Read an excerpt:
Once again, her impulsiveness had landed her in a jam.
Francie Karr rifled through a stack of papers on her gigantic wooden desk and
picked up the letter for the tenth time that morning. The official confirmation
of her obligation to attend the class reunion. She’d placed the irksome reminder
on the edge just so, in case her cat took a notion to jump up on the desk and bat
the paper into the wastebasket. He hadn’t. The traitor.
She’d used the envelope postmarked Spencer, Colorado as a
coaster for the better part of a week before piling invoices on top of it, but
the return address still remained legible.
No, the letter was still here and she hadn’t forgotten
about the impulsive promise she’d made, so she guessed she was going to have to
send the reunion committee an email about her arrival plans. She’d first
ignored the group Facebook message from the planning committee requesting she
be the photographer for Spencer High’s fifteenth class reunion. She’d asked if
they didn’t have a local photographer, but the relentless social media members
had been adamant it be someone from their class, so she’d grudgingly agreed.
What had she been drinking? She’d known then, just as she
knew now, that she wasn’t going to be able to attend the class reunion. She was
going to have surgery that week. Or something else was going to come up. A
debilitating sickness maybe. Perhaps even a death—her own would be convenient.
The intercom buzzed her that someone was downstairs, and
she walked distractedly to the panel, the wrinkled letter in her hand. “Yeah?”
“Miss Karr, it’s Ryan MacNair. I’d like to speak with you
for a few minutes, please.”
“Who?”
He repeated his name and added, “We spoke last month. About
the brooch you had appraised? You told me to call back at a more convenient
time.”
“Oh.” She glanced around the cluttered loft where she lived
and worked. Photographs hung on every wall—some were even framed. Stacks of
books teetered on end tables, and every pair of shoes she’d worn recently were
beside the sofa. The place wasn’t going to suddenly become neat and organized,
and the time never got more convenient, so she might as well let him in.
“Come on up.” She jabbed the button that unlocked the
security door and sauntered back to her desk.
How hard could it be to fake her own death? She’d seen it
done on TV plenty of times. She could assume a new identity and move her studio
to Peoria under a different name.
Francie flopped onto her office chair and grimaced at her
own thoughts. No. YaYa needed someone to check up on her often and make sure
the care center was doing a good job. Deserting her dear fragile grandmother
was out of the question. It distressed the old woman enough to think Francie
wasn’t married yet. Disappearing was a purely selfish thought. Self-preserving
and really clever—but selfish.
How on earth then was she going to get out of this dreadful
class reunion? What was she going to tell her grandmother? YaYa was the only
person in the world she was close to. The only person whose opinion mattered.
But YaYa didn’t agree with Francie’s decision to choose a career over a
marriage and children.
A few months ago, to alleviate the old woman’s worry over
her being alone, Francie had told her she’d gotten married.
To a rich man.
To a rich man with kids.
To a rich handsome man with kids.
How in blazes was she going to get out of this one?
A knock sounded on the door.
Francie crossed to open it.
“Hi, Miss Karr—”
“Francie.”
“Francie. Thank you for seeing me.”
She swung the door open wide and ushered a tall dark-haired
man in a tailored navy-blue suit into her studio. “Would you like a soft drink?
The coffee’s been sitting since morning.”
“No, thank you.”
“Well…” She wandered back to her desk chair and sank onto
the comfortable cushion, her gaze immediately landing on the letter that still
lay on her desk. Darn cat anyhow. Darn YaYa for thinking a woman couldn’t be
fulfilled with her career.
“I have an offer for you,” MacNair said. He glanced around,
then moved a stack of manila envelopes from the seat of the chair opposite her
desk to the only available spot on the floor and plucked the crease at the knee
of his trousers as he sat. “Are you moving out?”
“No, why?”
“Um, no reason. Do you recall why I’m here?”
Absorbed in her predicament, Francie tapped a fingernail
against the edge of the desk. The reunion was less than two weeks away now, and
she still hadn’t figured out what she was going to do.
“Francie?”
“What? Oh. No, I guess I’ve forgotten what it was you
wanted to see me about.”
“The brooch you had appraised at Grambs & Sons last
month.”
“Right. That pin was in a box of old junk that I bought at
an auction. I buy things like that for my still life photography. The piece
will make amazing shot in black and white, with maybe a pair of gloves. Kind of
draping out of an old jewelry chest with a piece of lace beneath it.”
“Several months ago, I put the word out to all the jewelers
that I was looking for that particular item,” he said. “Grambs called me after
you’d been in. That brooch rightfully belongs to my daughter. It’s her
inheritance.”
She’d found the perfect pair of old lace gloves. What had
she done with them? “Uh-huh.”
“It belonged to my paternal grandmother. Unfortunately, my
grandfather’s will was contested, and the jewelry went to one of my aunts who
only wanted what she could get out of everything. Just to be spiteful, she
wouldn’t even let my father buy the pieces he wanted. I can’t even remember why
she started the feud with my father in the first place. I’m not even sure she remembers.”
“She sounds lovely.” Francie picked up a pen and doodled a
sketch of her idea on the letter.
He blinked at her. “She sold it all, and we’ve been trying
to find the pieces to buy them back. My father had intended for that brooch to
remain in the family.”
Francie’s attention drifted to Peyton Armbruster’s scrawled signature on the page, and Francie knew she couldn’t stall any longer. She either had to come clean...or come up with a husband.
“The brooch was appraised at five thousand dollars,” MacNair said. “Miss Karr, I’ll double that offer.”
At his concerned tone, Francie glanced up into his grave
features, and finally his words sank into her dilemma-drugged brain. He was as
intense about the silly old brooch as she was about taking a husband to the
reunion.
For the first time she took a long assessing look at Ryan
MacNair. His dark hair, bearing a distinguishing widow’s peak, was neatly
styled and brushed back from a square-jawed face. Dark brows were divided by a
V of anxiety that didn’t diminish his well-bred features. The dude was impressively
handsome.
He had a nice straight nose and an interesting mouth that
could probably slide into a knockout smile if he’d loosen that tie and give
himself a little air. His navy suit and cranberry silk tie were of the best
quality and taste, and he wore them with ease and panache. He was rich. Not her
type—if she had a type—but wouldn’t he impress the Spanx right off her
classmates back in Spencer? And YaYa wouldn’t be able to stop smiling. She
imagined her grandmother looking him up and down with approval.
"You planned to use the brooch in some photographs," he said. Have you done that?"
“Are you married?”
He blinked, his warm brown eyes showing confusion over the
abrupt change of subject. “I’m divorced,” he said finally. “Is that relevant to
the discussion?”
Actually, a discussion took two people, but she spared him
that reminder, and let the ever-turning gears in her mind whirl with
possibilities. “I’m just beginning to sympathize with your situation, Mr...”
“MacNair.”
“Mr. MacNair. I’d certainly feel bad if something of my
grandmother’s was sold off against my wishes.”
He nodded, his brow still furrowed. “Then you’ll sell it to
me?”
“You really want this brooch, don’t you? It means a lot to
you. And to your father.”
Still his carefully guarded expression didn’t change.
“Yes.”
“So, I guess my decision carries a lot of weight.”
“It does,” he admitted, though his aggravated expression
showed his reluctance to do so.
Francie smoothed the letter, refolded it and placed it
inside the stained and warped envelope. “Perhaps we can negotiate after all.”
He gave a shake of his head. “Money isn’t the issue here.
The brooch has sentimental value. Ten thousand. Fifteen.”
“No. Not more money,” she said with a flick of her hand.
“In fact, if you agree to this idea, you can keep your money.”
His frown deepened. “What idea?”
“I’m in a predicament myself. I’m afraid I’ve done
something—said something—impulsive, and now I don’t have any way out of it.
Except maybe through you.”
He raised one dark brow. “I don’t understand. What does
your predicament have to do with me?”
“I told my grandmother that I’d gotten married.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Yes, it’s a problem. It wasn’t true. It isn’t true.”
“You told her you were married?”
She nodded.
“But you’re not married. And you weren’t married.”
“Right.”
“Then why did you tell her that?”
The question was so simple. The answer was so complicated.
“Because I’m not.”
He stared at her.
“It’s a long, boring story,” she supplied. “Maybe sometime
we’ll go over the details, but for now I’ll just say I had my reasons.”
“So, you lied. And now this lie is causing you a problem.”
“Oh, yeah. A super-sized problem.” She stood and walked
restlessly to the row of tall windows and gazed, unseeing, down on the street
“What does your lie have to do with me?”
She turned back. “I’ve been cornered into participating in my class’s fifteen-year reunion in my hometown. YaYa is expecting me. And she’s expecting me to bring a husband.”
With a wary expression, he waited for her to speak.
“You can have the brooch...”
He leaned forward in the chair like his Spidey-senses were
on alert.
“...if you come to Spencer, Colorado with me as my husband
for a week.”
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