nine

Penelope squeezed Tucker’s hand as they stepped up to the nondescript double doors of the VFW hall. “Are you ready?”

He nodded.

He was lying.

She would have recognized the nerves of his stiff shoulders and the tense line of his jaw anywhere, so she squeezed his hand again, pressing his fingers against her hip. “Deep breath.” She modeled inhaling through her nose and letting it out through her mouth.

Tucker scowled at her. “I’m not nervous. This is nothing compared to what I did in the Marines.”

“Uh-huh.” With a tug on his hand, she turned him to face her. Releasing her grip, she let her gaze sweep from the top of his head to the toes of his freshly polished shoes. His gunmetal suit was sharp, tailored, hugging his broad shoulders and cutting in at his narrow waist.

He stuck a finger into his collar and pulled at the edge of his deep-blue tie. “It’s too tight.”

“It is not.” She’d sent him to the same tailor who had fitted them for the picnic, and there was no arguing that this suit fit him like the ocean to the shore. “Stop fidgeting.” She pulled his arms back down to his sides and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulders. “You look great.”

His eyes shot toward the door, and she could almost hear the question he didn’t ask.

“Tucker Westbrook, this county would be lucky to have you as its sheriff. The people who are here tonight know that, or they wouldn’t have come up with a small fortune just for the joy of eating with you.” She shrugged. “And giving you even more money.”

He chuckled at that but didn’t say anything.

“It’s not just that you’re capable, which we all know you are. You’re smart and—”

He cut her off before she could continue. “So was the last sheriff, and look what happened to him.”

She slammed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You think you’re going to have a massive heart attack in office? Unlikely. Longborne was a good sheriff, and you have a few of the same qualities that made him a good public servant.” She held up her fingers as she ticked them off. “Decency. Sympathy. Integrity.”

“You are good for a man’s ego,” Tucker said, pulling her into a hug. “Maybe I should put you on staff just for that.”

She leaned into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his back and breathing in the faint scent of wood and wool. “You couldn’t afford me, Westbrook.”

His shoulders shook with mirth as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

She wanted to spend a second enjoying the sweet moment, the feeling of his lips against her skin, his beard brushing her cheek. She could have spent hours pondering the shivers that ran down her arms and made her fingers tingle.

This was everything right and wrong with their charade. These moments, these glimpses into what could be. These reminders that she could not afford to risk their friendship. The plan had always been for them to be best friends forever. And she knew that romantic entanglements didn’t always live up to the promises.

It was better to stick to the plan. What might be simply wasn’t worth it.

So she enjoyed the moment in its brevity just as the double doors slammed open with a sharp crack. Everything inside her screamed that she should pull back, but even as she moved, she noticed three things. A hush had fallen over the tables closest to the door. At least a couple dozen pairs of eyes stared at them. And one of those pairs belonged to Winston St. Cloud.

His gaze was narrow, and the muscle in his jaw worked overtime. At his side, Emmaline Adams was nearly bouncing with excitement.

Penelope wasn’t even sure if Tucker had noticed they suddenly had an audience.

Insides a spaghetti mess of emotions, Penelope cleared her throat as Tucker whispered, “I guess we’re on. Thank you.” He took control, leaning back and arranging her hand into the crook of his elbow as he plastered a smile into place and stepped forward.

Smoothing a hand down the front of her blue dress, she stumbled after him, forcing a toothy smile as she nodded at several familiar faces. Her mom was seated off to the left with several of her church friends, and the mess in Penelope’s stomach turned into a knot. If the wrinkles in her mom’s forehead could be believed, she’d seen Tucker’s kiss. Even a kiss on the cheek was new for them. She’d told her mom not to worry if things began to look different. But she hadn’t quite prepared her for a public display of affection.

Penelope couldn’t hold her mom’s gaze without confessing the truth—even from across the room—so she looked at the floor, watching her red shoes stumble across the wood as Tucker led her to their table at the front of the room. He pulled out her chair and scooted it in as she sat down. Then he strolled up to the dais at the front of the room. Resting his hands on the podium, he took a deep breath. He caught her eye and gave her a quick smile. As he spoke, his words rippled over the crowd, every eye on him.

All at once the knot in her stomach released, and she sat back and just let herself enjoy his voice, deep and rich and warm as his embrace. There wasn’t a note in sight or a teleprompter to be found. He spoke from his heart. And his memory. He’d told her early on that he wasn’t going to risk having to read in public. It was so much better this way anyway.

After fifteen minutes, he nodded and stepped away from the microphone. The audience stood and clapped, and it was time to mingle. She’d thought she would stay by his side, but as soon as he returned to their table, a white-haired man in a blue blazer stole him away.

“I’ll be back,” Tucker whispered as he moved to the other table. That seemed to be the cue for the whole room to relax. Voices raised in conversation, and people began milling about, some waiting to speak with Tucker and others crossing the room to speak to friends at other tables.

Beau Bailey, Tucker’s campaign manager, stood and strolled across the room to chat up some other potential donors. She should be doing the same. Running her hands down the skirt of her dress, she squared her shoulders and stood, ready to find some deep pockets.

As she scanned the room, she cringed at how empty it felt. The stage with its blue backing sat in the middle of the room instead of against the far wall, effectively cutting the room in half. There were a dozen tables—almost a hundred people. But she’d heard rumors that Buddy Jepson’s recent fundraising dinner had brought in three times as many. That had been three hundred deep pockets that were funding derogatory television ads. Three hundred people who would not only vote for Buddy Jepson but also convince their friends to do so.

Tucker needed a miracle.

“That man is a snack.”

Penelope jumped at the voice in her ear, turning just enough to see Emmaline next to her, her gaze following the same line across the room to the spot where Tucker was speaking with a handful of potential donors.

“A snack?” She tried not to sound as outdated as she felt.

In her office, Emmaline hadn’t seemed that much younger. But here and now, Emmaline parading around in a little romper and flawless long legs, Penelope felt every minute of her old maid status.

Emmaline giggled, looping their arms together. “You’re so cute. As though you wouldn’t know. I mean, I love Winston with all of my heart, but Tucker Westbrook is extra.”

With a choked chortle of her own, Penelope nodded. “Of course.” She was smart. It wasn’t hard to figure out the slang. Tucker was a snack. Thinking about him was like remembering she’d stashed Reese’s peanut butter cups in her top desk drawer.

“And that voice, so deep and smooth. I could listen to him speak for hours, couldn’t you?” Emmaline leaned in, her floral perfume drifting along with her.

Penelope tried to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat. Yes, she could listen to him speak for hours. She had listened to him practice that speech three times, in fact.

Emmaline didn’t seem to mind that Penelope hadn’t answered her question. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have such a handsome sheriff? Imagine his press briefings.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. “Oh my! I’d evacuate for a hurricane if he told me to, for sure.”

“It would be nice.” Penelope nodded, her smile trying and failing to hold its place.

“So, when will you get married?”

Penelope nearly swallowed her tongue. Twice in as many weeks their marital status was the topic of conversation, and she was determined not to screw it up like last time. “Oh, we’re not engaged.”

Playfully swatting at her arm, Emmaline giggled. “Well, that’s just a matter of time. You’re the perfect couple. Have you been together forever?”

Shaking her head slowly, eyes still trained on Tucker, Penelope said, “No. I was engaged to someone else a few years ago.” As the words slipped out, she nearly bit her tongue off.

Emmaline’s eyes grew wide. “What? You broke some guy’s heart to be with Tucker? Tell me everything.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” Penelope scrambled for words, but what could she say? She’d promised Winston she wouldn’t tell Emmaline about their engagement, about being jilted at the altar. But now she’d opened a can of worms. It would be so easy to blurt out the whole truth about her ruined wedding.

She didn’t owe Winston anything. But neither did she want to see the light in Emmaline’s eyes dim when she learned the truth. Despite the awkward circumstances that had brought them together, Emmaline was a sweet, kind woman, and Penelope didn’t want to see her hurt. Inevitably she would be when she discovered Winston’s previous actions.

But that’s Winston’s problem.

The voice in her head made a good point. It had been up to Winston to reveal their history since the beginning. Maybe she could nudge him again to be honest with Emmaline.

Emmaline squeezed her arm. “Well, you and Tucker are meant to be. It’s obvious.”

It might be obvious, but it wasn’t true. And the charade was starting to sit badly with her. They’d said they weren’t going to lie. They would date—only without the feelings. They’d just let others believe what they would.

But as her mom began a quick march across the room, Penelope realized the truth. It wasn’t just the Emmalines and Mrs. Haywoods of the world who would question what was happening. Her mom would want answers. And she deserved them. Penelope just didn’t have any to offer.

“Would you excuse me?” she said, pointing toward the four musicians at the side of the dance floor. “I want to make sure the band is all set up. You should go find Winston and put those dance lessons to use.”

Emmaline squealed and pranced off to find her fiancé, while Penelope practically ran from her mother.

“You should ask her to dance.”

Tucker looked up at the voice beside him, the woman thin and frail, her voice anything but. Mrs. Saunders’s skin was so thin it barely covered the veins on the backs of her hands, and the wrinkles on her face had not been fixed by Botox or whatever the plastic surgeons used to make women pretend they looked a decade younger. She had chosen to age naturally, her white hair styled into perfect curls and her lipstick giving a bit of color to her face. Her mind was as sharp as ever.

“Excuse me?” he said, more to have something to fill the silence than because he didn’t understand her implication. She had clearly been referring to PJ. And he’d obviously been staring at her.

“Oh, don’t play coy with me, Mr. Westbrook. The two of you have been thicker than thieves the last few weeks. Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” Her Southern drawl was strong, drawing out the vowels and sliding like melted butter. But her words were sharp.

“Ma’am?” Again, he’d rather play the fool than admit that the idea of holding Penelope close on that dance floor had crossed his mind long before Mrs. Saunders had suggested it.

“You’re not fooling anyone.” She raised her eyebrows and looked down her steep nose at him.

The words hit him like a gut punch. Did she know they’d been pretending all along? He’d never been much of an actor, and maybe the truth was clear.

Or maybe you haven’t been doing much acting?

He wanted to strangle that little voice in his head. It had no business popping up on a night like this and making him wonder if he’d been an idiot for the last twenty-five years.

“You’re going to marry that girl. Mark my words.” Mrs. Saunders tapped him on the arm with each of her last three words, a grin playing across her normally severe lips. “And you’ll be lucky to have her.”

Tucker cleared his throat and tried to take a steady breath. The air caught in his chest on a brief stutter, and he prayed she hadn’t heard it. He dived in just in case she had. “Oh, we’re not quite there yet, ma’am.”

Her eyes were almost transparent, her gaze sweeping over him in a single pass. “I never took you for a coward, Mr. Westbrook. Or a fool. And only a fool would let a woman like Penelope Hunter get away.”

He couldn’t help it. His gaze flew to where Winston stood on the far side of the room. Yes, that man was definitely a fool, and Tucker had always thought so. He’d never been good enough for PJ.

Then again, Tucker hadn’t been either.

The thought slipped into his mind, unbidden and thoroughly unsettling. He didn’t think about that. He refused to. Even as he remembered her squeal of joy when she’d found out she was valedictorian of their graduating class and the jig she’d performed when she got into the MBA program at Georgia. And he’d never forget the way she’d rather bury her nose in a book than go to their prom. She must have turned down several invitations, and the night just hadn’t been the same.

She was more than smart. She was educated and driven. She worked hard and followed her dreams.

If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d never felt good enough for her. There’d always been at least one voice in his life reminding him of that.

If Mrs. Saunders noticed the scowl he couldn’t contain, she didn’t mention it. “I like Miss Hunter. She’s sweet and funny, and her peach tarts always sell out at the church bazaar.”

Tucker laughed. “Yes, ma’am. They do.” Not that he’d ever had to buy one. He got to sample the “misfits.” The misshapen, overdone, slightly crispy ones that didn’t make the cut. But they tasted just as good to him.

They were also the only thing PJ had mastered in the kitchen. Not that he was going to reveal that little secret to the woman singing her praises.

“Last fall I was in the hospital. Did you know that?”

“No, ma’am.” He shook his head slowly, not sure where this was leading but certain he wanted to see it through.

“Pneumonia. Terrible thing. And my granddaughter Minnie stayed with me for nearly a week. Until Penelope showed up.”

PJ? His Penelope?

“She stayed with me so Minnie could get some rest. I never sleep well in a hospital, and I don’t mind saying, I don’t like being there alone. Penelope sat by my bed and read to me. Jane Austen and Agatha Christie. And often from the Scriptures. She told me stories and even snuck in my favorite cinnamon rolls. My doctor was none too happy, but I’m certain they were part of what cured me.”

“Huh.” He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. That sounded like PJ.

“I like investing in smart people, especially ones smart enough to recognize Miss Hunter’s worth.” Mrs. Saunders tapped him on the arm again, but this time a blue check was tucked between her fingers. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took the check and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. With a smile he nodded at her. “I suppose I should go ask Penelope to dance.”

Her grin barely lifted the corners of her mouth, but her eyes twinkled. “That’s a very wise move, young man.”