The Wedding Plan Read online

  * * *

  365 Days Earlier

  “Do you Jacob…” He’d said I do. And now, she was in the center of the dancefloor in the middle of the town square waiting for him. She spun in a half-circle. Where the hell had he disappeared to? Maybe this was his way of taking it back…maybe after an hour of thoughtful consideration and that damned glass of moonshine, his I do became I don’t.

  As her eyes scanned the crowd, she wondered: if he was the one who walked away, would she still get paid? Before the thought could bring on a frown, his chest rubbed against her back, and he leaned in to whisper, “I think I would like to dance with my wife.”

  She pasted on a smile to cover the angst of a moment earlier and turned to face him, suddenly way too close, and not close enough. He smelled like heaven, and when he clasped his fingers around hers, she turned her chin up. Oh, that smile. The only way she could describe it was dreamy, half-lidded eyes, one corner of his mouth upturned, watching her as if he was seeing everything and nothing all at the same time. God, he was beautiful, more beautiful than any man she’d ever seen. And for the next year, he was hers. Fate, karma, destiny, or God. Someone sure had a funny sense of humor.

  She lifted her free hand to his shoulder and felt the slight pressure of his fingers against her waist, guiding her closer until they were hip to hip and the thin layers of her dress and his pants hardly mattered. When she failed to look up at him—too nervous to take her gaze from the knot of his tie—he curled a finger under her chin and guided until her eyes were pointed into his.

  This was silly. Why was she nervous? She’d had a hundred first dances with guys, on tables, in the bar, under the moon…and as far as dances went, this one was tame. Not a hip to be ground in the whole three or four minutes of the band crooning an old Bon Jovi song she’d snuck onto the set list. Nervous, hell. This was a performance. And if she couldn’t do this, the next year might actually cause her to stroke out and never get the money.

  She slipped her fingers out of his and lifted them to his cheek. His perfectly stubbled cheek. He smiled down at her, angled his head into her palm for just a second before pressing a kiss to its center. Camera flashes blinked around them. A collective ahh sighed out of the crowd. Somewhere a church bell chimed, but Nat ignored it all. Instead, she memorized the way her hand curved around his face, the way his beard tickled when he’d turned his head, the way those lips—soft, moist lips—caressed her skin.

  The first drop splattered against her dress, as did the second, third, fourth…but he never stopped moving, never stopped holding her. If this was a dream, a fantasy out of her usual R-rated realm, by God, she never wanted it to end.

  People in all of their Sunday best rushed from the square seeking shelter under awnings and inside buildings that keys jangled to open, but Jacob held her in the middle of the dance floor.

  “Here you go, darling.”

  Lucia Gilden, his grandmother, brushed past and handed him an umbrella that he gripped with one hand, the other still resting at the base of her spine. And for as long as the band played, she didn’t care if a tornado tore through the center of town, if he would hold her, she would stay right there.

  “You want get in out of the rain?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  He smiled down at her. “Good.” He twirled her in a full circle as thunder rumbled through the clouds. “Tell me something about you.”

  “Like what?” Did he really care? Or was this just part of acting it out for the show?

  “What do you want out of life? What do you dream about?”

  She shook her head, the hard facts of life not fit to share with her new husband. “I don’t have dreams, Doc.” None that she was willing to share with a stranger. Even if he was her husband. “I’m more of a fantasy kind of girl.” She grinned, every bit the devil she felt. “Did you…want to talk about my fantasies?”

  “Mmm. You bet.” He leaned in to whisper. “Maybe when we’re alone at the inn would be better than now, though.”

  She cocked one eyebrow. Inn? Did they expect…did he? Of course they did. They’d given her the perfect wedding, one better than any dream she’d ever had. And the contract said they had to at least “allude” to a sexual relationship. Oh God. She tried to remember which underwear she’d worn. Oh hell. She was pretty sure she’d worn that control top pair that Karen bought her because the dress hugged her so tight. The last thing she wanted to do was scare him off with her granny panties and puckered skin.

  From there her mind jumped to wondering what or how much the network would show. Would she have to…no. This wasn’t porn. There were definitely rules about what they could show on TV. Of course, this was cable. Oh hell. The next question—did she want to—she tried to ignore. Pushed images of untying his tie, slipping each button of his vest then his shirt free and revealing every inch of that broad chest, loosening his belt… Well. This wasn’t helping her indecision.

  “You okay?”

  “I just thought…I thought we would be, um, going home tonight. I didn’t pack anything. I don’t have any clothes or anything.” No shampoo or makeup. Oh Lord. New problem. He couldn’t see her without makeup. He was at least three or four dates from that. And that was if she relaxed the five-date rule, and if she counted their wedding as a first date.

  “Hey.” His voice was soft, sweet, and she could have melted right into it if she wasn’t in the throes of a full-wind panic attack. “If you don’t want to stay at the inn, we can do the whole carry you over the threshold thing in the contract, and then I’ll just take you home. It’s okay.”

  Home? To the trailer? No. If she had her way, he’d never see that old bucket of tin. Ever. “No.” God why did her voice sound so sharp? “I can just drive myself. It’s fine.”

  “You can’t drive. You drank moonshine for our wedding toast.”

  “So did you.” And the day she couldn’t handle a mason jar full of Old Andy’s moonshine was the day she gave up drinking all together.

  He nodded. “Well, maybe neither one of us should drive then.” He grinned. “The Peach Grove Inn is just a few blocks over. We could worry about clothes tomorrow.”

  He stroked the back of his finger down her throat, and she almost burst into flames right there. Maybe the moonshine hit her harder than she thought. Or maybe…no. She couldn’t be attracted to him, not to those bluer than the sky eyes, or that little curl lying on his forehead, or the way she fit in his arms, or that little murmur sound he made when he snuggled her closer. And those heart palpitations she had going on were probably nothing more than the steak and lobster they’d been served for dinner battling for supremacy. Of course, those specific issues were related to her stomach, and the palpitations were about six inches higher, but she wasn’t a doctor. How would she know? The only thing she knew for sure was that neither her heart problems nor the tingle just south of her waist were related in the slightest to Dr. Rich Boy or the way he looked in that tux. It was just her dry spell. That was now kind of damp.

  Dammit.

  JACOB: I had no idea what to expect, I just knew I was married, and I was having a really nice time holding my wife. I think part of what we went through at first was about the contract, and we had some bumpy minutes right there in the beginning…well, all the way through, but once she saw we were on the same side of all of this, it was better. I probably shouldn’t have brought up kids, especially when we were both still trying to get our bearings rolling, but I was in the moment, and it didn’t occur to me that she would freak out like that and run. But you know, some couples have a song, some couples have a special place, me and Nat, we have the chase.

  * * *

  Jacob had to watch it, stop thinking of this as a real marriage. For God’s sake, he didn’t even know her middle name. But it had been years—probably high school—since he’d felt so…alive, wanted anyone so badly. More than anything though, he wanted to pull the pins and let all that blonde hair down. Well, not more than anything
, but it was definitely on his list. Somewhere between tasting her neck and seeing exactly what she had on underneath that form fitting dress. And for the love of all things holy, where did she get a body like that? He doubted Pilates or Yoga. She just didn’t seem the type. Nah. She was a runner, he would bet money on it. It didn’t really matter how she exercised. She had curves in all the right places and smooth valleys in between. Luscious curves. Mouthwatering curves. Oh, the goddamned curves.

  And thinking like this was not helping him maintain any control. But for once in his life, maybe letting go a little would be okay. He didn’t have exams to study for or an on-call pager clipped to his belt. What would it hurt to lose himself with his wife? His wife.

  “What’s that smile about?” He would have been quite happy to listen to her read him the phone book as long as she did it in the honey-sweet with a hint of sultry-smoke voice.

  “Just thinking about you. My wife.”

  She shook her head and looked down again. “It sounds so weird. Wife.” When she tilted her chin back up, smiling like she knew a secret, his pants shrunk another size. “And husband. Definitely weird.”

  He shrugged and tightened his hold on her waist. If not for the damned umbrella, he’d have both arms around her. “I kind of like it.”

  “Oh yeah? You see us growing old together? Getting gray hair, pushing each other’s wheelchairs?”

  Wasn’t that the plan? The reason he’d gone into this when the dating scene hadn’t worked out and produced anyone he could see building a future with? And not that his biological clock was ticking, but if he didn’t settle down and have some kids soon, he would be too old to enjoy them. “Maybe. It could happen.” And he should have stopped there, but the idea of little replicas of her had him chattering on. “Think of the story we’ll be able to tell our kids.”

  Her smile dropped away, and she stood perfectly still. She went from doubt to terror as fast as lightning knocked out the strings of light over the square. “Kids? Is that in the contract?” Before he could answer, she stepped back, and he had no choice but to let her. “I don’t…I mean, I never…is it? In the contract?”

  He shook his head and reached for her again, but she backed further away. “Would it be the worst thing?” She didn’t want kids? That was a deal breaker—the thing that would have them signing divorce papers before they really had a chance to get started.

  “Yes. Yes it would. The worst thing ever.” Rain pelted against her skin leaving little shiny trails as it dripped down her bare shoulders. She turned and ran across the square, down the sidewalk, around the corner and out of sight before it occurred to Jacob to give chase. What the hell just happened? One minute they were smiling, laughing almost, and the next, all he did was bring up kids—a normal part of marriage and family, he thought—and she bolted.

  Matt, one of the cameramen hired to follow them, ran a few steps behind him. As Jacob turned onto Broad Street, he saw her, huddled under an awning, crouched down, holding her stomach. He looked at the camera guy. “Can you give us just a minute?” This wasn’t something he thought she would want the world to see, especially since she had lines of black mascara down each cheek.

  “I’m supposed to film everything.”

  “Come on. Can’t you go take a leak or something? Just for a few minutes.”

  “I really can’t.” But he backed away and Jacob positioned himself in front of her so Matt would only get a shot of his back. He squatted in front of her, dropped a hand onto her knee. “You okay?”

  “What have we agreed to, Jacob?”

  He ignored the regret, but the sob took it right out of him. He helped her to stand, wiped either tears or rain and makeup from her cheeks, then pulled her in for another hug. She didn’t push him away. Good sign. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “I don’t think I can do this.”

  Well, that didn’t hurt much. He supposed he could chalk this up to just another blind date gone wrong. Or he could try to save it. “Look, Natasha…”

  “Nat.”

  “Okay, Nat, why don’t we sleep on it? And if tomorrow still feels this bad, we’ll go to the network, okay? Together.” She nodded. “You want to get out of the rain now?”

  3

  The show, those first few days of their married life, kept rolling on the screen in front of him, but he knew what happened back then. He needed to know how the here and now would play out. What he wouldn’t give to be able to see their future. Instead, he watched Nat. God, those eyes. So expressive. If he was a romantic, he would say he could see forever in them. Yeah. He definitely could. He’d assumed she would stay with him, but he hadn’t asked, maybe too afraid of the answer to form the question. And now, time was running out.

  Still, pressuring Nat never worked. She bucked like he was sticking actual spurs in her side. He’d go at it slow, let her watch the show before he asked.

  “What’s that smile?”

  Jesus, did he mention her voice? He’d heard all the tones—the sultry whispers, the shrieks that could break glass, the purrs that lit him on fire, even the way she spoke during normal conversations. They each held their own power over him, but this one, the playful one, made him glad to be alive, glad that she’d chosen him to play with.

  “I don’t know. I’m just happy to be here with you, right now.” He shrugged. “And it’s kind of weird to see myself up there like that.”

  “I know. I keep checking my TV self for boogers and floppy boobs.” She shook her head, but winked.

  He leaned in close, took a pointed look at her chest then inhaled her perfume. “Nothing to worry about there.” When she grinned and shook her head, he glanced at the screen. “Does my mustache look crooked?”

  She tilted her head to one side then the other as she stared at the more than life-size version of him in front of her, before she turned to examine his face. “No. I think it’s pretty straight.” She grinned and brushed her thumb over the short hairs over his lip. “If I hold my head like this.” She angled her chin until her ear touched her shoulder.

  “Very funny.”

  “You look great and you know it.” She scooted closer, close enough he could feel her breath on his neck. “You’ve always been the most handsome guy in any room.” She rested her head on his shoulder, and he almost sighed with the pleasure of having her so near. Would it always be that way? Would his chest always tingle when she touched him?

  God he hoped so. More than that, he hoped he’d never have to find out what it was to be without her again. Of course, that hadn’t quite been decided yet. Getting Nat to make a decision usually required a consortium and some grand gesture. He turned back toward the screen.

  * * *

  JACOB: What I loved most about Nat in the beginning was the way she worried about everything, but then it was like she could flip a switch and be so composed. Most of the time, I wondered if her freak out moments even existed or if I imagined them. I mean, I’ve never been to tea with my grandmother or her friends, so I just didn’t know what it would be like. And Nat was so nervous. What should she wear? What would they talk about? Boy, did she ever get a lesson.

  * * *

  360 Days earlier

  * * *

  Jacob opened his eyes slowly. It had to be close to noon, which was fine with him. They’d spent three nights staying up to the wee hours talking, sometimes about nothing more than the weather and sometimes telling each other secrets in the dark.

  “My mom is an alcoholic,” she’d said.

  He’d countered with, “My mom is on her eighth husband.”

  “My sister Karen is a teacher at a fancy private school where the uniforms look like kilts and the kids all have snooty rich-kid accents.” She’d covered her mouth as she finished. “Sorry.”

  Her skin had flushed, and he knew she thought she’d just insulted him by including him in the description. “I left my snooty accent and my kilt in New York with my mother when I was ten and I came to Rangers End.”
/>   She’d asked questions… “You left here for college, right?” He’d nodded and twirled a few strands of her hair around his finger. So soft. “How’d you end up back in Rangers End?”

  The answer was boring, but true. “Jesse called me and said the GP here was retiring. He made some promises, and I was kind of floundering at the time.”

  When she’d sat up, leaning on her elbow, she smiled. “You’re the kind of guy who uses the word floundering. Interesting.” Then she’d pushed back against the pillow and tucked her hands under her cheek, her wide eyes red with fatigue. “So what does floundering mean?”

  He’d wished he hadn’t brought it up. “Little fish in a big pond. Hundred or so patients a day at a hospital whose mission was get them in and get them out and charge them until they actually had a stroke. Then get them back in and charge them some more.” The honesty erased a shred of his guilt. That and knowing he was doing the right thing now, bartering food for treatment if necessary, letting Jocelyn Marbley pay in lasagnas—an entire freezer full thanks to her various and mostly imaginary ailments—rather than taking cash she couldn’t afford to spend. It felt good. Right.

  But not nearly as right as looking over to see his wife, curled with the blanket to her neck, peace in the relaxation of her face. Of course, he only had about three minutes until he had to wake her for tea with his grandmother and the other women in town. It was one of those contractual obligations that the network arranged. Her first event of about sixty they had planned over the next twelve months.

  She blinked twice then narrowed her eyes. “You just been laying here staring at me?”