Page 3 of A Week To Wed
Lincoln’s strong jaw tics, and my lip still harbor the memory of brushing against it when I’d greeted him. “Almost 40. And I am too old to still be single. According to my family.”
Seems we have something in common. “Ha. Maybe our daddies should meet and form a club.”
That hint of a smile widens, crinkling the skin around honey-brown eyes that I can see in his profile as he drives. Oh, my. He’s handsome. He’s good-looking when he’s not smiling, but those crow’s feet. Lordy. It’s good that I’m sitting down because my knees would buckle otherwise.
“A finger-wagging club,” he replies, with a wider smile and a lift of one eyebrow. He takes his eyes off the road for just half a second to shoot me that smile, and I am done for. Absolutely wrecked.
I laugh again, louder this time. “The finger wag is the official club greeting.”
The noise he makes is between a chuckle and a grunt, and it’s sexy as hell.
“My dad’s dead,” he blurts out.
And now I feel like an ass. “Oh god! Lincoln, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
Did my heart just stop beating?
Without hesitating, I reach over and grasp his leg. It’s not the most appropriate place to grab a new acquaintance, but both his hands are on the wheel. I figure just above the knee is chaste enough, isn’t it? “Oh, Lincoln,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. “I’m so sorry for your loss. You must be devastated.”
He says nothing for several seconds, then slowly moves his hand from the wheel and covers the one of mine that’s on his leg. Gently, he pushes my hand off him, but not before giving me a light squeeze.
“It’s fine. It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Fair enough. Although my heart aches for him, and I feel a tear in the corner of my eye, I suck it up. I don’t really want to talk about my parents, either.
Just as I’m thinking about that, my phone rings with that familiar ringtone that can only be one person.
I look at the screen. Nope. Not ready for that. I silence the phone and pop it into my handbag, and instead focus on the road, grateful that Lincoln doesn’t comment on the phone call.
I’ve never seen mountains like this. My family has gone skiing in Aspen. But this place is wilder. Much more remote feeling. And the sky looks like I’ve died and gone to heaven.
We don’t say much for the rest of the ride, but that’s fine. I like to talk; I tend to fill the space with chatter. But I’m so enchanted by the scenery I’m breathless. Or maybe it’s the altitude.
Darling Creek is nestled between rolling green foothills, dotted with trees almost bare of leaves. Main Street runs parallel to—surprise, surprise—a long, ambling stream of water that widens and narrows, winding around stands of proud birch and flowing past green spaces thoughtfully laid out with benches and picnic areas. It might be the cutest little town in America.
I’m so charmed that I don’t notice the truck slowing down and stopping in front of the Darling Creek town hall.
I snap my gaze over at Lincoln when he cuts the engine and murmurs, “Well, here we are.”
Confused, I ask. “Are we stopping here for something?”
“To get married,” he says quietly.
“What, now?” I ask, horrified.
He nods, the brim of his hat casting shadows on his handsome face.
“W-wait. We have to plan. You don’t just walk in there and get married.”
“People do.”
I shake my head. No, this isn’t part of the plan. “But I…I thought we were going to have a wedding.”
