2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) Read online

  “You asked him?” Utter disbelief.

  “Yes, I asked him.”

  “When? How?”

  “A few weeks ago. I called him.”

  She stared back at him blankly like she couldn’t understand.

  “On the phone,” he added, enunciating carefully and holding his hand up to the side of his head to pantomime the process that seemed to be stymieing her so.

  “But my dad can hardly use a phone. Did he even know what you were asking?” Talking to her dad long distance was like being trapped back in the days of tin cans and strings—something he would likely prefer to cordless phones.

  “Actually, first he thought I wanted to make a band of merry men. I think he thought I was inviting him to join. But then I used a translator and—”

  She gasped. “Not my mother!”

  “I’m just joking, jeez. Chill. I talked to him. I asked him. He said fine. Whatever makes his little girl happy—”

  “Makes him poor.”

  Fynn cocked his head in confusion.

  “That was what he always said when I asked for stuff when I was growing up… right before he forked over the dough.”

  “Perfect,” Fynn snickered, like what she’d just said explained her wicked entitlement streak—to his attention, affection, and all-encompassing understanding. “You are a spoiled-rotten daddy’s girl.” The truth painfully obvious now.

  “So why didn’t you just say all this from the beginning? Why did you let me go on and on for nothing?” And why didn’t Dad say anything when I was home on New Year’s Eve? Did he tell Mom? Would he have really let me throw all this away after giving his blessing?

  “I get sick joy out of watching you justify yourself.” He shrugged.

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Aw, come on. What do you think drew me to you in the first place? It certainly wasn’t your rational, even-keeled, proper ways,” he said with a grin. “No, it was the petite little city girl who crashed her way into my house and demanded what she wanted when she wanted it and to hell with everyone else. That is what I love about you. You are so—”

  “Completely insane?” she offered.

  “Completely vested—”

  “I don’t know shit about finances.”

  “Vested in life,” he said earnestly.

  Tuesday, January 4th

  -16-

  “Oh my God, we’re getting married!” she announced to the dark, sitting to attention out of a sound sleep.

  “Huh?” Fynn moaned, shifting and rolling, too far gone to care what had tried to interrupt his slumber.

  “We have to plan a wedding,” she said breathlessly, tugging on his shoulder.

  “Right now?” he groaned.

  “When—where—how are we going to do this?” she asked, quickly mowing down his willpower to sleep with rapid-fire logistical questions. She wasn’t going to go willingly and quietly into the night, not now that she realized the ramifications of what they’d entered into mere hours ago.

  “Come again,” he said, reaching to turn on the bedside lamp—the only bedside lamp in the room… at his bedside. Not that she had needed one all these months. But that wasn’t the point; the solitary lamp was symbolic. This was his space. All their sleepovers were mere child’s play compared to true togetherness. They had just agreed to become full-time partners. She thought of the horrible stomach bug she’d had a few months ago that she’d weathered alone in her apartment in New York—blessedly alone. To think of him seeing her like that. Humiliating. Plus, she was a much neater guest than she was a true roommate—Fynn could learn a thing or two about that by talking to Georgia, who had packed everything right down to a DustBuster in her luggage when she went off to college, while Catherine hadn’t even remembered to bring her own sheets with her.

  But then she looked into those gorgeous eyes, all blue sky to infinity, and wondered how she could ever question looking into them for the rest of her life.

  “You do know that it’s the time of night that most people like to sleep, right?” he asked, closing those blue eyes and yawning to make a point, opening them again and piercing right through to her gooey insides.

  “I just realized what this means,” she said, fingering the ring that felt so heavy and substantial and strange on her hand considering it had been bare-naked her whole life. “It jolted me awake and I can’t go back to sleep like this—this turmoil.”

  “Are you saying that being engaged to me gave you nightmares?” he asked, only half joking.

  “No, the wedding part. We have to have a time and a place and guests and seating charts and flower arrangements and—”

  “Whoa, hold on there, little lady,” Fynn said propping himself up and copping a cowboy tone and a smirk befitting an old-fashioned mindset that the female sort was always all atwitter and faint at heart and incapable of functioning without a big strong strapping man at her side.

  “It is perfectly reasonable to bring this up,” she said forcefully.

  “At one in the morning?” He dangled the question dubiously in front of her.

  “Whenever,” she said with certainty.

  “I’m just saying that you literally blacked out over the idea of engagement. Maybe we need to slow down on the planning.”

  “Slow down? Don’t tell me you’re already trying to back out of this, Joel Trager,” she said sternly.

  He chuckled. “Now that I think about it…”

  She shot daggers so sharp they could puncture steel.

  “Kidding.” His hands up in surrender. “I thought we’d just figure out the rest later. What’s the rush?”

  What’s the rush? Oh, I can think of a few THOUSAND things. First and foremost being my impending birthday in March—the 13th of March. I should have known that being born on Friday the 13th would leave me open to a life of hell. God, just let me go gently into thirty-five—a married, honest woman rather than my usual self who planned to go kicking and screaming into another year.

  “You really want to talk about it?” he offered in response to her stricken silence. “We’ll talk about it.” He sighed heavily. “How about we have the wedding here?”

  “In Nekoyah?” she balked.

  “Right here. At our home.”

  She’d never been an our before. Not on a house, apartment, car, book, milkshake—nothing. And suddenly she was being included on an entire homestead?

  “I was thinking something outdoors. You know, barbecue, friends—simple.”

  She felt herself deflating with each word. It all sounded so much… less than what she had imagined. Not that she wanted elaborate. But she certainly wanted enough bang out of it for that boo-ya moment—the one that proved that Catherine Hemmings was no slouch. That she was marrying a beautifully handsome guy and wouldn’t end up some old maid. She wanted to stick it to the masses who’d bet against her. She wanted to show them.

  “Now what’s that face about?” he asked, noting her crestfallen expression. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those.”

  “One of what?” she asked self-righteously.

  “Those women who’ve had it all right up there in their pretty little heads since they were born—everything down to the place settings.”

  “No,” she choked out, trying to clear her mind of the images of which he spoke. “I just thought that something a little grander was in order. I’m sure my parents would like something bigger—I am their only daughter.”

  Suddenly tears filled her eyes at what was always there but rarely spoken about. Josey would probably have been married by now or close to it herself. Her father should have the honor of giving away two brides in his lifetime.

  “Oh, honey.” He took her into his arms.

  “I shouldn’t be their only—”

  “I know.”

  “Even when I’m happy,” she said through her tears, “—and I am happy, I can’t help but think about her. All she missed out on. Josey should be my maid of honor. She’d be all grown up a
nd—”

  “Catherine, Josey is always going to be a part of you. The part that still hurts is the love. That’s a good thing,” he said steadily, certainly. She hadn’t shared Josey with any of the men she’d dated. Fynn was the first she trusted with her most painful memories. And from the moment she first told him about her little sister—how she was just six years old when she broke through the ice and died alone in that pond, how she still missed her every single day—Fynn had been so understanding, sharing in her grief and sorrow. No matter how much time passed bringing blessed distance from that horrible day, she could never outrun it. He understood that. He honored that.

  “Are you okay?” he asked gently, rubbing her back. The fact that she’d woken him out of a sound sleep no longer mattered at all. He was completely there with her.

  She nodded her head bravely.

  “You know, we don’t have to have it all figured out tonight,” he said reassuringly.

  “I know,” she admitted begrudgingly.

  “Then why don’t we sleep on it.” He started to lie back down, eyeing her carefully as if waiting for the other shoe to drop—

  “I just have so many relatives and friends back east and it would only make sense to do it somewhere they could actually get to,” she blurted to the footboard, afraid to look directly at him while she trounced all over his laissez-faire wedding idea—barefoot and burgers in a pasture.

  “And there it is,” he sighed, sitting up from his half-supine position. He knew enough about her to expect she wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, that was for sure.

  “Not that a wedding here wouldn’t be wonderful,” she said quickly, tempering her outburst, looking at him earnestly now. “And it isn’t like I want anything expensive…. It’s just that there are a few things that I would really love to—why are you looking at me with that goofy smile?” she challenged.

  “Because you’re awfully cute when you try to skirt around the truth.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tried to appear as blank as possible.

  “Oh… I don’t know. Maybe that the last thing you would ever want is to have a down-home wedding.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that Aunt Judy and Uncle Al are getting up there in age. And my Great Uncle Dick—I was always his favorite. And there’s—”

  “Wait a second, isn’t Uncle Dick what you call that guy—” He snapped his fingers several times, reaching in his mind to place the name. “—that pain-in-the-ass neighbor your mom is always inviting over for dinner.”

  Catherine colored in embarrassment, wishing for once that Fynn was a bad listener. Of course he would remember that little tidbit. She gritted her teeth. “Well… yes.”

  “But you want to invite him to the wedding… and make sure it’s close enough that he can come.”

  “He is family.”

  “Hardly.”

  “My parents have practically adopted him.”

  “So he’s like a brother to you?” he snickered.

  She smirked.

  “Listen, I just wanted it to be easy, and you’re right that it’s harder for your people to come here than for mine to go there,” he said simply and rationally.

  “That’s not how I meant it, Fynn,” she pleaded, hating that it sounded like she was tossing aside the fact that he had very little family left. Just him and Drew and a few scattered cousins. Longevity was not his people’s strong suit, he liked to say.

  “I know what you meant, Catherine,” he said, steadying her with his hands. “I am nothing if not levelheaded.”

  “That’s why we make a good set,” she said, smiling goofily at him.

  “Somebody needs to keep you grounded,” he admitted.

  “And somebody needs to liven you up,” she jabbed back.

  He grinned wickedly at her.

  “That is not what I meant,” she warned.

  “You can’t take it back now.” In one swift move Fynn rolled her down onto the bed, his weight a welcome blanket.

  As he leaned in for a kiss she put her hand up to his lips, slipping a flesh wall between them. “You really don’t have an opinion on the wedding?” she asked.

  “I gave you my opinion and you threw it away, so I leave it all up to you.” He pushed his hard body against hers, intent on getting his way on this instead.

  She fought him off once more. “At least tell me when you want to get married.” She winced in preparation for another off-base answer.

  “How about next summer?”

  She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, wondering if they would be on the wrong page in everything.

  “Maybe late—earlier,” he said with relief, following the cryptic twitches in her face as he searched for the proper answer. “When were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking March. Maybe the 4th?”

  “That’s pretty specific,” he noted.

  “I was sort of thinking it would be nice to get married before my birthday.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  Oh my God, we’re getting married and he doesn’t even know my birthday!

  -17-

  Day 12,716 of her life and she’d woken up an actual fiancée for the first time ever. A new start for a new day in a new year. This day, January 4th, should be her new New Year’s Day. That one everyone else celebrated was a nothing. She was engaged—that was more significant than hanging up a fresh new calendar or some stupid light bulb dropping down a pole.

  Catherine looked down at the ring, studying it for the fiftieth time already today. She’d stared at it so long in the shower that the water started running cold before she was even finished soaping up. Now she held her hand up and looked at it for the fifty-first time. It was gorgeous. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, modeling poses—normal daily poses—and watching her reflection to see how she looked when she was typing or eating or talking on the phone or brushing her hair behind her ear. Everything she did looked better with diamonds.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Trager,” Fynn said, coming up behind her and kissing that spot on her neck that was like a hot-button searing right through her.

  “Morning,” she said breathily.

  “You are too easy,” he noted, catching her glazed expression in the mirror.

  “You are too hard,” she reminded him, giggling.

  “And proud of it.”

  That was one of the things she enjoyed about being in a true relationship. The sexual innuendos flowed fast and free; they could talk easily about sex and appreciate each other’s sexual appetite, but not every playful comment made them feel like they needed to drop everything and do it right then and there.

  “So, can I get a little room in here?” he asked her reflection, reaching for his razor. “Or is it time for me to go mountain-man, an empty threat he’d been making for months whenever she was here.

  “In a minute,” she said, busying herself with her makeup and hogging the sink shamelessly.

  “Is this a minute-minute or a Catherine-minute?” he asked, sighing and sitting on the toilet with his razor in hand.

  “Why? Are you thinking about slitting your wrists?” She faked seriousness.

  “I thought the whole lifetime commitment thing would earn me a few brownie points and maybe some face time,” he said in an aw-shucks tone.

  “You have to get up pretty early, at least earlier than me, to get this mirror.”

  “So that’s how it is. First come, first serve?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “No special favors?”

  “Nope.”

  “If I’d known that, I would have bought a new bathroom instead of a ring,” he said in mock regret.

  She shrugged. “Your loss; my gain.”

  “I guess I’ll grab a shower then.” He gave up, rubbing at his head and making a move toward the stall.

  “No. Wait. Don’t do that,” Catherine said quickly, knowing that if he took one now he was in for a cold
one, seeing as how she had used up all the hot water on herself. She speed-finished putting on her makeup, fighting back a powder-induced sneeze that would threaten to spread her still-wet mascara. “There, you big baby, you can have the mirror.” Maybe there was enough lukewarm water for a shave.

  Right then the phone rang and Fynn left the room to answer it. She still felt weird answering his phone: it was his life and his business.

  She could hear murmuring in the other room, a constant low rhythm that told her it was someone he knew and not just a sales call, so she turned on the hairdryer figuring she had some more time with the mirror to work on a new ring-worthy, untamed coif that would require fiddling throughout the day. She flipped her head upside down to start with the underside.

  Fynn’s sudden cold touch scared the living daylights out of her. “What the—” She jumped a mile high and dropped the hairdryer on the bathroom rug. In her apartment at home there was no one to sneak up on her while she was in the hairdryer jet stream.

  He picked up the dryer and turned it off so they could talk at normal conversation levels. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stood there holding the phone in one hand and her dryer in the other.

  “Well you did,” she said curtly, still trying to calm the palpitations.

  “Sorry. It’s just that Cara wants to talk to you.” He held out the phone like a peace offering.

  “Oh,” she said, taken aback. It wasn’t that Cara wanted to speak to her; recently they talked on the phone every time she was here, that was unless Cara was here for the weekend too. What shocked her was in all the excitement of the moment, being engaged and wearing the ring, she hadn’t once thought about Cara. She was going to be the wife of the guardian of a little girl. What exactly does that make me?

  “Catherine?” Fynn prodded.

  She took the phone and put it to her ear, trying to calm her breath that was suddenly short and quick.

  “Cat?” Cara’s little voice reached her ears quickly, like she was right there in the room with her.

  “Hey sweetie, how are you?”

  “Great! I got so much stuff for Christmas! I can’t wait to show you!” she said excitedly.