Page 1 of A Week To Wed
ChapterOne
Lincoln
It takes some heavy balls to travel with white suitcases. Let alone two luggage carts full of them, piled chest-high.
“Welcome to the mountains, princess,” I mutter to no one. “All your baggage is about to get scuffed and filthy as heck.”
I’m alone outside of arrivals at the Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport, pitying whichever poor sap has to deal with that mess.
Maybe I’m sexist for assuming it’s a woman responsible for making two curbside valets struggle through the sliding doors with enough luggage to fill half a cargo container. Whoever it is, they’re sure to be a handful and a half.
Past the mountain of luggage, I see her.
An angel glides through the doors like royalty in a pale pink skirt, matching blazer, and high heels that belong on a runway somewhere far away from here.
My stomach leaps into my chest cavity when I see a wide, brilliantly white smile. “Lincoln? Lincoln Hall?”
It’s her.
No longer able to feel my fingers, I drop the sign with her name, Maisy Milliken. Maisy is ten times as pretty as the photo she sent and looks ten years younger. Didn’t she say in her emails that she was 30? Wait, no. She just said she was a spinster. I’d assumed a certain age. Maybe closer to my age of almost 40. This woman can’t be a day over 22.
I touch the brim of my hat and nod deeply. “That’s me,” I croak.
I watch her smile change from excited to diplomatic. It seems reality is setting in for her as much as it is for me. The difference is her reality is forcing her to lower her expectations, while my reality is making my head spin with contradicting thoughts:
She misled you.Not technically. But if her definition of “ spinster “ was a latch on a barn door, it’d be so loose we’d’ve already lost all the cows.
She’s too high class for you. Look at her; she comes from big city money.She won’t need you to take care of her.Ah, but this is the 21st century. A woman with money doesn’t affect my masculinity.
Besides, I’ve been pent up for so long; if Maisy is into me, that woman is in for the freakin’ carnival ride of her life.
If my reticence doesn’t fuck everything up.
I’m not prepared for the touching, though. So when Maisy lifts her chin and clip-clops over to me in those sky-high heels to hug my neck, my body floods with heat.
“So nice to meet you!” Her Texas twang is as cute as a button.
Maisy may be dressed inappropriately for a rancher’s wife, but she sure is a bubbly thing.
And then, my stomach drops to the pavement as I watch the woman turn away and approach the two valets. Oh, no. Please, god, no. She hands each of the valets some folding money and thanks them warmly for helping with her luggage.
Yeah. That mountain of white matching suitcases? I’m the poor sap who’s gonna be dealing with it.
Maisy had said she likes the outdoors. That she likes to read. That she loves animals. I expected a messy bun and a cardigan. Glasses. Sensible shoes. A shy smile that I’d have to earn. Okay, so she’s not what I expected. She’s kinda fancy. Or maybe she dressed up for the occasion.
“Wow. You’re Lincoln!” Maisy shouts for everyone to hear. “I can’t believe I’m here! My groom!” She hugs me again, and despite my chagrin at the sight of all this luggage, I like how she slings her arms around my neck. Heck, it’s been so long since anyone rubbed up against me, it’s probably just a bunch of brain chemicals acting up.
Chemicals. Loneliness. That is all there is to blame for what my body does. My hands travel slowly up and down her back. My chest notices her small, perky breasts pressed close. And my cock is wide awake and hard while my brain prays she doesn’t notice. She feels so delicate. I was expecting someone…I don’t know. Sturdier? Someone I could mold into a cowgirl. My match.
When Maisy pulls back, she kisses each of my cheeks. Is she French? British? I don’t know what to do with that.
Up close, she smells like expensive perfume. Her glossy, full lips brush against my cheek, and she’s so soft that I worry my scruff might leave a scratch. I remembered to shave this morning. But the way my hair grows in, it’s more like a two o’clock shadow instead of a five o’clock.
I hope she doesn’t notice my top lip sweating. It tends to do that when I’m nervous.Breathe, Lincoln, breathe. You know what happens when you get too anxious and your insides fill up with gas…no, that idea is unthinkable.
All of this is a bad idea. We don’t make sense. I’m too big for her. Too old. Too quiet. Too grouchy. Too country.
Apart from that, I notice an outright lie. Maisy’s holding a cat carrier and never mentioned anything about a feline.
