Chapter Two
Failure to Appear
THREE YEARS LATER
Where is he? Brooke Chadwick scanned the bleachers, searching for any sign of the dark gold hair and killer smile she’d expected to see twenty minutes ago, but to no avail. Sure, it was stupid to be standing here in the spring wind wearing a ridiculous, sparkly pageant dress, pinching shoes, and a clunky baseball mitt at a baseball field, but that was her assignment for the day.
Oh, and don’t forget the tiara. Mom would have considered this a proud moment, not that Brooke’s mind was on it at all. She had to find Ames.
But Ames Crosby was nowhere in sight. Not in the crowd, not behind the grandstands, not at the concessions stand, not answering his phone.
And here stood Brooke, ready to toss out this year’s First Pitch— with no one to catch it.
He’d promised.
The March air smelled of equal parts popcorn and fresh-bloomed lilacs, with a healthy dose of newly cut grass, but she couldn’t enjoy her favorite smells on her favorite day of the year. Her hands started to sweat. She wasn’t going to be able to throw well with sweaty hands. And no catcher.
Not only had Ames promised to be at home plate with his catcher’s mask on, he’d also hinted that Brooke should be looking forward to something even bigger.
You’ll be surprised, he’d said.
Expectation had ballooned inside her. What could be bigger than being seen together officially at First Pitch, Maddox’s biggest annual celebration?
Unless…
I heard down at the Bob and Weave, Aunt Ruth had said this morning over a diet cola, some people saying Ames Crosby bought a ring last week over at Appleton Jewelers.
Brooke had waved away the rumor.
But Aunt Ruth and her beauty salon rumor had cruelly fueled the tiny ember of Brooke’s hope, kindling it into a flame— one she’d let burn morning from her lilac-bedecked spot on the Miss Chesapeake parade float. It had burned even brighter when she’d allowed herself to imagine how it would be to throw the ball at the iconic First Pitch and have Ames catch it.
He would run out to the pitcher’s mound, lift her off her feet and swing her in a circle, her bedazzled gown flying out around her. The crowd would be aghast at Ames Crosby, golden boy and former Maddox all-star recruited to the majors right out of Maddox High, falling for Brooke Chadwick, a nobody, rinky-dink pageant winner or not.— especially now that he was a doctor.
Brooke had expected it least of all. Not when they met at a town Christmas party when he’d come home to study for his state medical examination. Not when he’d asked her out for New Year’s Eve just three months ago. Not even when they’d started seeing each other every day, had she expected it to move so quickly.
Where was he? She checked the time on the Thunder Chadwick commemorative clock tower. Just five minutes to go, Grandpa Thunder? Thanks for the harrowing update.
“Brooke!” A shrill voice pierced the air. “You look so much better in that lavender gown than your grandpa would.” Pansy Proust sashayed up, her overly processed hair sticking straight up in places. One of the hazards of running the beauty salon was clearly acting as the guinea pig during all the down time.
“Thanks. Maybe I should have worn his coaching jersey since I’m representing him today.”
Pansy frowned. “I’m sure the organizers prefer you looking like Miss Chesapeake, or Miss Virginia first runner-up or whatever you are. But how can you pitch in that thing? It’s so clingy.”
Brooke instinctively tugged at the snug fabric.
Pansy waved away her criticism. “Not that Ames Crosby will mind, I’m sure. Where is he, anyway?” She looked around. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I heard he’s planning something. Big.” She shot Brooke a glinting stare and then broke away when a churro vendor passed.
“Well, well, well. Brookester.” Up walked Brooke’s brother, Quirt, his ever-present baseball cap pulled down low.
“Quirt. You came home for First Pitch.” She should have expected him to, but since the accident a few years ago, his attendance at all festive things Maddox— and Chadwick— had been spotty. Seeing him here relieved a fraction of her tension, but things between them weren’t like they used to be back when mom and dad were around. Maybe they never would be.
“Grandpa’s ghost insisted. Look at you, making us all look under-dressed for the occasion.” He eyed her critically.
Brooke shoved his shoulder, their usual greeting. “I’m probably going to let the kid get a home run off me, I’m so nervous.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” A look of concern marred his face. “Physically, I mean.”
So, now he decides to ask how I’m doing. A little late, after three years, brother. He’d been AWOL emotionally after the accident, and without Quirt, she’d had exactly one person to lean on— Quirt’s best friend Dane Rockwell, her lifelong, soul-crushing crush. All he did was play catch with her for two months that summer while she sat in her wheelchair after her legs and hips were casted, throw-catch, throw-catch, not much conversation, but it was worlds more attention or consolation than she got from her own brother.
An image of Dane floated through her mind, with the little tug against her heartstring that always accompanied it, a twinge of the might-have-been, but she let it float out. She was looking for Ames and his killer smile.
“I’ll be fine.” She tweaked the brim of his hat. “It’s my arms I’m using today for first pitch, not my legs or hips so much.”
First Pitch of the little league season was only symbolic. They hadn’t even divvied up teams to their respective coaches yet since the neighboring towns’ seasons didn’t start until April. But they kept it this third weekend in March for Grandpa Thunder Chadwick’s annual tradition, where everyone wore their First Pitch t-shirts and ball caps and sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” with town pride.
“Well, then what’re you nervous for?” Quirt punched her shoulder. “It’s only the family legacy at stake here. Embarrass it and feel the wrath of generations.”
Brooke gave a faux-scared shiver and said, “How about you put on this dress and go throw the ball as the stand-in for Grandpa?”
“Hey, guys. Did somebody say Quirt’s putting on a dress?” From around the corner of the corndog stand, emerged another guy, the last person Brooke had expected to see today.
“Dane?” Her stomach did a double flip, followed by a round-off back handspring, and she had to grab the fence to keep herself from wobbling off her shoes.
There he stood, with that incredible dimple just begging her to press her finger into it and test its depths— taunting her for the tenth year running. It was as if thinking about him today had made him materialize. She hadn’t seen him but a handful of times since he went off to law school right after that summer they’d spent together as her hips and legs healed up— and her heart from the loss of her parents. He’d been her hero, and then…he left. And left a gaping hole in Brooke’s heart with his neglect and her complete inability to forget him.
Until Ames. Mostly.
“I’d be glad to watch you take off that dress for Quirt to put it on.” Dane’s eyes gave off a wicked sparkle, and Brooke’s face flushed— she’d had no intention of inspiring him to picture her undressing. What was Dane Rockwell doing here, besides making her tongue far too big in her mouth to utter any sense? She stared up at him, into his laughing, half-lidded eyes and tried not to fan herself. Mercy. Law school had been good to him, and he was putting off a serious swagger vibe that she’d succumb to if she wasn’t so preoccupied with Ames and whatever he might be planning.
“Shut up, Rock. That’s my sister you’re talking about.”
“I’m just saying.”
“No, you’re not.” Quirt edged between them, breaking Dane’s appreciative gaze. “Even if she’s covered with sparkles, she’s respectable— almost done with her first year of nursing school to get her NCAA.”
Uh, it was her LPN, Licensed Practical Nurse that she’d almost completed. “I think you mean CNA, Quirt.” The two designations were different. She’d gotten her CNA years ago, even before the accident.
“Dude.” Dane slapped Quirt upside the head. “NCAA is college sports. And there is nothing, I repeat nothing, double A about your sister.” He gave her a wink that sent a shower of tingles over her body, and try as she might she couldn’t help feeling that old, irresistible tug toward him.
Dane Rockwell had always been a problem for Brooke— mostly because despite his flirtatious words right now, he’d only ever seen her as Quirt’s kid sister. And then, while everyone else stayed a discreet distance away, he’d been the guy who saw her at her post-operation worst— hair messy, face without makeup, legs without mobility. The last time she’d spent any time with Dane, she looked nothing like the beauty pageant girl she appeared to be today in sparkles and pinching shoes, and the fact he’d probably always envision her that other way— that had been a huge problem, so she’d been trying to excise him from her heart, successfully at last, due to Ames, the gorgeous, newly minted doctor who’d swept her off her feet with his killer smile and his golden— everything.
Who was…where?
The emcee’s voice boomed over the park and brought her back to the real problem of the present. “Ladies and gentlemen. It’s time for the first pitch of the Maddox baseball season.”
The stands, filled to capacity and spilling onto the grass, cheered, but Brooke nearly choked. She still had no catcher.
“And to throw out our first pitch here at First Pitch this year is Thunder Chadwick’s granddaughter, and our own town’s beauty queen who represented us well and went on to win Miss Chesapeake. The one, the only, Brooke Chadwick!”
More applause, but Brooke grabbed the chain link behind home plate.
“What’s wrong?” Quirt frowned. “You got cold feet? Because I was just kidding. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Not cold feet.” She looked and looked for him. No Ames. How could this be happening?
This morning had dawned so bright and clear and hopeful, with that little flame of hope burning inside her just behind her collarbone, lighting her all the way here through the spring winds of the Atlantic seaboard.
“Then, what? Is your dress torn in back or something?” Quirt took her arm. “Come on, they’re waiting for you.” It was true. The little kid in the traditional white jersey with the navy blue pinstripes was winding up his bat at home plate. The crowd’s eyes were all on her.
“I don’t have a catcher.”
“And playing catcher for Miss Chadwick today, we have …” The emcee did a drum roll. “Maddox’s favorite major-leaguer-turned-doctor, Ames Crosby!” Now the crowd actually screamed. Brooke saw teenage girls fanning themselves at the mention of Ames’s name, even though he was probably almost twice their age and they couldn’t have known him when he was the king of baseball at Maddox High.
“Get out there, Brooke.” Quirt shoved her, and she twisted her ankle in her stupid shoes. “He’s probably coming. Making some kind of grand entrance, the show pony that he is.”
Oh. That could be. He did say he was planning something. It could be the grand gesture. Her mouth went dry.
Mincing in the mermaid-cut skirt, Brooke made her way out to the pitcher’s mound. These heels were ridiculous. She’d have liked to strangle the organizer of the annual event who insisted she appear in full pageant regalia, including her Miss Chesapeake crown.
With heart racing, she gave a graceful pageant wave to the crowd. A little girl’s voice called, “We love you, Brooke!” It helped. A little.
But then she looked toward home plate. There stood Shorty, wooden bat swinging. “I’m getting a run off this pitch,” the husky little batter said. “My grandpa never liked yours— said he couldn’t pitch for nothing. And you’ll be even worse.”
What! Now Grandpa’s reputation was on the line. She had to pitch— and well.
And to do that, she needed a catcher.
Ames, where are you? Brooke’s eyes blurred a little either from the sun or the wind or the terror of failure.
Then, from inside the dugout walked a tall, lean guy in a chest guard and catcher’s mask, with a ball cap turned around backward, like catchers do. He gave the crowd a wave with his rounded mitt.
Ames. Thank heavens.
“Hey, stranger. You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she called. He saluted in return, the crowd cheered again, and Ames crouched down behind the batter and signaled for her to pitch. She waved again to the crowd, and then wound up.
Strike! Right over the plate.
The crowd went wild, and the day had begun.
She’d done it. She’d saved Grandpa’s first pitch and his tradition with Ames’s help. Her hero!
An exhale of relief sent her head floating, and she didn’t even feel the pinch in her toes as she darted toward home plate, where the trash-talking kid dragged his bat back to his grouchy-looking grandpa. Served them right, trying to disrupt family tradition— letting an old rivalry try to rain on their opening day.
But Brooke’s eyes flickered back to her hero.
“Thank you! I’m so glad you showed up. Just in time, too,” she said, bounding toward home plate. The catcher threw his arms open to catch her this time, and she collapsed into his embrace, squeezing her eyes shut for joy. “Thanks. You were there for me.”
“Always,” he said, his voice lower and more resonant than ever. “Every time.” He swung her around, her shoes threatening to fly off from the centrifugal force of their spin, her back arching. Giggles tickled her insides, and his arms seemed stronger than she’d expected.
The crowd cheered, but that faded to a muffle. With her eyes shut and enjoying every sensation of this moment, Brooke was in the strong arms of the man she loved, everything else a blur. His soft breath caressed her lips, all cinnamon and mint, and she lifted his mask to kiss him her gratitude.
His mouth moved lower, their lower lips grazing one another in a gentle brush, and she nearly sank into his—
A hiccup in her stomach pulled her backward. Those lips—
Not Ames’s.
Her eyes flew wide with shock. “Dane?” she gasped.
“Brooker, you pitched killer.” He had a sly, satisfied grin. “And I appreciate your…appreciation.”
Their faces were just inches apart, his breath brushing her skin. Holy cats. Dane Rockwell had been about to kiss her— and he might still. In the three seconds they hung suspended only inches apart, she blinked a dozen times, scared of what she might choose: to allow him to kiss her, and to savor the lifelong dream of kissing Dane Rockwell, and then to rue the moment of public display of affection for a man she wasn’t even dating; or to miss out on the chance she’d only spent ten years of her life imagining, dreaming of his seductive eyes staring into hers just like this, his lips inching closer just like this, the taste of…
Exercising more will power than she knew she possessed, Brooke pushed back from him, her heels catching on the dirt, and making her stumble. With a quick arm, he reached out and steadied her.
“Oh, my goodness.” She pushed a mass of hair back from her face, steadying her tiara, trying to get her balance back, though it was unlikely to reappear anytime soon. “Er, what are you doing?” And then she remembered where they were, and her eyes flew wildly around the area, afraid Ames might be watching— and hurt. But there was no sign of him. In fact, the stands had emptied faster than the chapel on a hot Sunday, sending kids racing to the carnival rides. All that remained of the pitch were Brooke and her teenage dream.
“What am I doing? It should be pretty obvious,” he said, his voice low and sultry. “I’m taking a victory lap.” He pulled her closer, his lips now just centimeters from hers, his deep dimple tempting her, taunting her.
Not today. Not like this.
“You weren’t supposed to be my catcher.” She struggled against his strong pull, but without much effort, all her will power glitching on then off, on then off. Dane had rescued her from public embarrassment, but his near-kiss threatened an even bigger public shame. If she didn’t stop herself in time, who knew what they’d be saying about her down at Pansy Proust’s hair salon this afternoon.
“Somebody had to. And who’s played catch with you more often than I have?”
“No one.” She couldn’t lie. He’d been her hero once before, too, when no one else had given her so much as a thought, Dane’s every toss of the baseball had been a life preserver. She’d needed him then, and no question, she wanted him now. Her body said yes, but her head hollered no. “People are watching. Don’t you care?”
“Do I ever?”
Maybe he didn’t, but reality shouted that Brooke just might have something on the line today, something big—something that Ames was planning. Maybe planning so thoroughly that it made him late for First Pitch.
“I have to go.” Her stare lingered on the long dimple in his left cheek a long moment, conflict warring inside her. Oh, the years she’d waited for this moment. Aching years. How could he finally throw a seemingly affectionate moment at her so casually— on the worst possible day?
“Not until I’ve congratulated you.” His eyes beckoned to her, and he looked like he was going to lean in and close the distance, if she gave him so much as a faint signal to go ahead.
Indecision boiled in her.
But so did a sudden flash of anger. Was any of this even sincere? Dane Rockwell might not give two shakes about what people would say about his character, but how could he so casually toss out Brooke’s reputation? Was he being a jerk, or was he being earnest? She couldn’t tell, too blinded by his charms as always, too eager to believe every single flattering thing that might fall from his lips and into her heart.
Her phone sounded, the interruption breaking the spell threatening to pull her under. The chime gave her the strength to shake away from danger’s grasp, and she tugged out her phone to look at who’d sent it. Hot lead peppered her when she saw the name: Ames.
“I have to go.” As she broke free and scuttled across the field, she knew exactly one thing and one thing only in life— that Dane Rockwell officially had the most horrendous timing in the world.
__________
Dane watched her go. The slinky dress hugged Brooke in all the right places, emphasizing the sweet curvature of her lower back and capturing his imagination. Mm-hmm.
“Get your eyes off my sister.” Quirt pushed against Dane’s head.
“Get your mind out of the gutter.” Dane might have talked big, but “I’ve got nothing but the purest intentions toward Brooke.” And I’ve got the diamond ring in his pocket from Appleton Jewelers as of this morning to prove it. Biggest, best diamond in the place. It would take about three paychecks to cover the cost, but since he’d landed a position at Tweed Law the second he’d graduated at Christmas, he didn’t have to worry about money so much now.
“Sure, you don’t.” Quirt shoved him again, and Dane peeled his eyes off Brooke. Dane didn’t mind the criticism— this was the most Quirt had acknowledged Dane in years. “I saw you almost kissing her. Just because you play catcher, doesn’t mean she’s metaphorically pitching to you, if you get my drift.”
It’d felt like she was, the way she trembled at his embrace. He’d wanted to kiss her, but the little tease between them at home plate was good enough to keep her blood high for him until he had a chance to express what was really on his mind— and had been for a lot longer than Quirt and his gutter-mind would begin to guess. But he’d seen the signals, felt them, coming off her in waves today. The girl liked him, whether he was a Rockwell and she was a Chadwick or not.
“Dude,” Dane said, “I’m just pitching. She’s the one catching.”
He said this, but he knew Quirt wouldn’t take it well. Back in the day, he’d done the gentlemanly thing and asked Quirt for permission to ask his sister out. “You know Brooke, dude. She’s not, uh, the Rockwell type.” Last year’s argument with Quirt still reechoed, when Dane told his friend that he wanted Brooke as his date for a fraternity formal.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
Quirt had lost his temper. “I’m saying, Brooke isn’t for you, dude.” He’d chucked a dirty sweatshirt at him from across the frat house bedroom.
“Isn’t that for Brooke and me to decide?” Dane had chucked it back. “She’s a big girl,” he’d argued, even though she’d only been eighteen at the time.
A murderous stare from Quirt preceded a angry grumbling as he stomped out of the room. “Brooke is not dating a Rockwell.”
Things had been pretty chilly between him and Quirt since then.
And basically below zero kelvin since the accident, although it was possible Quirt might have been icing everyone. While Dane had always figured Quirt would get over it, it was still pretty sore to lose his lifelong best friend, and his pseudo-parents Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick at the same time.
They walked across the spongy spring grass toward the funnel cake stand, the hot oil already putting off a heavy smell of frying dough.
“You getting one?” Quirt asked. “Because you’re not mooching off mine. Don’t even think about it.”
Dane was too busy thinking about Brooke, and how he was going to approach her. Now that he’d finished law school he finally had something to show for himself— the graduation certificate serving as concrete proof he wasn’t a typical Rockwell. Whether Brooke Chadwick would take him seriously, not focus on the fact of his last name. In truth, that certificate, plus hisstate bar association card, even a hefty bank account still wouldn’t change his lineage. But Brooke Chadwick of all people might see past all that— past the jailbird parents doing time for cooking meth, past Uncle George serving time for arms sales to foreign dictators, past Cousin Eddie’s side business chopping cars a few miles south on the Chesapeake Bay, past Aunt Linda’s fraud conviction after being married to six men at once.
Yeah, he was still a Rockwell, but he’d walked as far away from the connection as he could. He’d graduated with honors from a top school. He’d finished early. He’d passed the bar. He’d done enough.
Besides, together Brooke and I could make the name’s connotation mean something completely different.
“Yo. What are you staring at? Rock. Yo.” Quirt waved a hand in front of Dane’s eyes. He still had them trained on her as she melted into the crowd. “Keep your eyes and your hands off my little sister.”
Dane shrugged. “What’s she doing tonight?” He reached for a string of the powdered sugared pile of funnel cake on Quirt’s grease-soaked paper plate.
Quirt pulled the plate away, but not before Dane snared a strand. “I don’t know. Not going out with you. Guarantee you she has plans.”
“What’s she doing tomorrow?” He made a sneaky, successful grab for more food.
“Going to church. It’s Sunday.” Quirt didn’t pull his doughnut plate away fast enough and Dane snared a string of funnel cake, the powdered sugar melting in his mouth. Mm. Just like the cinnamon of Brooke’s lip gloss he’d sensed at close range. “What are you doing? Don’t you start at Tweed Law? You’d better. Didn’t you say you put a few grand on your credit card this weekend?”
He had— on the ring. Now it was burning a hole in his pocket until he could get to church and make his case to Brooke.
“Yeah, but I’ll be there.”
“You. Church.” Yeah, despite this conversation’s thrum, Quirt hadn’t thawed yet. So much skepticism.
“Of course.” Dane said it like it was a given, although he hadn’t grown up in a church-going family, obviously. “Your parents would want me to.”
Quirt frowned. “Don’t bother. I’m telling you, keep your distance from Brooke, and quit messing with her head.”
“I’m not going to mess with her head.” Not that he would let on to Quirt how dead serious he was about this, and about Brooke. Last time he’d mentioned dating Brooke, Quirt had given him the freeze ray. “Quit worrying.”
“I’m telling you to forget it.” They pushed through the crowd to where the gazebo stood, with a magician on the stage and a crowd both seated and milling. Quirt lowered his chin and spoke in a grave tone with no trace of kidding or even skepticism. “She’s seeing someone. It’s serious.”
“Serious.” Whatever. Married was the only form of serious he’d accept as proof. Until then, she was fair game.
“Don’t interfere with her, man. Get yourself a hobby. Go sign up to be a Maddox Little League coach.”
Quirt was being a jerk. Just because he and Olivia were engaged to be married in June, as soon as his first year at Maddox High teaching geometry was done. Geez. He didn’t have to harsh on Dane.
Dane frowned. “Whatever, killjoy. Admit she’s a great girl and I’ll get out of here.”
“She is a great girl. And she’s my little sister.”
And Dane would see her at church tomorrow. And he’d bring the ring.
__________
Meet me at the gazebo. That’s what the text from Ames said. Geezy peasy, finally.
So Ames had made it to First Pitch after all. Just not in time to be catcher for her pitched ball.
Brooke dodged the leash of a trio of yippy dogs as she made her way through the park toward Ames— and whatever he was planning. A thousand butterflies swarmed in her belly when she let herself picture Ames’s dazzling smile, the smell of his neck, the taste of his kiss. What was he planning?
Marriage proposal? It was too soon. Or was it? Her innermost fears and hopes swirled.
But if it was a proposal, how could he have stiffed her like that— left her on the pitcher’s mound, scanning the bleachers for him?
Thank goodness for Dane Rockwell. Not that he should have swooped in and almost kissed her for it. Or was I the one going in for the kiss? She wasn’t sure. A flutter of guilt wafted through, but she caught and crumpled it.
Not her fault. Caught unawares. Any girl would have kissed Dane Rockwell given the opportunity. The long dimple in the side of his cheek alone would make them powerless to it. Not to mention his sultry eyes.
A flush of anger crept in. What was Dane doing, making a spectacle of her like that? He should have known better what this town was like, what the Bob and Weave— epicenter of all local gossip— yappers were like. They’d rip her to shreds. She was dating Ames. That was common knowledge, which exacerbated the potential for a firestorm of gossip about her.
Especially because everyone knew Dane meant nothing by it. Everyone, including Brooke.
Throngs pressed toward the white painted gazebo where the festival’s entertainment had already started. Speakers boomed as Irish dancers clogged without bobbing their heads up on stage. Two big panel TVs flanked the gazebo, and the whole crowd could see it all.
“Brooke!” Her named sailed over hundreds of heads. Ames, grinning that dashing smile, weaved toward her past a battalion of strollers and kids with balloons on ribbons.
“You made it!”
She could’ve said the same for him.
“You look…wow.” He took her in his arms, smelling of soap. He looked wow, too— hair combed perfectly and golden, gleaming in the spring sun. Wrapped in his embrace, the ice of irritation toward him in her heart melted, and she knew she’d give him a chance to explain why he’d stranded her.
“Dr. Crosby. Fancy meeting you here.” There. Dropping that hint ought to be enough of a nudge to get him to explain his absence at his catcher’s post.
“Ah, yeah. The doctor thing. It still throws me.” He scratched the back of his neck and looked as cute and sheepish as could be, but he didn’t pick up on her hint. Hmph. She’d ask him more directly later, once she could figure out a tactful way of putting it.
“They’re just about to change numbers,” he said, his hand warm on her back. “Do you want to sit down?” His voice took a different timbre than usual. Was he nervous? Maybe he really had planned something, just like everyone had insinuated.
With this crowd there could be nowhere left to sit, but Ames took her hand, sending waves of pulsations through her chest, and led her to the front of the folding chairs right up next to the gazebo. Front row, prime seating. He held her hand, in public, like he had ownership over her, for all the county to see.
Ames Crosby’s special girl.
Ames was strength and security, two adjectives she’d been missing in her life for a long time. Not that she didn’t appreciate Aunt Ruth’s support, but it wasn’t the same. Aunt Ruth provided food and shelter, and she was a good pal, but they didn’t have that emotional connection, no shared dream other than to help the Chadwick legacy live on somehow after tragedy.
“Where were you? I thought you were coming to First Pitch.” Tired of waiting for him to offer up an explanation, Brooke went with the direct approach.
“Oh, did that already happen? I thought it was after the program.”
Seriously? Brooke had given him the time more than once. Of course, he might have been caught up in whatever he was planning— that, or in saving them these great seats at the gazebo.
“You need a drink or something? It’s a warm day.” He pulled a cooler from under his seat. “I brought guava pear juice.”
“My favorite.”
“I know.” He popped the lid for her. “I’m an expert.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. A Brooke Chadwick expert.” He winked and tapped his temple.
She sipped the cool juice. “You are totally an expert.” A sigh escaped her lips as she leaned back against the folding chair.
All the skittering voices in town weren’t wrong about Ames— he was nearly perfect. Kind, thoughtful, handsome, and now a doctor.
Of course, she was going into this with her eyes open. He had his quirks, too. But they were quirks she’d examined over the past three months, pondered, and decided she could live with.
Live with! Agh! Maybe she was hoping he’d ask her to marry him.
The Irish dancers tapped to a Celtic song. “They’re so good.” She squeezed Ames’s hand.
“Wait until you see what’s next.”
Her face flushed hot. The thing Ames had planned. Her breath caught. The past three years since Mom and Dad died had been rough. Nothing in her life had gone quite right, from healing from the accident, to learning to walk again, to being feted as the miracle contestant and getting what seemed like pity votes at the pageant for the mere fact she could walk, to having to put off her schooling more than once, to being ignored for the past three years by Dane Rockwell while he put his nose to the grindstone at law school and forgot all about her existence.
Maybe if I hitch myself to Ames and his goldenness, some of it will rub off on me and make my life sparkle. She wished she could sparkle, and not just like the sequins on this dress— from the inside out.
The Irish dance number ended. The dancers left the stage.
Ames looked into her eyes with a hint of childlike hope, and whatever dam had been holding back her hopes burst forth in a gushing wave.
Brooke’s heart swept her mind past the expanse of her and Ames’s future together: wedding, honeymoon, children, home, struggles, triumphs, grandchildren, ’til death do you part. It splayed out in a grand array before her, all golden and shimmery and possible.
“Look.” He nudged her. Above them, on the twenty-foot screen, they were projected. Brooke smiled and waved. Ames leaned in and kissed her, and a little laughter rippled over the crowd when she lifted an embarrassed hand to her cheek.
A tech crew kid knelt on the ground in front of them, pulling a close shot with his camera on his shoulder and holding out a mic.
Ames spoke, and the crowd instantly hushed. “Brooke.” A split-second later, it echoed from the huge speakers on the stage. Brooke’s stomach flipped. “At Christmas I came to Maddox to study for my exams where I wouldn’t have any distractions. Little did I know, I’d find the most divine distraction of my life.”
The crowd laughed, but Ames’s words plucked a string in her heart, and the twinge triggered her tear ducts. Her eyes welled up to brimming. This couldn’t be real. She, Brooke Chadwick, was winning life’s lottery thanks to this man.
Ames placed a supple kiss on her lips, one that made her sigh and forget she was anywhere but under his spell. He slid to one knee and looked up into her face, his eyes imploring, humble, vulnerable.
Oh, she loved him so much! Her heart nearly exploded out of her chest. She’d never known this much love existed in the world.
“Brooke, will you marry me?” He held out a velvet box, a blur in the sea of her tears.
Silence hovered, as the audience held its collective breath.
Yes. Say yes. She couldn’t speak for a moment, too overcome by the possibilities of life that now beckoned.
“Yes.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him behind his ear. “I love you, Ames.”
The audience sent up a cheer so loud it broke through to Brooke’s consciousness. When she finally pulled back, he slid the ring on her finger. She clutched it to her chest and they kissed again.
A new musical group took the stage, and the spotlight left them, but it didn’t leave Brooke’s soul. Today she was fashioned solely of shining light. She rested her head on his shoulder, grateful to be alive in this moment, and let herself bask.
Finally, she looked up at him. “Are we planning on coaching a team together? Team assignments are in a little while.” She’d signed up to coach, and today she’d meet her team of nine-year-olds. It was the point of First Pitch festival.
“Aw, babe. I’m really sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’m getting sworn in, taking the Hippocratic Oath today. It’s at the LaBarge Mansion, and the state medical board members are going to be there.” He checked his phone for the time. “In fact, I have to jet pretty soon to not be late.”
“The LaBarge Mansion.” The name curdled in her. Brooke had a history with that family. But all she said was, “Swanky stuff.”
“Sarge LaBarge runs the county, and he has the mansion to prove it.” Ames smirked. “My dad knows him from way back, so it ought to be chummy.”
“Well, that’s not something you can miss.”
“Can’t you come with me?” He stroked her arm. “Skip the festivities here?”
She’d rather chew shards of glass. “I doubt I’d be an asset to you at the LaBarge Mansion tonight.” Considering LaBarge’s daughter Charli had won the Miss Virginia pageant when Brooke competed and received runner-up. Afterward, Brooke had refused to take part in the gossip that suggested Charli’s dad was instrumental in getting the title for his recorder-playing daughter, when Brooke had been desperate for the scholarship money.
“You’ll always be an asset. Sometimes I think you’re the entire plus column on my accounting spreadsheet.”
His sweetness pressed away the Charli LaBarges of Brooke’s mind.
“I can’t really skip out on the kids. Not on ‘meet the coach’ day.” If it weren’t about kids, she’d totally go with him. He knew this. “But you’ll be at church tomorrow, right? We’ll be a topic of conversation. Pastor Walden will want to make a big announcement out of this. I’d love to have you by my side.”
Ames leaned down and kissed her, turning her insides to marshmallow fluff. “I wouldn’t miss it.”