The Sometime Bride

said, shaking his head. “Please don’t tell me that!”
    “That you’re nice? Why ever on earth not?”
    Mike coughed and picked up his beer. “Let’s just say that the only woman who’s ever called me nice and is still talking to me is my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Rich.”
    “Let me guess,” Carrie said, narrowing her eyes. “Alexia said you were too nice for her.”
    “Bingo,” Mike said, setting down his empty beer. “Ditto that, Carol. And Marianne, and Barbara…”
    “My, my,” Carrie said, pursing her lips. “You do have quite a reputation, don’t you?”
    “As the perpetual bachelor, yes,” he said with a frown.
    “But that’s a reputation most men would savor.”
    “Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not most men.”
    Oh, she’d noticed all right. Noticed in a heartbeat. “So what exactly is it that you’re after, nice-guy Mike Davis?” she asked with a teasing smile. “If it’s not your personal freedom, like most men.”
    “I’ve had my personal freedom,” he assured her. “So much of it, I’m practically drowning in it. But to answer your question—”
    “Honestly,” she said, laying her napkin on the table, “all kidding aside.”
    “Honestly? Don’t you think it’s a bit risky to be asking honesty of a man you met less than a day ago?”
    “No more risky than taking him home to meet my grandmother.”
    Mike gave her a broad, sweeping smile that settled into an affectionate grin. “Ah Carrie, you’re really very sweet.”
    “Now, don’t go calling me sweet—”
    Mike chortled. “Let me guess? Something like my Mr. Nice Guy?”
    Carrie felt the heat envelope her at the thought of being read so easily. But he could read her easily, this man she scarcely knew. Or perhaps it was simply because the two of them were in the same boat that he happened to know exactly what she was feeling, precisely when she was feeling it.
    “Okay,” Mike continued, “to answer your question—honestly. What I’m after is probably not so different from what you are. A stable relationship, a home. Kids, maybe.”
    “A white picket fence?” she asked, feeling the renewed heat in her cheeks.
    “Sure, why not? If you can get one of those in the Caymans,” he added with a grin.
    Carrie’s heart fell a million miles. What on earth had she been thinking? Kidding herself about a potential relationship with someone she’d met in such a haphazard manner? Hoping against hope that taking him home as the man of her dreams would somehow convert him to that before her very eyes? Come on, now, Carrie, wake up—and join the twenty-first century!
    Besides, the man was already making plans to move to the Caymans. More than a stone’s throw from Virginia. This little charade between them involving her shower and his reunion next weekend was all she had. And Carrie St. John and her woebegone heart would do very well to remember that.

    Mike took a running dive into the crystal clear waters of the pool, thinking that things weren’t going quite as swimmingly with Carrie St. John as he’d planned. He was glad she’d agreed to go to his reunion. More than glad—ecstatic, actually—that a stunning woman like her would help him save face with his friends. And he didn’t mind stepping into Wilson’s shoes for her bridal shower one bit. What bothered him was the make-believe element to their whole affair. It was definitely a screwy way to begin a relationship. Non-relationship, he reminded himself, as per Carrie’s instructions.
    For anybody else, it would have been the perfect setup. He’d make out like a bandit at his high school reunion—no strings attached. But, for Mike, who felt an inexplicable yearning to stay by Carrie’s side in a much more than fraternal fashion, the whole picture rotted—big-time.
    Plus, it really seemed like an unfair trade. Carrie’s shower, after all, was only a mere couple of hours out of one afternoon. His reunion, on the other hand, was an entire weekend-long extravaganza. Of course, he hadn’t quite told her that—yet. But he would. Just not until after she’d been sufficiently impressed with the way he’d wowed her family and friends. Then, she’d feel beholden — at least in some small way — and would still agree to come to his rescue. Even if it involved a fancy dinner and a Sunday afternoon picnic.
    Yeesh! This was where having gone to a private school most definitely paid. Nothing that Ashton Academy did was anything less than