Chapter Two

      “I’m confused,” Brooke said, reaching for the baby in Nick’s arms.

      He almost didn’t want to let the little guy go. He liked how the sturdy small weight felt in his arms, against his chest. He’d been surprised by that back in Afghanistan—how satisfying, how gratifying it was to hold a tiny baby. How hard it was to hand the baby over.

      Some things just sneaked up on a former US Army combat soldier unexpectedly. Like how raw he felt about his reason for being here. The sooner he gave back Mikey, the sooner he’d have to explain why he’d come. He had no idea how that conversation was going to go.

      “You’re not here to apply for the nanny position?” she asked, taking the baby and giving Mikey a kiss on his cheek. Mikey gurgled and then immediately spit up on the jacket of Brooke’s white pantsuit. It had to take courage to wear something like that with baby twins.

      She barely seemed to notice. She reached under the desk, grabbed a burp cloth, dabbed the drool, tossed the cloth on her shoulder, and then put Mikey in his swing and transferred the twin beside him. With both babies occupied and playing with chew toys attached to the swing, she turned her attention back to him.

      Those driftwood-brown eyes of hers had stopped him in his tracks when he’d seen that one photo of her on Will Parker’s phone. Intelligent and assessing. And tired now. He could see the dark shadows and the pull of exhaustion. He’d known she was pretty. But the instant wham of connection he’d felt when he’d first laid eyes on her in person was anything but expected.

      “No,” he said. “I was on my way to see you and happened to notice the ad for a nanny in the Gazette. I ripped it out so I’d have your phone number if you weren’t at home.”

      But she had been at home. Fortified with caffeine from the diner, he’d pulled up in front of her house, taking note of the well-kept small white Cape Cod with black shutters and a red door, the lawn tended to, two black-and-white cats snoozing on a padded swing, two cars in the driveway—one a brand-new Range Rover that must have cost a mint. He now realized the Range Rover probably belonged to the Satlers. The second car was a decade-old Honda. He’d breathed a sigh of relief that Brooke Timber was clearly doing fine and that he could be on his way to dealing with number two on his list. But then he’d heard the sound of babies wailing and high-pitched shrieks from adults, and that hadn’t sounded too okay, so he’d followed the noise to the side door, a business entrance, and marched in.

      Brooke hadn’t looked fine at all, not in the slightest. He’d sprung into action, as was his wont, and somehow the four women in the room had managed to mistake him for a nanny.

      At six foot two, 185 pounds, with a small tattoo of “purple mountain majesties” on his left bicep and size-thirteen black work boots, he wouldn’t have thought anyone would confuse him with an applicant for a babysitting job—Gazette ad in hand or not.

      “Ah! So you must be a prospective client,” Brooke said. “When’s the big day?”

      Client? Big day? What was she talking about? Then he remembered the Satler triplets with their huge rock engagement rings and the shingle outside her side door. Brooke was a wedding planner.

      “Good God, no,” he said with a shake of his head. Now he was taken for a groom? “I’m not the marrying kind.”

      She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone is the marrying kind. My clients have been all sorts. Last year, a search-and-rescue worker fell in love with a man who lived off the grid, in the mountains, without electricity or running water. She got him to upgrade to a real cabin with the basics and even Wi-Fi, but they’re way out in the woods, eating only what they forage themselves.”

      He smiled. “I’m surprised that a woman who’d live in a cabin in the woods with a mountain man would even hire a wedding planner.”

      “I know, but the groom scoffed at everything she suggested, and only when his bride threatened to run back to civilization did he agree to let her handle the wedding her way, with him in mind. Her job was so demanding that she had no time or interest in figuring it all out, so she hired me. I planned a small, quiet ceremony on the bank of the Wedlock Creek river, with the mountain as a backdrop. The ‘caterer’ was a fisherman, who made an amazing clambake. The ‘band’ was a fiddler. But guess who put on a rented tuxedo to make his bride happy? Yup.”

      “Well, I’ll be,” he said on a laugh. “I guess you never know. That may be the only thing I do know for sure.”

      She laughed too, and for a moment he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had silky, straight brown hair past her shoulders, a dimple in her left cheek and, though he was usually drawn to more casual women, he liked the fancy outfit and little scarf at her neck and the pointy, polished high heels. Maybe because she gave the appearance of having it all together. And whether or not she did was the reason he was here.

      “So, what can I do for you, Nick Garroway?”

      Brooke looked happy and peaceful at the moment, and he didn’t want to spoil it. But she was staring at him with those big brown eyes. Waiting for an explanation.

      “I’m newly medically retired from the army,” he said. “For the past month, I’ve been recuperating from a foot injury at a base in Texas, after eleven years as a combat soldier in Afghanistan.”

      “Thank you for your service,” she said, her voice turning hesitant and her entire body stiffening. “And you came to see me because...”

      He could tell she was bracing herself. “Will Parker was in my unit.”

      She glanced at the babies in their swings, her shoulders slumping. Then she lifted her chin and let out a breath.

      Her cell phone rang in the silence of the room.

      “I’ll let voice mail get it,” she said, then dropped down in her desk chair as if her legs had been about to give out on her.

      The phone stopped ringing, but before he could say a word, the annoying ringtone started up again. He could tell she needed a breather—but from him and what else he had to say. “Take the call, Brooke. I’ll keep an eye on the twins.”

      “Really?” she asked. “Even though you’re not here about the job?”

      He nodded. “Go ahead. Might as well while I’m here.”

      She snatched the phone as if it were a lifeline. “Brooke Timber of Dream Weddings speaking. How may I help you?”

      He kneeled down in front of the baby swings to make funny faces at the twins, but he was distracted by Brooke—how hard she was listening, how tired she looked, how rigid her shoulders were now, probably from his news about being here because he knew Will.

      The twins’ father.

      “Absolutely, Francesca,” she said into the phone. “The salmon is out, the sole almondine is in. I’ll make it happen.”

      Brooke put down the phone. “One of my clients wants to switch her menu. Someone told her that salmon was dated and that she should go with the hipper sole.”

      He smiled, but a call like that would push him off the edge. Salmon was dated? Sole was hip? What? “Bride’s wish is your command?”