A Bride for a Day Page 2
C.C.’s smile for William, as he took the box and carried it back to the counter, gave Michael a twinge of jealousy that William instead of himself was the recipient of such a smile. Why hadn’t he been the one to help her?
Then she glanced toward Michael and smiled in acknowledgement of his presence. It felt as though his heart had stopped beating. Two thoughts flooded to the surface. The first was that her eyes this morning were the color of nutmeg, with a touch of gold highlights. The second was that he was in deep trouble.
Chapter Two
C.C. unwrapped her scarf from around her neck. The Matchmaker Café had become a morning tradition during their brief stay in Scotland. She stood near the entrance, drinking in the atmosphere. Warm air, laced with the earthy aroma of coffee, and the soothing hum of conversation greeted her like a close friend. The coffee shop seemed to whisper for her to take a breath and slow down. Everything will be all right, it seemed to say. Your father is a strong man. He’ll beat this. She took in a ragged breath and straightened her shoulders. She needed coffee.
A few minutes ago she’d smiled over at Michael and received his signature stony stare. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much that she couldn’t get him to smile. She’d made it her mission and resorted to asking dumb football questions to see if she could break through his shell. Like why was a football called a pig-skin, or did the players really talk about football plays in the huddle or did they talk about who they were dating? Sometimes when she asked him a football question she thought she noticed a glimmer that might morph into a smile, but then it would disappear. She’d asked his grandmother last week, when she’d visited him on Christmas, why Michael was always so serious and if she knew of any way to make him smile. The wonderful woman had given C.C. a hug as the only response. C.C. was still trying to figure out what that had meant.
She shook her head. It wasn’t her business. She had other issues to worry about. C.C. had noticed Tatiana and her mother huddled near Michael’s table. She knew they wouldn’t mind if she ordered her latte first before meeting with them for the morning briefing. Tatiana’s mother insisted people around her be fully caffeinated at all times. C.C. sucked in a deep breath. She’d delayed long enough. Time to officially start her day. She unbuttoned her coat and headed over to the counter to place her order.
According to the archives at the library, the coffee shop and its rooms on the second and third floors had undergone numerous transformations over the past five hundred years. In the eighteenth century it had been a tavern, and a meeting place for the Jacobites, who supported Bonnie Prince Charlie. It was later turned into a hotel, a brothel, and then during World War II it became a hospital. From then until recently, it had been a pub called the Water Horse, named after the Loch Ness Monster, but the new owners—or lessees, actually—had renamed it the Matchmaker Café. The guidebooks joked that there were likely more pubs and coffee shops in Scotland than sheep.
C.C. reached the counter and was greeted by Fiona’s smile and faint Scottish brogue. Fiona, along with her sisters Bridget and Lady Roselyn, had taken over the lease of the coffee shop. The young woman’s blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore black rimmed glasses that instead of looking dorky reminded C.C. of her adorable younger sister, Rose.
A wave of homesickness struck C.C. so fast she had to reach out for the counter. How long had it been since she’d been home? Six months? A year? She gripped the counter tighter. It was closer to eighteen months.
“Are you all right?” Fiona said.
C.C. nodded. “I’m fine. I made an extra batch of sandwiches this morning. I thought with the holiday you might need them.”
“You’re a mind reader. We are expecting a crush of people today. Do you want your usual?”
C.C. nodded again, then glanced over at Michael as though pulled by an invisible thread. He and Harold were engrossed in conversation. She transferred her glance to Tatiana and her mother. They were equally absorbed. It was unusual that they weren’t sitting together, but the habits of the rich and famous were a mystery that C.C. had long ago given up trying to decipher.
Today Tatiana looked even more carefully pulled together than normal, as though a photo shoot might be planned for later in the day. She had chiseled cheek-bones, Cleopatra eyes, a skin-tight dress, and thigh-high boots. Her mother was just an older version and sat across from Tatiana checking her messages. C.C. suspected a soft center lay beneath Tatiana’s sharp edges, if only she could get out from under her mother’s watchful gaze. Again, none of C.C.’s business.
She turned back to Fiona, who had been waiting patiently. “Could I have extra whipped cream?” C.C. said.
“Of course. Chocolate sprinkles?”
“Absolutely.”
When her latte was ready, she headed over to Tatiana’s table, but Harold called her over to join him and Michael. She paused, waiting for Tatiana’s slight nod of approval before making an about-face. At times like these she felt she walked a tight rope. Michael paid her salary, but he’d made it clear that C.C. worked for Tatiana and her mother.
Michael Campbell was six-foot-six and could intimidate anyone with a look. He was a professional quarterback who ate healthy, worked out like a crazy person, dated only models over six feet tall, and of course, the big one, never smiled.
Harold pulled a chair out for her. “C.C., we have a problem,” he said, getting straight to the point. “The studio is waffling on offering our man the movie part for Highland Rebel. Even though we all traveled to Scotland to demonstrate Michael’s commitment to this project, the studio isn’t convinced. And Michael dating someone who is separated but not yet divorced hasn’t helped eliminate his playboy image of dating only super-models with issues. We need a game change.”
C.C. settled in the chair and glanced over at Tatiana and her mother. They had both stopped what they were doing and were concentrating on Harold. C.C. blew on her latte, trying to figure out why she’d been brought into this conversation. They’d hired her three months ago as Tatiana’s assistant. Her duties had expanded to making Tatiana appear more likeable to the press. “The press likes to exaggerate. Besides, Michael has nailed the Scottish brogue, and he looks great in a kilt. That should count for something.”
Harold slid a glance toward Michael and, after receiving the go-ahead, said, “They mentioned words like ‘heroic,’ ‘chivalrous,’ and ‘trustworthy.’ They want the image of a one-woman man, like the character he would be playing. They don’t want a man who trades in girlfriends as often as the weather changes in Scotland.”
“A little harsh, my friend,” Michael said.
Harold shrugged.
C.C.’s latte was still too hot to drink, and she blew on it again, playing for time. She looked over at Tatiana. The woman was leaning forward as though awaiting C.C.’s response. C.C. glanced toward Michael. He was busy shredding his napkin.
She concentrated on her latte. The whipped cream was dissolving into the coffee, turning it the color of milk chocolate. “Why don’t we leak it to the press that Michael and Tatiana will be announcing they are getting married? They’re already planning on attending the New Year’s Eve party tonight at the MacBride Mansion. We can turn it into an engagement party. Michael has a kilt, and he can impress them with his accent. Tatiana will look gorgeous. They’ll have the press eating out of their hands.”
Harold exchanged a glance with Michael. “We can’t. Tatiana’s divorce isn’t final. She said her husband would only make things more difficult if he knew her relationship with Michael was serious.”
She glanced over at Michael again. He had clenched his jaw and was focused on his empty coffee cup. C.C. had seen that look before—on the football field when he’d disagreed with a play the coach had called.
Harold smiled, but the smile looked pasted on with tape. “We have something else in mind.”
Michael braided his fingers around his cup. “This isn’t going to work out the way you think, Harold.”
C.C. looked from Michael to Harold. Harold wasn’t just Michael’s manager; they’d been best friends since Michael had rescued Harold from the neighborhood bullies in grammar school. This was the first time she’d seen them disagree. If they had differences, they always kept them private and showed a united front in public.
“What’s going on?” C.C. said.
Michael looked toward her and held her gaze. “Harold wants the two of us to get married. Tonight.”
Chapter Three
All the oxygen must have been sucked out of the coffee shop, C.C. thought. The lights seemed brighter and the voices louder. She kept her eyes down, avoiding eye contact. Was it her imagination or had everyone in the café overheard what Michael had said? The customers in the coffee shop seemed to be holding their breath—or was she the one who had trouble breathing?
Her hand shook as she brought her cup to her lips and then set it back down untouched. Michael and Harold were discussing the wedding details as though she’d already agreed. There was the mention of a generous bonus. Half now, and half when they divorced. She wasn’t opposed to the idea of marriage. She expected one day she’d get around to it when she met the right man.
She heard snippets of conversation from Michael and Harold as though the sound came from a long way away. They talked about how best to make the announcement to the press, including a story about how Michael and C.C. had managed to keep their romance a secret. Their first choice was to have the wedding take place at the mansion. All they needed was permission from the owners, which Harold didn’t see as a problem. After all, the owners of the mansion also ran the Matchmaker Café.
C.C.’s logical side applauded the plan. They had all the details worked out. It was hard to tell what Michael was thinking, which was pretty standard. He nodded a lot. Harold was busy making lists and said he would make the arrangements for authentic Scottish food and music. All that was left was hiring someone to play the part of a minister and purchasing a wedding dress for C.C. He asked C.C. if she had a preference about whether she was “fake” married by a justice of the peace, a minister, a rabbi, or a priest. She shook her head slowly and concentrated on her latte.
Her mind reeled. They wanted her to marry Michael. Why hadn’t they asked Tatiana? It didn’t make sense. She needed space to think this through. She took a few deep breaths and started to stand, but Harold reached for her arm, and she eased back into her chair. His nod seemed to say that everything would be okay. She understood this would be a fake wedding. After a few months, six at the most, they’d tell the world that things hadn’t worked out. So why was the whole idea freaking her out?
“C.C.,” Harold said, “did you hear my question? What size dress do you wear? And do you want white or a cream shade?” He eyed her coat. “I hear some brides prefer wearing colors these days.”
“I don’t know.” Hands trembling, she brought her latte to her lips, but she was shaking so much she had to use both hands to steady the cup. The hot liquid sloshed over the rim, spilling over her sleeve, and its heat seeped through the thin fabric. White-hot pain seared over her skin. Feeling numb, she stared as her drink spread over the sleeve covering her arm and blended into the black cloth.
Michael jumped to his feet and pulled the chair with C.C. still seated on it out from under the table. “We need water,” he shouted. “And ice.”
She looked at her arm as though it belonged to someone else. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”
“You’re not fine.” Not waiting for help, he lifted her from the chair and hurried past gaping customers and behind the counter toward the sink, where he turned on the cold water.
Fiona was at his side immediately with a bag of ice, asking if he thought she should call a doctor.
He shook his head. “I think we’ll be okay. I’ll know in a minute.” He set the ice pack aside and slowly pulled C.C.’s sleeve away from the burn. He took a deep breath as he positioned C.C. so she faced the sink and put his arms around her to guide her arm under the water. “Good, the cloth didn’t stick,” he said, meeting C.C.’s gaze. “This might sting a little.” Without waiting for an answer, he shoved her arm under the running water.
She felt warm in his arms, but her teeth still clattered together. “I’m such a klutz.”
A muscle twitched along his temple as his gaze focused on her burn. “You don’t have to marry me. We’ll think of something else.”
She knew there were others in the café, but it felt as though it were just the two of them. They were so close. His chest was pressed against her side. She swallowed. Concentrate. This was a business deal. Harold thought the plan would help Michael, and the money they offered would really help her father. Her arm felt numb under the cold water, giving her time to process. This was a business deal, she rationalized again. Win-win for everyone concerned. What could possibly go wrong?
She glanced over at Tatiana. The woman in question was staring in C.C.’s direction. But it was her mother’s expression that chilled C.C. to the bone. It looked like it could cut glass. C.C. shuddered. “Why don’t you marry Tatiana?”
Michael sucked in a deep breath. “It’s complicated.”
“Do you really believe our marriage will improve your image?”
“Harold seems to think so.”
“But I’m not your type.” She felt his chest rumble in something suspiciously like a chuckle. Did he find what she’d said humorous? Or ironic?
“Because the press will believe you’re not my type,” Michael said, “is precisely why Harold thinks it will work.”
She knew he believed his potential movie deal had fallen into his lap, and that he was curious where it might lead. He hadn’t sought it out, but in classic Michael Campbell fashion, he’d not backed away from the challenge. However, she knew he wasn’t going to give up football just yet. He’d told her that he’d seen other athletes quit their sport too soon, chasing a dream, from starting a restaurant to a new line of clothes. In some cases, their new ventures had crashed and burned. Sometimes the fans had followed them. Most of the time the athlete was forgotten the moment he or she stepped off the field. She had to give Michael credit. He had refused to give up his sport until he knew for sure he could make it as an actor.
She knew asking him anything personal was a waste of time. She stayed on safe ground while she slipped her arm from his grasp.
Michael turned off the water and reached for a towel. “How does your arm feel?”
“Better. You know, actually, Harold’s marriage idea has merit, and choosing me as your fiancée fits perfectly. I’m the type that can fade into the background and let you shine. A marriage will signal to the movie producers that you’ve settled down and are more serious. The studio will love that you chose the Scottish Highlands as the setting for your wedding and will be figuring out how to tie it into the movie when it’s released next year.” She paused. “Where did you learn how to treat a burn?”
“My grandmother. I was helping her make breakfast and reached for the handle of a fry pan without using a hot pad.” He rubbed the palm of his hand. “I still have a small scar.”
She resisted the impulse to touch his hand. “I always thought that would have been tough, losing both your parents when you were so young. I have a large family, and we don’t always get along, but we are always there for each other.”
“You don’t miss what you never had.” He reached for the ice pack. “Look. I agree that Harold’s plan sounds solid, but who’s going to believe the two of us are a couple? I mean…”
“I’m not your type,” she finished, not taking offense. After all, she’d brought up the point herself. She felt like he and Tatiana dwelled in an alternate universe. They were the prince and princess of the fairytale, while she was a peasant in the village. Only in this case there wasn’t going to be a fairy godmother and a magic pumpkin coach. T
hat only happened in books and in the movies. She glanced over toward Tatiana and her mother again. They looked so perfect. They were bent together in conversation, but whatever they were discussing, it was clear they weren’t in agreement. But even in disagreement they looked perfect. Almost like poetry. When she and her siblings fought, it was not pretty.
C.C. glanced away and continued. “I’m the girl-next-door. Your type is the international model who is out of most men’s league. The studio and the press will see our marriage as a sign that you really are settling down. Harold’s plan is flawless.”
Michael stuffed his hands in his jean pockets. “That’s what has me worried.”
Chapter Four
The MacBride mansion stood watch over Inverness and the restless waters of the River Ness. Inside the Victorian-style home, Lady Roselyn, the eldest of the three matchmaker sisters, sipped her tea. She glanced out the bay window, enjoying the view. Clouds hung low over the city, covering building cranes and modern steel-and-concrete office skyscrapers. From her vantage point, it was easy to imagine the city as it had been hundreds of years ago.
The morning was overcast and gray, but it was, after all, the dead of winter in the Scottish Highlands. Tea steamed in her cup and a double fudge brownie rested on a china plate handpainted with blue and yellow wildflowers. The perfect combination for days like these. She didn’t mind the weather. The Highlands had been her family’s home for centuries.
It had felt natural to take over the lease of the coffee shop and set up residence in the mansion her ancestors had built so long ago. After the near disaster at Stirling Castle on Christmas Eve, their move here had taken the better part of a week, and the majority of their things were still in crates. Sadly, she knew the move to their ancestral home was only a temporary stopover. They were scheduled to open a Matchmaker Café in the United States shortly after the start of the New Year. One of their cousins would operate the one here in Inverness. Even so, she was glad they were here, if only for a short time. In this relaxed atmosphere she hoped her sisters, Fiona and Bridget, would share what was really troubling them.