Marry Me (47 page)

"I can make you some eggs and toast," Matt offered.

"I can't wait that long," Jeremy replied. He grabbed a fistful of donuts and sprinted off, racing down the street to the school that was two blocks away.

Matt followed him out onto the porch.

"Hey!" he shouted.

"What?" Jeremy halted and glanced over his shoulder.

"Do you want me to pick you up after school?"

"I have baseball practice. I'll walk."

He took off again, and Matt stood in the quiet, proud and amazed that he'd produced such a boy. He watched until Jeremy disappeared around the corner, then he went inside.

As he entered the kitchen, Ken had just taken a hit from his inhaler. He didn't like Matt to notice, and he stuck it in his pocket.

"How is your breathing?" Matt asked.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He waved off Matt's concern. "Don't fuss like an old hen."

Ken had been a smoker, and it was definitely showing. He looked much more aged than sixty-two. He was too thin, his handsome face leathery and lined. He still had all his hair, but the blond color had faded to silver, and his green eyes—Emily's eyes—didn't sparkle with amusement as they once had.

"You sure you're okay?" Matt pressed. "I should be getting over to the mansion, but I can cancel."

"Don't."

"It's no problem if I stay," Matt insisted, but Ken scoffed.

"It's set in motion, Matt. You know the plan. You can't
not
go."

"All right."

"Remember Emily's birthday. I want Brittney here by then."

"She will be."

"Don't screw this up."

"I won't. In fact, I'm thinking of dragging her off to her brother's wedding. It will give me a lot of time alone with her. It will make it easier to convince her to leave with me."

"You'd actually drive up to Gold Creek and rub elbows with her brothers?"

"She'll lower her guard that way. She'll be less suspicious of my motives."

"What about Lucas and Dustin? They could be a problem."

"They're harmless."

"Like rattlesnakes, maybe. They're David Merriweather's sons. I never met a more crafty, duplicitous man, and they've probably inherited his worst traits."

"One's a playboy," Matt said, "who's never had a real job and the other's a wannabe movie producer. What could they possibly do to me?"

Ken considered, then nodded his assent. "Okay. Take her to the wedding, but don't you dare sleep with her while you're there."

"I can't promise that.
Love
will be in the air after the ceremony, and we'll be at a hotel. She'll be all over me."

"Great. She'll be all over you. Just don't be stupid."

"I never am."

He walked out, Ken's hoots of laughter ringing in his ears.

* * *

"I'm heading to New York."

"You are not."

Brittney was on the sofa in the front parlor, sipping her morning coffee. Her mother was at an antique writing desk in the corner, reviewing her to-do list. She was ignoring Brittney, and usually, Brittney didn't mind.

She was used to her mother's disregard, but recently, the distance between them was growing painful. They should have been bonding over the wedding, but Jacquelyn was more detached than ever.

Brittney had never felt a connection to the woman. There had never been the least maternal spark to make it seem as if they were related.

They didn't even look alike. Jacquelyn was very thin, almost dangerously so, but it was the only trait they shared. They had no similar features. Jacquelyn's face was bleak angles and sharp lines, while Brittney's was more rounded and soft. Her mother had the same dark hair and blue eyes that Brittney's father had had, that her brothers had.

Brittney—with her golden blond hair and green eyes—was so different in appearance, size, and stature from the rest of the Merriweathers that she'd often jokingly wondered if she hadn't been switched at birth.

"I'm serious, Mother. I'm flying to New York as soon as I can get a reservation."

Her firm assertion garnered her mother's attention. Jacquelyn ripped off her reading glasses and glared at Brittney.

"How do you intend to have everything ready by July?"

"I'll finalize it in New York. I've heard they have phones and internet there. I'm sure I'll manage."

"Don't be smart."

"I'm not being smart. I'm simply telling you that I've had enough."

"What is wrong with you?" Jacquelyn snapped. "Isn't it sufficient that you've insisted on having a rushed ceremony? Why must you make the preparations even more difficult?"

"I thought we could plan the wedding together—like a mother and daughter should—but it's impossible. I'll handle it on my own. You need to return to Santa Fe."

"I most certainly will not," her mother huffed. "I have appointments scheduled all day."

"Cancel them."

"No. We have to pick the florist."

As if Brittney hadn't spoken, her mother went back to reading her papers and jotting down notes.

Brittney studied her, and suddenly, she was consumed by the most powerful wave of animosity. She had never understood her mother and really didn't like her very much. But she hadn't realized that she harbored such potent hostility.

That old and shameful memory swamped her again, of being five years old and waiting so pathetically to be noticed. She kept banging her head on the Merriweather wall, wanting to feel that someone—anyone!—was glad to be related to her.

She was so alone and always had been. As a girl, she'd moved around like a military brat, sent to a different school every semester, so she'd developed no long-term friendships. College had been no better. She'd been wary of other students and suspicious of unexpected overtures.

Whenever her wealth and status became known, people glommed onto her for all the wrong reasons. She was the worst judge of character, unable to decide whose interest was sincere and whose was fueled by what that person could gain from an acquaintance.

She'd mentioned to Matt Monroe that inappropriate men, with bad motives, occasionally threw themselves into her path, and she hadn't been lying. After she'd first started living on her own as a young adult, her father had paid off two unsavory boyfriends to make them go away.

Yet here she was, desperate to be liked and accepted, bending over backward to please her mother, pretending Jacquelyn could behave normally. But Jacquelyn's antipathy was too ingrained.

Brittney's fury waned, and it was replaced by an overwhelming sadness.

Why am I getting married?

The question rang through her mind again.

Why proceed with a wedding where she wasn't allowed to arrange the type of event she desired? Why proceed when her brothers would never attend? 

Jacquelyn had been adamant that she wouldn't socialize with Dustin's and Lucas's wives. If Brittney insisted on inviting her brothers,
they
would insist on bringing Amy and Faith, and Jacquelyn would have a fit.

Brittney didn't want her life to be like this.

She wanted to know her brothers. She wanted to meet their new families and be part of what they were building with those they loved. What she
didn't
want was to be trapped in this room with her caustic, insensitive mother who seemed to loathe Brittney.

"You can hire a thousand florists," Brittney quietly said, "but I won't use any of them."

Brittney had finally managed to ignite Jacquelyn's notorious temper. Her mother whipped around. "Honestly, Brittney, you're acting like a baby, and I've had enough of your antics."

"I'm going to New York. Andrew and I will figure something out. Maybe we'll elope. I'm thinking that would be easier."

"Elope!" Jacquelyn gasped. "Like a…common person? Don't be stupid."

Footsteps sounded, and Brittney glanced over as Matt Monroe entered. After the way he'd enraged her the previous afternoon, she'd thought she never wanted to see him again. But just then, with her being crushed under the weight of all that was wrong in her world, she felt as if her hero had arrived.

He must have heard the awful exchange with her mother, and she blushed. She was embarrassed that he'd been privy to another private quarrel.

"Excuse me," he said to Jacquelyn, "but I have to speak with Ms. Merriweather."

"What is it?" Brittney inquired.

"I'd like to ask you a question."

"She's busy," her mother curtly informed him. "You can talk to her later."

"I'm afraid it has to be now," he sternly replied, his tone brooking no argument.

He glared at Jacquelyn, his forbidding expression vividly telling her that he didn't like her and wouldn't put up with her. It was clear that he was rescuing Brittney from Jacquelyn's barbed tongue, and to Brittney's stunned surprise, Jacquelyn was cowed into submission.

Matt gestured to the hall, and Brittney rose and followed him out.

She'd assumed he would halt outside the door, but he kept on to the back of the house, stopping in the mudroom.

"What did you need?" she asked.

"Nothing. I just had to drag you out of there."

"You overheard?"

"Yes, and while I'm here, she's not treating you like that."

Brittney had never had a champion before, and she was incredibly flattered.

"I'm used to it," she claimed.

"I'm not, and it's not happening while I'm around to prevent it."

Brittney sighed, feeling trapped between him and her mother. They were both so strong-willed. Why was she—Brittney—the only one who couldn't stand up for herself?

She hated discord and liked everyone to get along; she'd always been that way.

"You'll make things worse for me," she said.

"How could they be worse?"

"I've known my mother a long time. If you call her out on her behavior, she becomes more entrenched. You can't win against her."

At least I can't,
Brittney thought.

"Your mother is a bully," he baldly stated, "and she deserved a good smack-down."

Was Jacquelyn a bully? Was the term accurate? Now that Matt had given a name to the conduct, it certainly seemed to fit.

"So she's a bully," Brittney agreed. "Do you think you can whip her into shape for me?"

"No, but when I'm with you, she's simply going to shut the hell up. Aren't you sick of listening to her?"

"Well…yes."

"I've only been hanging around for three days, and I've had her up to my eyeballs."

He opened the door. It was another beautiful spring morning in Denver, the sky so blue, the temperatures balmy. His red Mustang was parked in the driveway.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

"And go where?"

"Wherever you want. We'll just drive."

"I don't know if I should. I need to make reservations to fly to New York."

He grinned his wicked grin. "Are you antsy for your dearest Andrew?"

He had a knack for rattling her, for igniting her temper, so she almost replied with a caustic retort, but didn't.

"I'd like to leave Denver, and New York seemed the best direction."

"Is that where you live?"

"No."

"Where
do
you live?"

"Nowhere, really."

"What? You don't have any roots? You just travel from place to place?"

"Pretty much. I land myself in a nice spot, and I stay until I'm tired of it."

"But then you don't ever belong anywhere."

"No, you don't," she confessed, oddly shamed by the admission.

He scowled. "That's the saddest thing I ever heard."

He studied her, a thousand emotions crossing his handsome face, then he clasped her wrist and led her outside. She could have protested, but instead, she trotted after him like a puppet on a string.

"We're heading up into the high country," he told her.

"When will we be back?"

"Maybe tonight." He shrugged. "Maybe never. We'll see how it goes."

He stopped at his car and opened the passenger door. He held it for her, and they both paused, perched on the edge of something more than a ride to pass the time.

Brittney gazed up at him, then over at the house that offered only a boring, spiteful day with her mother. He was smiling, full of mischief and determined to provide her with an adventure.

Given the two choices—him or her mother—it was a simple decision.

"Can I get my purse?"

"Already got it for you." He pointed to the floorboard. "I snagged it out of your bedroom a bit ago."

"Why were you in my bedroom?"

"I'm a petty thief," he mockingly retorted. "Why do you think?"