those damn tears were back again. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Adam Sartain, I’ll marry you.”
The room erupted into applause. Adam tore the ring out of the velvet box, letting the case tumble to the floor as he slipped the diamond onto her finger. He folded her into his arms, ignoring the shouts from the crowd, ignoring the lights and the noise and the chaos.
His lips were hard, driving for a deeper connection than she expected. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, locking her in. His hips found hers, and he crushed her to his chest, holding her so tightly she could measure every beat of his heart.
She could have stood there forever, could have drunk him in, could have given him every ounce of her soul. But eventually she became aware of a voice, a commanding boom that drew her back from the realm of pure pleasure.
“One hundred thousand once!” Kate cried. There was a pause, and Haley turned in Adam’s arms. She looked out at the crowd, at Missy Newton’s scrunched and furious face.
“One hundred thousand twice!” Haley twisted farther, until she could see two faces as familiar as Adam’s. Michael and Billy wore identical expressions—know-it-all grins, as if they’d always been certain this would be her happy ending.
“Sold!” Kate cried. “To Adam Sartain!”
As the crowd cheered, Haley turned back to the man who held her. “You know,” she said. “It’s not going to be the Reeves farm any more. Kids’ll start calling it the old Sartain place.”
His fingers tightened on her hips. “It’ll be a while before our kids are calling it anything.”
She laughed, wriggling a little at the shots of electricity that darted up her spine. “Not our kids,” she said. “Not at first. I’m thinking the BUNT kids will have a field day helping out with the animals.”
She watched him process her words, watched the light grow in the depths of his eyes as he nodded slowly. “It’ll take a lot of supervision. A lot of planning. A lot of those kids have never had a pet, not even a goldfish.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “A lot of those animals have never had a kid. We’ll take it slow. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s all going to work out all right.” She settled her hand on top of his heart, feeling his pulse beat strong beneath his shirt. The ring on her finger moved in time with the sharp breath he took. “Correction,” she said. “I know this is going to work out all right.”
She kissed him one last time before she took his hand and led him off the stage, into the congratulatory crowd.
BATTER UP!
Read on, for a sneak peek at the next Diamond Brides romance, Center Stage!
~~~
Marry in haste, repent in leisure…
Ryan Green looked at his watch again. At least the bride and groom weren’t in danger of repenting any time soon. It seemed like this wedding was never going to happen—and the sweltering church had just reached a temperature that felt a lot closer to Hell than to Heaven. The ceremony should have started an hour earlier, and there was still no sign of the groom. For that matter, the best man, the matron of honor, and Brother Mike had made themselves pretty scarce for the past thirty minutes.
Figuring he’d make the most of the delay, Ryan stood up from the rock-hard pew on the left side of the church. After spending the last twelve days on the Raleigh Rockets’ disabled list, Ryan barely felt the lingering tightness in his strained right hamstring, but there was no reason to let the muscle seize up by spending extra time on the unyielding wooden bench.
That was his story anyway, and he was sticking with it.
As he reached the back of the church, Ryan realized he wasn’t the only ballplayer with the same idea. Braden Hart, one of the Rockets’ pitchers, nodded a greeting, automatically shifting over like he was making room for the center fielder in the dugout. But this little gathering was woefully short on sunflower seeds and Gatorade, and they didn’t have a fistful of bubble gum between them.
Hart nodded toward the pews. “Hell of a way to spend a night off, isn’t it? If we have to spend hours on a wooden bench, we might as well get a game out of it.”
Ryan shrugged. “There aren’t any women in a dugout.”
As if in response, a tide of feminine voices rose. Ryan had caught sight of the women when he’d first arrived at the church, right before an usher asked him, “Friend of the bride or friend of the groom?” He’d almost said “groom” just so he’d have a chance with one of them. During the long delay, he’d learned that they’d all gone to college with the groom. Each was prettier than the last, with her hair done up and her fingernails painted and a tight little dress that showed off a hell of a lot more than it covered up. Ryan couldn’t have told one from another, not if he’d been offered a five-year contract and a roster with every one of their names.
Hart followed Ryan’s gaze, but he shook his head in disgust. “Never f—” He seemed to remember he was standing in the back of a church, because he caught himself and started over again. “Never pick up a girl at a wedding. They put out easy enough, but they want a ring on their finger in the morning.”
Ryan shook his head. “Spoken like a real poet, man.”
“Hey, I call ’em like I see ’em. It’s a social disease, this getting married thing. Look around the clubhouse tomorrow night, buddy. You know I’m right. Guys are dropping like flies.”
Hart had a point. Half the guys on the team had proposed to their girlfriends before the end of last season.
Hart went on. “We shower with those guys, man. If it’s contagious, you know we’re coming down with it. And I, for one, have no plans on settling down any time soon.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Keep talking about women like they’re served up on some sort of buffet, and you won’t be settling down ever.”
Hart looked real serious. “What do you think that would be like?” he asked. “Getting one of those debutantes in the middle of a buffet table? Play my cards right, I could have a beer in one hand, a roast beef sandwich in the other, and dessert spread out in front of me, ready and willing.” He flicked his tongue like a lizard, just in case Ryan didn’t get the joke.
“You’re disgusting.” Ryan said, but he was laughing.
“Come on,” Hart said. “We single guys have to say it, because those whipped dudes sure won’t.”
Ryan mockingly bumped fists with the pitcher. “Long live the single man,” he intoned. “Someone’s got to do what’s right—treat weddings like the excuse they are for warm beer, bad food, and good men lost forever.”
Hart winced before the words were out of Ryan’s mouth. Without turning around, Ryan knew someone was standing behind him. And from the way Hart was shaking his head, it wasn’t just any old teammate.
Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Ryan pasted on a smile and turned around. “Zach,” he said, holding out a hand, like he hadn’t just taken first place in the competition for Asshole of the Week.
Zach Ormond was the Rockets’ former catcher. More to the point in this little church where the air-conditioner was obviously on the fritz and the temperature was nudging eighty-five degrees, Ormond was the brother of the bride-to-be, Lindsey. He’d been Ryan’s closest friend on the team for years.
That had all changed, though, last season, when a string of craziness led to Zach’s resigning and his getting engaged—to none other than the granddaughter of the Rockets’ owner. Zach had left playing the sport he loved, taking up a job in the Rockets’ front office. The whole time that crap was happening, Ormond had kept to himself, never once confiding in Ryan. The gulf between the men had carried through the rest of the season, but Ryan had thought—had hoped— that the wedding invitation had been a sign that he and Zach were past their differences.
Fat chance of that, with Ryan cracking stupid jokes.
“You got a problem with weddings?” Zach’s question was deceptively mild.
“None,” Ryan said, forcing himself to meet his friend’s eyes. “Not for the right guy.”
Shit. Why did Ormond have to catch him being a jackass? And here, Ryan had been fooling himself that Lindsey’s wedding would be a perfect chance to talk to his old friend about some front office business. He’d thought the whole thing through as he knotted his tie that afternoon. Show up at the wedding. Shake hands with the groom, kiss the bride in the receiving line. Wait until the reception, after the toasts. Then, when Zach was looking for a break from champagne and photographs and everyone telling him his sister made a beautiful bride, Ryan could talk to him, man to man.
There’d never be a perfect time to ask Zach Ormond for the biggest favor of Ryan’s professional career. But the wedding should have put Zach in a decent mood, and Ryan couldn’t wait much longer. Not when he’d promised his mother he’d take care of Dad. Not when his father was getting crazier every day, spending more and more time in front of his television, watching reruns of reality shows after the baseball games ended each night, watching infomercials when the reality shows ran out. Truth be told, Dad was halfway to batshit crazy in the little house he’d lived in for thirty-five years, lost like a little kid now that Mom was gone.
Ryan could drive down to Chester Beach during the offseason. He could call the old man every couple of days. But Dad needed a hell of a lot more than that—he needed a job. A reason to get up in the morning. And for an old baseball guy like Dad, the best possible job would be working for the Satellites, the Rockets’ farm team based right there in Chester Beach.
But that was never going to happen if Ormond thought Ryan was crapping all over his sister’s wedding—old friendship or no old friendship. As the guests’ murmuring rose another notch, Ryan cleared his throat and pretended he was innocent. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”
“What’s up,” Zach spat, “is that the groom must be caught in traffic, the A/C in this place died yesterday, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to have people collapsing from heatstroke in the next five minutes.”
Hart, the coward, shrank away. But Ryan said, “Dinner’s set up downstairs, right?”
Ormond nodded. “The caterers have been ready for a while. We’re supposed to be eating by now.”
“No problem, then. They have to have water.” Ryan said, and he jutted his chin toward the pitcher. “Come on, Hart. Let’s do something useful.” He headed toward the vestibule and stairs that had to lead down to the reception hall.
Ormond barked out an order. “Hold up, Green.” Ryan turned back. “I don’t want you going up and down those stairs. Not with that bad hammie.”
“My leg’s fine.” It felt strange for Ryan to hear commands coming out of Zach’s mouth. They were buddies. Teammates. Friends.
Nevertheless, Ormond shook his head. “Hart can get it.”
The pitcher shrugged and hit the stairs while Ryan stood there, feeling like an invalid. He was tempted to say something to Ormond, to explain that he hadn’t meant to say anything bad about all weddings, that he obviously hadn’t been talking about this wedding, that…
Yeah. He’d already stepped in it. No reason to smear the shit around.
Before Ryan could think of something else to say, Ormond took out his phone, but he scowled at the screen instead of placing a call.
“No signal?” Ryan asked.
“No battery. I’ve been trying to reach Will for the last three hours.”
Three hours. That sounded like more than crappy Raleigh traffic on a Monday evening. Ryan dug out his own phone and passed it over. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s got a full charge.”
Ormond thanked him and stalked over to the church’s front doors. Ryan waited until some of the caterers came upstairs with cases of water, and then he ducked back into the church to help distribute the bottles. As he stared at the sweaty, bored, impatient guests, he asked himself again why anyone would ever want to get married.
~~~
Lindsey Ormond watched bleakly as her brother managed the disaster. “Thank you, Brother Mike,” Zach said as the kindly man headed toward the door of the claustrophobic coatroom. “We’re just fine.” Once the preacher was gone, Zach turned back to her. “Come on, Linds. Drink some of that water.”
But Lindsey didn’t wan
t to drink any water. She was pretty sure she’d be on her knees in front of the toilet in the tiny bathroom off the vestibule if she drank any water. If she drank any water, or if she ate one of the tiny sandwiches Grace had brought her, or if she took a single step away from the folding chair where she sat with her arms folded tight around her belly.
“Come on, Sweetie,” Grace said. “Zach’s right. Everything’s fine, but you need to drink something.” And Lindsey could read the lies on her sister’s face; she could hear them as loudly as if her matron of honor was shouting from the church’s steeple.
Swallowing thick acid at the back of her throat, Lindsey reminded herself that she was a trained actress. She could pretend to be anything from Alice in Wonderland to the Velveteen Rabbit. She made a career out of acting every night of her life and twice on weekends, and she wasn’t about to let all that practice go to waste. “You know what, Grace?” she said, finding the perfect tone of surprised wonder. “I would kill for a Popsicle right now.”
Grace laughed, but then she asked, “You’re serious?”
Lindsey nodded, letting the idea grow with the confidence she layered into her voice. “I know the caterers won’t have any. But there’s a 7-11 just down Martin Street…”
Grace looked down at her pink dress, at her matching peau de soie shoes and her wristlet of sweetheart roses. “I guess I could go.”
Lindsey made herself laugh, bright and easy, just like she was reciting lines from the very back of the stage. “Tell them it’s for Bridezilla. Maybe you can get Rachel to drive you? Or Libby?” She didn’t care which of her sisters drove. She just wanted all of them out of the church, away from her, away from the disaster that was unfolding in horrifying slow motion.
Zach smiled his thanks to Grace as he fished in his pocket for his wallet and handed over a twenty-dollar bill. Lindsey barely waited until her sister was out of the room before she dropped the character of Brave Bride, opting instead for Doomed Lindsey. “It’s happening again,” she said, every syllable trembling.
