You're Marrying Her?. Angie Ray
seagull dived. Descending with speed and grace, it focused completely on its target. Sam could imagine the wind rushing through its feathers, almost feel the bird’s excitement as it swooped down, the rush of anticipation as it approached its goal.
The bird landed by a trash can. It pecked at the sandy remnants of a greasy, half-eaten hamburger. The prize secure in its beak, the seagull took off again.
Sam lay down on her towel and closed her eyes. “I don’t know what I want yet,” she told Brad. “But I will.”
But now six years had passed, she was twenty-four, and she still didn’t have a clue.
Shaking her head, Sam put her needle and thread back in the sewing box and closed the lid. Maybe it was time she got a real job. She’d taken a couple of accounting classes before she quit college and had plenty of accounts receivable-payable experience both in the U.S. and in Europe. She should be able to find work fairly easily.
Or she could go back to college. She’d been considering that for the last year or so. She could finish her business degree while living off her share of the small trust fund her father had left. It would support her comfortably, if not luxuriously, while she studied.
Or she could continue to work for her sister. At least for a while. She’d taken the job with Jeanette partly to help out her sister, partly because she enjoyed working in the shop. But she knew Jeanette couldn’t really afford to keep her on long-term. Sam needed to make some decision soon. Hopefully before Jeanette became completely fed up with her lack of punctuality and fired her.
A knock sounded at the door. Sam glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock—Mrs. Blogden had said she and her daughter would be at the shop by six-thirty. Jeanette should have stayed and lectured them, Sam thought. Although, of course, Jeanette would never criticize a client. Only sisters enjoyed that privilege.
The knock came again.
Reluctantly she stood up, fluffing up her curls and brushing the stray bits of thread and cloth from her shirt and jeans. She picked up the stack of magazines and put them in the armoire before walking toward the door.
Another knock sounded, more impatient this time.
“Hold on to your horses,” Samantha muttered, but she arranged her features in a smile as she opened the door. “Your dress is ready.…”
The man standing on the threshold arched an eyebrow, his gray-blue eyes smiling down at her.
“You always did have a peculiar idea of me, Sammy.”
Chapter Two
Samantha stared up at the man in shock. Brad? She’d seen him just eight months ago, but he looked…different. Incredibly different. His glasses were gone, he wore a dark gray pin-striped suit that looked tailormade and silver cuff links. His sun-streaked hair was expertly cut, his nails manicured. On his wrist, he wore a gold Rolex watch, and on his feet, polished to a brilliant shine, shoes that screamed custom-made Italian leather.
But the difference went beyond clothes. He smelled of expensive gabardine, fine linen and spicy cologne. He was still tall and lean, but his shoulders looked broader. More powerful.
“A peculiar idea?” she replied stupidly, distracted by her efforts to decide whether his shoulders actually were wider or if the expensive jacket just made them appear so.
“I may have done some wild things in my life, but I draw the line at wearing ladies’ dresses.”
Her gaze flew to his. His gray-blue eyes held a glint. A familiar glint.
She started to smile. “What wild thing have you ever done, Brad? Ditched class to work on some computer program?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said, the glint still in his eyes.
She laughed. Her first impression that he’d changed faded away. This was the Brad she remembered from high school. Someone she could laugh with. Her friend.
Or so she’d thought. He certainly hadn’t acted very friendly in the past eight months. And even though he was smiling, he hadn’t hugged her or kissed her cheek. In fact, he was looking at her with a strange, watchful gaze. Her own smile dimmed. “What are you doing here, Brad?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I need to talk to you. I was going to call again, but I realized that this is too important to tell you over the phone, so I decided it would be better to come and see you in person.”
Too important to tell her over the phone? Sam stared at him uneasily, Jeanette’s words popping into her brain.
Brad was in love with you.
Sam tried to banish the foolish thought. He’d barely spoken to her in the past eight months. That was hardly a sign of love.
But the thought refused to go away. Could Jeanette have been right, after all? Had Brad come to propose? “You’re wearing a suit,” she said, trying to hide her uneasiness. “Very nice. Are you trying to impress someone?”
“You, I hope.”
Her hand tightened on the doorknob. “I’m duly impressed,” she said, as lightly as possible.
“Are you?” The watchful expression in his eyes turned into something even more obscure and unreadable. “May I come in?”
“Oh, of course.” The pitch of her laughter a bit high, she stepped back and allowed him to enter the shop.
He looked around with interest, his gaze taking in the forest-green sofa and the pine table littered with catalogs and pattern books, the peach-colored wallpaper with its tiny white flowers and the rainbow of dresses hanging on one wall. His eyes lingered on the mannequin with Miss Blogden’s dress.
“Did you make this, Sammy?”
She nodded, unable to prevent a small welling of pride at the admiration in his voice. She’d done most of the sewing herself, endured thousands of pinpricks. But the result was worth it.
“You always did have a talent with clothes,” he said. “Remember that outfit you gave me one Christmas? A pair of baggy shorts, a black T-shirt and silver-rimmed sunglasses—along with a little note suggesting that I grow a goatee.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “Okay, so maybe I wasn’t very subtle. I still think you would’ve looked great. You could have at least tried the outfit. You never wore it even once.”
“Not my style.” He glanced at the row of gowns against the wall. “Do you make all the dresses for the shop?”
“Good heavens, no. Most of them are off the rack,” she said. “I only make a dress once in a while when a customer requests something unique. Usually, I just help Jeanette with whatever needs to be done. She’s doing very well. She only started a year ago, but she’s already close to making a profit. She had six weddings in June, and has at least two scheduled every month for the next year. I just assisted her with a wedding at the Arboretum in Arcadia with ten bridesmaids and ten groomsmen, a harpist, programs, the works. It was beautiful, we released 10,000 Monarch butterflies after the ceremony—”
She stopped, suddenly aware that she was babbling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble on.”
“I enjoy listening to you. I remember Jeanette talking about starting a bridal shop ten years ago.”
“I didn’t think she’d ever actually own one. She hit a few roadblocks.”
“That’s normal. The important thing is she didn’t give up.”
“Mmm.” She glanced at him. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Jeanette’s shop?”
His mouth quirked. “You always were direct, Sam. To tell you the truth, I came here for another reason. There’s something I want to ask you.…”
She stiffened, unable to prevent