Page 3 of Marry Me Tomorrow
I nod solemnly, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. I’m not sure how much longer I can afford a place to stay and covering Grandpa’s retirement home payments and the never-ending medical bills. The money from selling the house will only last so long.
As I step out of the bank into the cold winter air, the world feels both too loud and eerily distant. The chatter of people on the street blends into the faint hum of passing cars, and the brisk air only amplifies the cold knot of uncertainty twisting in my chest.
I’ll just have to figure out a solution. I’ve always been able to land on my feet, and this will be no different.
Still rifling through the papers from the bank as I enter the crosswalk, I hear someone yell, “Look out!”
Before I can process what’s happening, I’m yanked back into a wall of arms and muscle. The force of the pull and the slick, icy sidewalk send me stumbling backward. I lose my balance and land with a thump on top of a stranger. A car horn blares behind me, sharp and jarring. The sound makes my heart pound as I realize how close I’d been to stepping into traffic.
I take a shaky breath, blinking rapidly, and find myself staring into the most startling blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
“You okay?” the stranger asks softly, his voice warm and steady.
I nod quickly, my cheeks burning as I scramble to find my voice. “Yes, thank you,” I say, my words coming out a little breathless.
“My pleasure,” he says with a crooked smile that’s almost as dazzling as his eyes. “But, uh . . . if it’s alright with you, do you mind if we stand? The cement and ice aren’t the most comfortable, you know?” He gestures at the sidewalk.
My face flames even redder than my red Converse as I realize I’m still half-sprawled across him. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I scramble to my feet. “Thank you,” I say again, brushing at my jeans as if that will somehow erase the mortification. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention . . . my mind’s just been all over the place this morning.”
“It’s all cool. No sweat,” he replies, standing and brushing a speck of dirt off his shirt. “I’m just glad you aren’t a pancake in the street. That wouldn’t have been a great start to anyone’s day.”
“No, I can’t imagine it would.” I freeze, staring up at him. He’s tall—at least six-foot-three or four—with messy blond hair peeking out from under a cap that reads “Chessie Valley Lake Marina and Lodge.” His tanned skin and relaxed demeanor make him look like someone who spends his days in the sun. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive, shimmering like sunlight on water. They are the most stunning I-want-to-swim-in-those-sea-blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I blink at him, lost for words.
“Miss?” he says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Oh. I’m—” I feel my brain short-circuiting. “Yes. I mean, no, I’m okay. I’m sorry, did you ask me something?”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “I asked what your name was and if you needed anything, but I think I know the answer to my own question.”
“Oh?” I ask, tilting my head in confusion. How could he possibly know who I am or what I need?
“Yes, you need one of Holly’s famous Sunrise Sin muffins.” He gestures for me to follow him down the street. “Are you allergic to oranges?”
I nod my head, then quickly correct myself. “Err, no, I’m not. Allergic to oranges, that is.”
“Great! You’ll love For the Love of Sugar. We’ll be there lickety-split.”
Who is this man? And maybe I did bump my head, because no one is this cheerful after being knocked on their back by some crazy, scatterbrained stranger—not that I’m crazy but . . . well I sure am starting to feel like it.
We walk past a few storefronts, the scent of fresh bread and coffee wafting through the air. The faint hum of downtown Chessie Valley fills my ears, the buzz of conversation and the occasional laughter blending into the background. We pass a sign denoting this as Chessie Valley Square, the heart of downtown Chessie Valley.
“Here we are,” he announces, opening a door with a sign that reads For the Love of Sugar. We step into a cozy bakery. The warm scent of vanilla and cinnamon envelops me.
“Holly!” he calls out cheerfully. “We need two Sunrise Sin muffins, stat!”
“Hold your horses, Trent,” replies a petite brunette with a huge bun of hair atop her head. She must be Holly. She’s busy filling an order for another customer, her smile kind and her hands moving with efficient precision.
Once the customer leaves, Holly turns to us, her expression shifting to one of concern. “Are you okay?” she asks me. “Trent, what did you do to her?” She swats the arm of the man that brought me here before coming around the counter to inspect me.
“You’re bleeding!” she says. “Let me get my first aid kit.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already darted away.
“Shoot!” Trent says. “You are.”
I see the scrape on the palm of my hand. “I didn’t notice,” I say. I call after Holly, “Really, it’s alright. It’s just a little scratch.”
“Nonsense,” she replies, returning with a small kit in hand. “It’ll only take a minute. Then I’ll get you Sunrise Sin muffins and maybe a Butter Me Up bar too.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” I begin, but she cuts me off with a raised hand.
