Page 2 of A Week To Wed
When she swipes her lip gloss from my cheek with her thumb, everything below my waist goes tight in the weirdest way possible. My legs, my cock, even my rectum.
And now, I’m hallucinating the sound of gremlins. A ridiculous tiny growl comes from the cat carrier under her arm.
“Your cat doesn’t like me,” I say.
Maisy laughs and squeezes my bicep. “Oh no, silly. That’s not a cat. That’s Loki. See?”
She crouches down, unzips the carrier, and out scrambles a tiny black dog wearing a sweater. A French bulldog, I think they call those. Humph. Might as well be a cat.
“I’m going to take Loki for a potty break, and then we can go. He can’t wait to meet your…what did you say you had again?” Maisy cocks her head to the side and blinks at me, her lips parted. God, she’s gorgeous. Her curious eyes are the color of a big-sky thunderstorm, and a tiny freckle above her top lip calls out to be kissed.
“Border collies,” I answer. Molly and Frank, my energetic cattle herders, will take about five minutes to injure that little sausage of hers with their roughhousing, and I’m going to get sued.
Maisy—and her dog Loki—are far too soft and refined for life on a ranch.
But if all I have to do is get married to have my name on the deed, then this Texas rose will have to fit the bill.
ChapterTwo
Maisy
So far, I’m impressed.
More than impressed. Instead of saying something rude about Loki’s small size and spoiled demeanor, my future groom waited patiently with me outside the terminal for the dog to tinkle in the grassy pet area. Then, Lincoln picked little Loki up in his big cowboy arms and buckled him into the backseat of his truck as if he were his own baby.
Not only that, but Lincoln lifted me into the truck and helped me strap in like a true gentleman. I’ll tell you what: this cowboy is already shaming Dallas boys. Texas chivalry is dead, as far as I’m concerned.
I expected Lincoln to have some comments about my luggage. I never travel light; I like to have options. I get cold! Everyone in North Texas blasts their air conditioners, so you can bet I have a turtleneck, a sweater, and jeans for every mood. And considering I’m uprooting my entire life? Well, of course, I brought all of my possessions. But to my amazement, not a single snide remark about it left his lips as he fit all of it snugly into the bed of his pickup. It was like watching a game of Tetris, complete with that look of deep concentration.
Oh. I like this man.
Not sure he likes me. He’s awkwardly silent and gives a lot of one-word answers to all my questions about him that we never covered in our emails.
“Well, we’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other before the wedding,” I say aloud, reaching back to scratch Loki under his chin.
Lincoln gives me a curious look at that, but otherwise doesn’t say much on the trip to Darling Creek. He seems happy enough to listen to me talk about my flight, about my dog, about all my failed attempts at going to college to earn a degree. First, Texas A&M, which was my daddy’s alma mater. Then I dropped out and spent a year abroad trying to figure things out. After that, it was a year at the University of North Texas, my mama’s school. But you could say I spent too much time partying on Lake Texoma and not enough time studying.
“I’m not proud of it. I’m just…not a fan of school. And yet, Mama and Daddy Milliken keep hiring experts to tutor me and help me enroll here, there, and everywhere. They finally gave up and decided it was time for me to get married, so here I am.”
Lincoln is silent, and I see his knuckles turn white against the steering wheel. “You’re doing this because your parents made you sign up as a mail-order bride?”
I laugh loudly and say, “No! God no. They would be horrified if they knew what I was doing. No, they wanted me to mar—you know what? Never mind. I’d rather not think about that.”
A low hum sounds in Lincoln’s throat, and at first, I think it might be coming from Loki.
“Maisy? How old are you?”
“I’m 25.”
“You said you were a spinster.”
He says this not in an accusing way. The corner of his lip curls up in the first semi-smile I’ve seen from him.
“According to my family, I am,” I explain.
There’s another long pause.
“What about you, Lincoln? You never told me your age.”
