A Small-Town Bride Read online

  Amy did as she was told, downing the eggs and bacon like a starving person. She had no idea where her next meal would come from, so she allowed Gracie to refill her coffee cup several times while the diner filled up with the usual Saturday crowd.

  Pippa Custis, the owner of Ewe and Me, the yarn shop in town, came in for a bowl of oatmeal.

  Walter Braden came in holding hands with his new wife, the former Poppy Marchand. For a couple of old people, they were sweet. They ordered two big breakfasts and spent the entire time gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Alicia Mulloy, the hygienist at Dr. Dinnen’s office, ordered three different kinds of donuts. Amy wondered if Dr. Dinnen knew about Alicia’s sugar habit.

  And then Dusty McNeil strolled through the door and turned Saturday into Man Candy Monday. Wow. He was like some unholy combination of Thor and Captain America all rolled into one gorgeous example of maleness.

  Gracie swooped down on him with a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon, as if she’d been expecting his arrival. He gave Gracie a smile full of laugh lines and dimples and white teeth. And then he turned toward Amy.

  Unlike the other customers, he didn’t pretend she was invisible. Oh no. He gave her a long, assessing gaze that made Amy’s pulse jump. Dusty McNeil had a badass reputation as a player who preferred the showgirls and cocktail waitresses who worked up at the casinos in Charles Town, West Virginia.

  So why was he ogling her?

  She had no idea, but she returned the favor. Who wouldn’t enjoy gazing at that chiseled face or those bright baby blues or all that golden blond hair?

  And that’s when a crazy idea popped into her desperate head. Maybe she could invite herself over to his place for some Netflix and chill. Spending a night with him wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice. And it would probably be way more fun (and warmer) than sleeping in the Z4.

  Or sleeping with Grady for that matter.

  But no. Initiating a booty call would not be the right next step. She’d chosen to sleep in her car instead of falling back on a man. She’d taken a principled position. So she pushed the ridiculous idea of sleeping with Dusty McNeil out of her mind and concentrated on her coffee mug while she tried to figure out what her next step ought to be.

  She came up with exactly nothing.

  “Y’all seem to be busy up at Eagle Hill Manor these days,” Gracie said to Dusty. And since Amy didn’t have anything better to do, she eavesdropped.

  “Yep. Ever since that article in Brides. Willow’s hiring another event planner. Know anyone who might be interested?”

  Gracie shook her head. “No, but I’ll keep my eye out.”

  A job.

  Why hadn’t Amy thought of that before?

  A job would solve all her problems. And becoming an event planner sounded like the perfect fit except for the fact that she had zero real work experience. But she had been her sorority’s social secretary and had planned all kinds of themed parties and charitable events. She’d even had a hand in helping several of her sorority sisters with their wedding plans.

  This was perfect. She’d get a job instead of a husband. And wouldn’t that blow Daddy’s mind?

  Chapter Two

  Eagle Hill Manor had been built in the late 1800s in the style of an antebellum mansion, with a massive portico held up by a dozen classical columns. David’s wife, Willow, had recently refurbished and enlarged the place, adding a gazebo and a swimming pool on the west lawn, converting an old carriage house into a sizable reception hall, and restoring the manor’s many outbuildings to create guest cottages with quaint porches and window boxes.

  The December issue of Brides magazine had done a seven-page feature article on the manor house, with photos of the inn’s sweeping half-circle staircase and guest rooms decorated for the holidays and images of the nearby Laurel Chapel all blinged out for a Christmas wedding. The magazine had also praised the inn’s food and beverage operations, as well as its daily breakfast service.

  That famous breakfast was still being served when Amy dashed up the steps onto the front portico and through the double doors into the lobby. She got as far as the dining room and stopped. Willow was there, making the rounds of the tables and chatting up her patrons.

  Even though Willow had only married into the Lyndon family, she still managed to convey the air of power and authority that every Lyndon was supposed to have. She had a master’s degree from Wharton and had single-handedly exposed a huge case of Medicare fraud, winning a million-dollar settlement from Restero Corporation. A lot of that money had gone into the inn’s restoration, although Willow also had a silent partner in her business—Jeff Talbert, a bona fide billionaire and another one of Amy’s exceptional first cousins.

  David, yet another one of Amy’s brilliant first cousins, had walked away from a career in politics in order to marry Willow.

  Amy couldn’t imagine any man giving up anything for her. Unlike Willow, she was an ordinary person. Not brilliant and not particularly stunning. She stood barely five feet tall with absolutely no breasts to speak of and standard-issue brown hair that went limp whenever it rained. She had a degree in English from a small, liberal arts college that catered to rich students with less-than-stellar SAT scores. She did not speak in full sentences or have an Ivy League education like Willow. She was, in a word, unremarkable.

  In a family composed of smart, beautiful, well-educated people, Amy was a poser.

  The moment Willow spied her lurking in the doorway, she concluded her conversation and proceeded across the dining room, surprise all over her face. “Wow, Amy, you’re up early. Have you come to talk about the wedding?”

  Damn. Damn. Damn. Had Grady posted lies about her on Facebook? With her phone out of commission, Amy had no way of finding out. She would kill him if he had. She met Willow’s probing stare. “No. I’m here to apply for the job. And for the record, I’m not engaged.”

  Willow’s eyes widened a moment as she gave Amy’s outfit the once-over. Right. Bad move. Showing up for a job interview wearing sneakers probably ranked right up there on the things-not-to-do-during-a-job-interview list at Gen Y Girl.

  “Which job are you talking about?” Willow asked.

  “The event planner job. I don’t have a lot of work experience, but I was the social secretary of my college sorority. And I’ve been a maid of honor seven times. I know a lot about weddings, believe me.”

  Willow’s green eyes softened. “Oh, Amy, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were interested in a job. I filled the event planner job yesterday. Honestly, I thought you were—”

  “No, I’m not marrying Grady.” She balled her hands into fists. “Everyone needs to get that in their heads, okay?”

  Willow took a step forward. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m good. But I need a job,” she said on a shaky sigh as a tear escaped from her right eye. She turned her back on Willow, forcing herself to walk slowly toward the door breathing normally even though her pulse had taken off like a runaway jet engine.

  “I have another job opening, if you’re interested. It’s seasonal, and it only pays minimum wage,” Willow said to her back.

  Amy stopped. Did she want a minimum-wage job? No. But what other choice did she have? In the let’s-face-reality department, she had no skills and no real experience, and with a résumé like that, she should probably expect to start at the absolute bottom.

  She turned. “I’ll take it,” she said.

  Willow cocked her head. “Don’t you even want to know what the job is?”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

  “It’s on the grounds crew. We need extra hands in the summertime to keep up with the gardening chores and setups for weddings and other events. It’s a lot of physical labor. You up for that?”

  Amy nodded. Physical labor didn’t sound like much fun, especially since it had been months since she’d visited the gym. But, on the other hand, becoming a laborer was exactly the kind of thing that would annoy the
crap out of Daddy. And that thought warmed her through and through. He’d be so sorry he’d locked her out of the house, drained her bank account, and left her with only enough money to buy eggs Benedict at the Red Fern.

  “Okay,” Willow said with a nod. “The job is yours. You’ll be reporting to the Eagle Hill facilities director, Dusty McNeil.”

  * * *

  Dusty loved his little office with the big picture window and the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It occupied space in the new outbuilding everyone called “the barn,” because it had replaced the old one that had been there for a century. This building was much more than a barn, however. It served as the state-of-the-art headquarters for Eagle Hill Manor’s facility-management team. It had Internet, a workshop, garage space for a fleet of golf carts and utility vehicles, and storage for all manner of folding chairs, tables, trellises, tents, columns, pedestals, and fountains.

  It also had a kennel for Sven, Natalie Lyndon’s gigantic labradoodle, a doggie obedience school dropout three times over. Right now the dog was being a good boy, sitting at Dusty’s feet while Dusty enjoyed his second cup of coffee. In Dusty’s opinion, Sven needed a firmer hand and a little more attention—something ten-year-old Natalie didn’t quite get and her busy parents had no time for. That was Dusty’s fault in some ways, because he’d been the one to give the dog to Natalie in the first place, the Christmas before last.

  He gave Sven’s head a little scratch as he reviewed the upcoming schedule for the day. The Chapman-Cuddy wedding would be taking place at one o’clock in the Laurel Chapel with a small reception under a tent on the terrace to follow. The Ganis-McQuade two-hundred-guest wedding reception was scheduled to begin at six o’clock in the Carriage House.

  Dusty was jotting down notes for the day’s activities when Sven suddenly sprang to his feet and started barking. “Hush,” he directed, just as Willow knocked on the doorframe of his always-open office door.

  “Got a minute?” she asked as Sven jumped up on her, earning him a scolding. “Why is he here?” she asked.

  “Because he gets lonely when Natalie’s at school. He keeps me company in the mornings, and I return the favor.”

  Willow gave him the evil eye. “Maybe you should have kept him instead of giving him to Natalie.”

  Yeah, maybe he should have, but he didn’t have room for Sven in his tiny house or his single life. “What’s up?” he asked, ignoring the gibe.

  Willow strolled into the office without answering his question, and that’s when Dusty noticed Amy Lyndon hovering in the doorway, eyeing Sven like he was one of those dire wolves from Game of Thrones. Why was Amy here? And why had she been having breakfast at oh dark thirty at Gracie’s?

  She looked like a windblown juvenile delinquent in those ragged jeans and that biker-girl jacket. ’Course that only proved that he knew nothing about fashion. If Amy Lyndon was wearing it, then it cost the moon. Dusty would never understand why rich folks spent good money for jeans with holes in them.

  “Good news,” Willow said in a falsely bright voice. “I’ve found you the helper you needed.” Willow gestured toward Amy. “Come on in, Amy. Dusty doesn’t bite.”

  “Does the dog?” Amy continued to eye the pooch as if Sven might attack at any moment.

  “Sit,” Dusty commanded, and Sven actually complied.

  “How’d you get him to do that?” Willow asked.

  “I don’t have any trouble with him.” He cast his glance from Willow to Amy and back again. This had April Fools’ prank written all over it. Willow was notorious for her April Fools’ pranks. Last year she’d wrapped his entire office in Bubble Wrap. This year he’d retaliated with toilet paper. Had she visited her office yet this morning? Was this her weird way of getting him back?

  “Ha-ha. Funny. But the Bubble Wrap last year was better,” he said.

  Willow’s cheeks pinked. “Um, Dusty, this isn’t an April Fools’ prank. I’m not joking. I’ve hired Amy to be your summer intern.”

  Amy took a cautious step into the office and shoved her hands into her back pockets. “Yeah. Like she said, I’m not a joke.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Willow said, giving him a serious stare. “I’m sure Amy has a lot to learn from you.”

  “But—”

  Willow turned her back on him and headed toward the exit like a coward running from a fight.

  “Wait, Willow,” he said to her retreating back, but she didn’t stop.

  “You, stay right there,” Dusty said, pointing at Amy and Sven at the same time. He turned and scooted after Willow, catching up to her on the gravel walk that led to the manor house.

  “I need a hand, not an…itty-bitty, spoiled rich girl who’s scared of dogs.”

  Willow lifted her chin. “Dusty, you know better than to judge her that way.”

  Yes, he did. But it was hard not to. “Come on, Willow. She’s not strong enough to haul stuff or dig holes. She probably doesn’t even weigh a hundred pounds.”

  “I know, but here’s the deal. I never in a million years expected Amy to ever even think about getting a job, much less a minimum-wage job. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but I think her wanting a job—any job—is a good thing. And, to be honest, getting her hands dirty will be good for her. I can’t think of anyone better than you to teach her what she needs to learn.”

  He held Willow’s gaze. “So, just to be clear,” he said, “you aren’t expecting me to treat her with kid gloves?”

  “Did I say I wanted you to do that? She’s been hired to be a seasonal helper on the maintenance crew. Do I need to e-mail you the job description?”

  “She won’t last a day.”

  “So?”

  “C’mon, Willow, you can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious. And now I’ve gotta go. Courtney and Brianna, the new wedding planner, need help managing today’s bridezillas and their equally scary mothers.”

  Dusty stood on the path for a solid minute watching his oldest friend rush back to the manor house. Well, didn’t this beat all?

  He was scratching his head as he returned to the office and found Amy backed up against the wall with Sven sitting right in front of her. The dog wasn’t doing anything but giving her his adorable cocked-head puppy-dog appraisal.

  Boy, she was a tiny thing. She’d be useless in the garden. And she was clearly scared of her own shadow. How the hell was he supposed to manage her?

  “The dog isn’t going to hurt you. He might jump up on you from time to time, but that’s only because he’s friendly,” he said.

  She jumped as if he’d hit her with a Taser. “Uh, sorry,” she said, although he couldn’t figure out what she was sorry about. Then she simpered a little, which annoyed the hell out of him. He wasn’t going to fall for that poor-little-rich-girl routine.

  “So Willow says you need this job, huh?”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded, even though her chocolate-drop eyes watered up a bit. Crying was not allowed on his crew, so he steeled his heart against the adorable, sad puppy-dog look on her face. It was a toss-up as to which of them, Amy or Sven, had the poor-pitiful-me look mastered.

  “So what do you want me to do, Dusty?” she asked.

  Her high-handed and familiar tone seemed at odds with that sad look on her face. It chapped his butt. “First of all, you will call me Mr. McNeil.”

  Did she roll her eyes? Yup, she did. He folded his arms and glared at her while the silence unreeled.

  She finally cleared her throat. “May I ask a question, Mister McNeil?”

  “Sure.”

  “When do I get paid?”

  “Paid? You gotta work first. Payday is every other Friday.” He glanced at the whiteboard calendar on the wall. “So I guess you’ll get paid in a week.”

  She paled but said nothing.

  “As for stuff you need to do, first thing is you need to go home and change clothes.”

  “What?”

  He waved at
her outfit. “I’ve got a golf shirt for you, and you’ll need to get a pair of khaki pants and some work boots. Everyone on the grounds crew wears a uniform. We supply the shirts. You supply the rest.” He walked into the back storage room and rummaged through the boxes of golf shirts until he found a men’s small. It would be too large for her, but he didn’t have any women’s shirts. Amy was the first female on his crew.

  He tossed the blue shirt at her, and she managed to catch it. “It’s a busy day. We’ve got a one o’clock wedding at the chapel with a small reception afterward and a two-hundred-guest reception here starting at 6:00 p.m. The setups are mostly done for the early wedding, but we’ve got boatloads of work for the evening reception.” He checked his watch. “Be back in an hour, dressed for work.”

  Chapter Three

  Amy’s jaw hurt from grinding her teeth. Dusty McNeil was the most irritating, high-handed, infuriating man ever. He wanted her to fail. A pair of work boots and khaki pants? For real? Where did a person buy clothes like that with only an hour’s notice? Not to mention the fact that she had no money to buy anything.

  She drove back into town, tears stinging her eyes. She didn’t want that stupid job anyway. She’d let her pride get in the way of her good sense. Maybe the time had come for her to give up this fight and throw herself on Aunt Pam’s mercy.

  She let that thought blossom in her mind with all its permutations and complications. Pam would side with Daddy. Even worse, Aunt Pam would start planning the wedding of the century for her. There would be fights and drama. Not to mention a groom that Amy didn’t love. It would be dumb to let that happen.

  So ten minutes later she walked into the Haggle Shop, the consignment store on Liberty Avenue. She had never in her life set foot in this store, but if she needed cheap clothes, this was the place to go.

  The store must have been a furniture showroom or something, because all the interior walls had been torn out, leaving a concrete floor and cinder-block walls and rack after rack of used clothing. No fancy wallpaper or carpet here. No gilt-edged dressing rooms. And every piece of used clothing hung on a wire hanger. Amy shivered. She hated wire hangers.