Marry Me (41 page)

"I noticed, but don't worry about it."

"Spoken like a rich idiot who has never been concerned about money so he has no idea what things cost or how difficult it is to find a job these days."

"You don't need a job," he said again.

"Why is that?" she jeered.

"Because you're marrying a rich idiot."

"I'm…what?"

"You're getting married."

"To who?"

"To me."

"In your friggin' dreams."

He unfolded himself from the couch. He was handsome and obstinate and determined to have his way, which only made her more determined to have hers.

"Marry me," he said.

"What? No. The last time I saw you, I was on the sidewalk in front of your family's house in Denver, and you wouldn't even let me inside."

"Trust me:  I was doing you a favor."

"A favor!"

"You don't want to ever meet my mother."

"Is that supposed to convince me to say
yes
to your proposal?"

"No, this is." He came over to her, and he actually dropped to one knee like an old-fashioned suitor.

"Get up!" she demanded, panicking, yanking on his arm and attempting to tug him to his feet, but he wouldn't budge.

He reached into his coat, and when he drew out his hand, he was holding a diamond engagement ring. She stood like a statue, too paralyzed to react as he slipped it onto her finger.

"I love you," he murmured. "Will you marry me?"

Her knees weak, she staggered away and collapsed onto the bottom stair. The ring felt heavy and grave, as if glued to her skin and she'd never be able to remove it.

Rubbing her temples, she stared at the floor, trying to make sense of what was happening.

She hardly knew him, and what she
did
know, she didn't like. He was lazy and overbearing and spoiled and wretchedly irritating. She couldn't rely on him, and they had nothing in common. Not background, not acquaintances, not lifestyle or status or hobbies or interests.

The man was a lunatic.

She glanced up, and with her sitting and him standing, he towered over her.

"Kiss me," he said.

"No."

"You know you want to," he insisted.

He leaned down and touched his lips to her own. The contact was brief and chaste and marvelous, and she yearned to fall into the embrace, to hold tight and never let him go.

What was wrong with her?

She pushed him away and stumbled to her feet. She was confused, frantic, pacing, and he watched her, balanced indolently against the banister as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"What's the matter?" he finally asked.

She halted and glared. "You'd like to get married. To me."

"Yes."

"And this just occurred to you because…?"

"It didn't
just
occur to me. I've been thinking about it for awhile."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. When I returned to LA in December, it dawned on me that I don't make very good choices."

"You can say that again."

"I'm lonely, and I've never been happy. But guess what I figured out?"

"What?"

"There's a simple way for me to be happy forever."

"How?"

"I could marry you.
You
would make me happy forever."

He took a step toward her, and she took one back. He took another and so did she. They kept on till she was at the wall and could go no farther.

"You are crazy," she said.

"I agree, but it's all your fault."

"Then why on earth would you want me to be your wife?"

For a long while, he stared, smiling, looking content as he'd never been in the short time she'd known him.

"Because," he said, "I love you so much I'm dying with it."

She scoffed. "You
love
me? That can't be true."

"Why not?"

"You don't love anybody. You don't care about anything."

"I care about you—and your family. Have me, Amy. Make me yours, and you'll never be sorry."

She was bewildered and torn. Marry Dustin Merriweather? The notion was bizarre—but riveting, too.

Life was so easy for him. His money ensured that he never had to worry or struggle. If she was his wife, that same life of comfort could be hers. She could share it with her sisters, with Marge who'd always worked hard and had so little to show for it, with Pamela who—it was becoming clear—would never find a man to support her and who was completely incapable of supporting herself.

Amy could say
yes
to Dustin. She could help everyone. Why would she hesitate for even the slightest second?

She hadn't thought she'd ever marry. Who would ask her? Who would take the chance? With her sisters and her mother, she had so much baggage that an entire army of porters would be required just to carry it all.

But he—wealthy, entitled Dustin Merriweather—was willing to risk it. Why would he?

"I don't understand any of this," she said.

"What's to understand?"

"You barely know me, and I'm not your…type."

"My type? What type is that?"

"Skin and bones, all leg, high heels, mini-skirt, real fur, sleazy character, and bitchy personality."

"
You
have a bitchy personality. Are you claiming you were meant for me?"

She snorted with offense, and she would have stomped away again, but he clasped her hand, where the ring fit just right. He ran his thumb over the diamond.

"I want us to move to Gold Creek," he told her.

"To do what?"

"To make it our home."

"You and me"—she gestured from herself to him—"in Gold Creek."

"Yes. We're restoring the town. We'll fix everything you were nagging at me about."

"I don't nag."

"Yes, you do, and I figured the only way to get you to stop is to do what you want."

"Fix up Gold Creek…" she murmured, tantalized by the prospect.

"All the Merriweather property. We'll begin with the two mansions at the top of the hill and work down from there."

"You're serious?"

"Yes. Marge has already agreed to research the décor, so we can shoot for an authentic—"

She frowned. "When did you discuss this with Marge?"

"Last week when I phoned Pamela."

"You talked to Pam last week?"

"Yes."

"Nobody told me."

"We all decided it wasn't any of your business until we had it all arranged."

I'll kill them,
she mused. "Go on. Tell me more."

"We'll start with the house where you and Marge had your apartments. Once it's done, we'll live there—as a family."

"You want to live with all of us? Kids, wife, grandmothers? All in the same house?"

"It's a big place, Amy. We'll fit in it just fine."

"You have to be joking."

"I never had a family."

"And you think I can give you one?"

"Yes."

"You're from LA, where the world is fast and crazy and loud. You'd be bored silly after the first month. You'd leave me. Then where would I be?"

"I'll never leave you," he vowed.

She gaped at him. He seemed so sincere, so eager to proceed. He was simply waiting for her okay.

She could consent to the whole ball of wax. She'd have her family together. She'd have a job and a purpose in life. Most of all, she'd have him as her husband. She'd have him to cherish and fuss over and scold.

What a fascinating, glorious, frightening notion. She didn't know how to reply, didn't know what was best. She'd like to say
yes,
but she was so afraid of him.

They'd had such a limited acquaintance, and every time she'd seen him, he'd fled immediately after. He'd never even provided her with an address or phone number. If she'd needed to contact him, she couldn't have.

If she married him, and he grew bored and abandoned her, how would she survive it? How would the twins manage? They all loved him, and she thought—maybe—he could learn to love them in return.

But what if he didn't? What if he tried, but found it too difficult or too inconvenient? What if he left—after promising he'd stay?

"You'd
never
leave me?" she said, dubious.

"Never."

"You'd remain in Gold Creek—with me? Until your dying day?"

"I'd become a ghost and haunt you after that."

"My worst nightmare."

She chuckled miserably and yanked her gaze from his. She was reeling with choices, with decisions, with hope for what
could
be.

Her greatest dreams were hovering right in front of her. So close. So attainable.

Reach for them, reach for them,
a voice in her head was shouting.

"You know how stubborn I am, Amy."

"Yes, I do. I definitely do."

"I'm determined to marry you, and I always get my way."

"Yes, I know that, too."

"Since I'm positive this is what I want, how will you ever get rid of me?"

She snorted again, then was quiet.

He was the most intriguing, infuriating, magnificent man she would ever meet. And he was claiming he wanted to be with her forever.

It might turn out to be true or it might not.

If she rejected him, he'd leave, and she'd never learn what might have happened. Or she could say yes, and eventually, she would discover precisely how the future was to unfold. Wasn't it better to take a chance?  

Someday, he might reassess and wish he hadn't wed her. He might not stick around. Yet before that occurred, she'd have him for awhile. If she was lucky, she might have him for a long time.

She was too proud and always had been. Would she allow him to walk away?

"Make me happy, Amy," he said. "Let me be yours."

She peered up at him, and he was radiating such genuine affection. When he looked at her like that, she couldn't refuse him. She'd never been able to. She was like an obedient pet. He snapped his fingers, and she came running.

She shook her head with disgust.

"I am such a sucker," she grumbled.

"I always thought so."

She felt as if she was standing on top of a high building, that she was sprinting toward the edge and about to leap off. Once she jumped, once the words were uttered, she couldn't retract them and nothing would ever be the same again.

"I'm calling your bluff, Merriweather."

"Should I take that as a
yes
?"

She nodded slowly. "You should take it as a
yes
."

"You won't be a typical female and change your mind five minutes from now?"

"No, I won't change my mind five minutes from now. So you better not, either. I won't let you."

His smile widened. "I won't ever change my mind."

He extended his hand, palm up, like a dare, urging her to grab hold. She studied it, then laid her palm on his. He linked their fingers.

"You are so easy," he said.

"Only when I'm around you."

"I knew you couldn't resist me."

"No, I never could. That's my whole problem."

"Kiss me, Amy Dane."

"I think I will, Dustin Merriweather. I think I'll kiss you, and I'll never stop."

Love Me
Brittne
y's Story
CHAPTER ONE
 

"A July ceremony could be problematic."

"In what way?"

Brittney Merriweather frowned at the wedding planner her mother had hired.

The man, Mr. Gregory as he liked to be called, was so polished and manicured that he nearly shimmered with acumen and perfection. Her mother, Jacquelyn, dealt with only the most renowned and expensive professionals, so there was no doubt he would perform brilliantly. Brittney's wedding would be spectacular.

Why couldn't she muster any enthusiasm for the occasion?

"July in Colorado can be tricky," he explained. "We could hit a hot patch of weather and everyone would be miserable."

"Or we could get lucky," Brittney countered, "and be blessed with some of Denver's ideal summer temperatures. Everyone would be happy."

"And that time of year," he continued, "there are always late-afternoon thunderstorms."