Come on, come on, come on.
Logan wasn’t sure he’d survive another second of suspense. Waiting for the right minute to propose should be added to the categories of cruel and unusual punishment.
He lingered in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, cradling a towering platter of fresh-from-the-oven scones. He hadn’t eaten a single crumb all morning, but not even the rich, buttery scent of pastries could divert his attention from the day’s mission.
Abby flitted around the long antique table, readjusting a rosebud here, a cucumber sandwich there, while Max and several of Abby’s friends sat in tall high-backed chairs, waiting for her to kick off the afternoon tea—an event she took as seriously as the Super Bowl.
She’d even dressed up for the occasion. Which, for his laid-back girlfriend, meant a white silky blouse tucked into dark jeans and black heels.
Wait a sec. He glanced beneath the table. Yep. Just as he suspected. She’d already ditched the shoes. But man, did she have the cutest bare feet. In truth, he found everything about Abby downright adorable, from her frazzled, pink-cheeked perfectionism to the warm, motherly way she fussed over her friends.
He couldn’t wait to tell her exactly how he felt about her.
At the thought, his chest swelled, on the verge of bursting. Every fiber in his being burned with excitement, like an electrical current carrying too much voltage. He’d felt the same fire the first time he sat in an F-16, one hand on the side stick, ready for his whole world to change.
The crazy part? Marrying Abby would be a million times more momentous. He just needed her to say yes.
The sugar bowl, resting on the platter, hidden among the scones, suddenly felt heavier than a cargo plane. Whatever you do, don’t look down and draw unnecessary attention. He shifted the platter in his arms, waiting for Abby to get the party started.
“Everything looks lovely, dear.” Verna Hoffstetter beamed from behind a tiered tray of something Abby called petits fours—code for absurdly tiny cakes.
“Thank you.” Abby leaned over her friend Sage—who’d seemed distracted since she arrived—to light a tapered candle. “Is it like you remember?”
“My heavens, yes. Very authentic.” Verna nodded, and her strange hat nearly toppled off her short tangerine-colored hair. At least, he thought it was a hat. She called it a fascinator. Fitting, since it fascinated the heck out of him. The weird netting material had a fake bird sitting on top of it.
“I feel like I’m back in London with my Harold.” Verna placed a hand to her heart, her features soft and blissful. He’d never met Verna’s late husband, but from the stories Verna told, he would’ve liked the guy. And he hoped he and Abby would have a similarly long, happy marriage.
His heartbeat accelerated again. If he didn’t propose soon, he might keel over from high blood pressure.
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that!” Abby breathed. “I want everything to be perfect for Sadie and Lucy, and I couldn’t have done this trial run without you. Without all of you.” She lightly dabbed the corner of her eye with her fingertip, instructing her tears to stay put as her gaze swept their smiling faces.
Besides Verna, Max, and Sage, the partygoers included Abby’s best friend, Nadia Chopra, and the Belles—a group of spunky older women who got together under the guise of a book club and philanthropy. Although Logan suspected it had more to do with the snacks and socializing.
“You know we’re happy to be guinea pigs anytime food is involved. Right, Max?” Nadia gave Max a gentle nudge with her elbow.
Max grinned, ogling a plate of chocolate eclairs topped with thick, creamy ganache. “Especially dessert.”
“Exactly,” Nadia agreed. “Now, do we get to eat sometime this century? Or are you going to grab a ruler and start measuring the overhang of the tablecloth?” she teased.
Logan snorted. He liked Nadia. More than he’d expected when they met last Christmas. On first impression, he’d pegged her for a girly-girl who cared too much about brand names and appearances. But he’d quickly upgraded his opinion. Nadia was solid. A fierce, loyal wingman. Or wingwoman. She’d be a worthy maid of honor to Abby. If he ever got the chance to propose.
“Oh!” Abby’s eyes widened as she surveyed the lace tablecloth. “I didn’t even think about that. Should I?”
“Honey”—Janet Hill flounced her salon-blond curls with an impatient flick of her hand—“while I consider myself to be eighty years young, I’d like to live long enough to enjoy this tea while it’s still warm.”
Abby laughed. “I guess I have gotten a little carried away, haven’t I?”
For the first time since he’d paused in the doorway, Abby noticed Logan standing there, holding the scones. Her entire face brightened, and the second their eyes locked, his breath stalled in his throat.
Buckle your seat belts, ladies and gents. We’re cleared for takeoff.
“Logan, would you mind setting the scones here, please?” Abby gestured to the only vacant spot on the table.
As if on autopilot, he moved toward her, his pulse thudding so loudly he was positive even Verna could hear it from across the room.
He set the platter beside the Spode tea set—the one he’d convinced Abby to use, despite the mismatched sugar bowl.
“Thank you. Now, if you’ll take your seat, we’re ready to begin.” She waved to the empty chair by her side, but Logan didn’t budge.
His mouth felt dry and watery at the same time. He swallowed clumsily.
“Logan?” Abby cocked her head. “Are you feeling okay?”
Nope, he thought. Not even a little bit. I’m exhilarated, nervous, excited, fired-up, and pumped so full of adrenaline and eagerness, I might pass out.
Instead of the lengthy confession, he said, “Yeah. But there’s something I want to give you first.” He shifted a few of the scones and lifted the sugar bowl from the platter.
Abby gasped. “How did you—” Her gaze darted to meet his, and he grinned.
“I know a guy.”
“I—I can’t believe you did this.” Her hand flew to her chest, as if she needed to catch her breath. “Of all the crazy, thoughtful, sweet, utterly insane things to do.” She laughed, half in disbelief, half in delight. “You outbid me for my sugar bowl!”
“Guilty as charged. Why don’t you check out… the, uh, craftsmanship.” He stumbled over his words like a tongue-tied teenager asking a girl to prom. Yeesh. He must’ve rehearsed what to say a hundred times, but his mind went blank. As long as he didn’t choke on the actual proposal.
He caught the glimmer of Nadia’s cell phone camera light as she pressed Record, and his pulse spiked again.
Focus. He fixed his gaze on Abby. Her gorgeous hazel eyes held a questioning glint. And was it his imagination or did her fingers tremble slightly as she reached for the lid?
No one dared breathe as she slowly lifted the lid from the bowl, moving it a millimeter at a time. Another inch and she’d glimpse the diamond ring nestled inside. Another inch and he’d drop to one knee.
“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice cut through the stillness.
Startled, Abby dropped the lid, and it clattered back onto its base.
Logan’s euphoria fizzled into an internal groan of frustration. Seriously? Someone had to interrupt them right now?
The unexpected visitor was a woman roughly his own age, early thirties, give or take a few years. And something about her stance—guarded yet determined, like a soldier at the ready—sent warning bells blaring. A young boy about four or five clung to her hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said without sounding apologetic in the slightest. “But no one answered the door, and I really need to speak to Abigail Preston.”
“I’m Abby. How can I help you? Would you like to book a room at the inn?”
“Not exactly.” The woman’s jaw flexed, and while she aimed her gaze in Abby’s direction, she didn’t meet her eye—another red flag. He instinctively took a step toward Abby.
“I’d like more than a room,” the woman told her. “I’d like half the inn.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Abby tried to sound calm, but Logan heard the quiver in her voice.
He closed the gap between them, standing by her side for support.
Whatever this woman had to say, it wouldn’t be good.
Her gaze darted around the room, confidence wavering. She clearly hadn’t expected an audience. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, but her countenance quickly hardened. Her chin rose an inch, and she shifted her stance, sidestepping in front of the boy as if to shield him from her next move.
“Half of this inn belongs to my son, Tyler.” For the first time since she’d entered the room, she met Abby’s gaze, but Logan couldn’t read the woman’s muddied expression. Anger? Shame? Sadness? They all blended together. “His father is your late husband. Donnie.”
The declaration exploded like a bomb no one saw coming. Abby took the full brunt of the blast, collapsing against him.
Every muscle in his body tensed as he wrapped his arms around her, his mind struggling to regroup in the fallout.
Today was supposed to change their lives forever.
But not like this.