The Sometime Bride

said now, on the inside, Carrie was still the same simple girl who had sewn her dress from scratch in order to afford the prom.
    But understanding her humble roots was not something even a nice man like Mike Davis could likely relate to. He, after all, had grown up in the lap of privilege himself. Ashton Academy cost more per year than Carrie’s full university scholarship had provided per annum.
    Carrie snapped off the light and sank back into the mattress, wondering just who she thought she was fooling. Mike was simply a nice man who had taken pity on her present circumstances. And no matter how badly her heart ached to be near him, it was high time Carrie started listening to her head. They were far too different from one another—she and Mike—to ever form anything long-lasting. She might as well just lie back and enjoy the temporary ride of having him in her life as her fiancé. From the looks of her life, it was as close to the real thing as Carrie would ever get.

    “Ready to go?” Mike asked, standing in her open doorway. After a quick, cordial breakfast together, they’d each headed to their separate rooms to pack up.
    He looked even better this morning than Carrie’d remembered, his well-tailored slacks and sports coat over open-collared shirt accentuating his exceptionally fit form. Carrie heaved a sigh, grateful, at least, for the dynamite impression he was going to make. But in some ways, having him wow her family was going to make it that much harder to disillusion them in the end. Somehow, she’d never considered that angle. Although it was definitely far too late to go having second thoughts now.
    “Having second thoughts?” Mike asked, leaning forward and picking up her suitcase.
    “Not at all,” Carrie reported, fighting the fire in her cheeks. “Let’s get started.”
    Mike took a cursory scan around the gravel parking area. “Your car or mine?”
    Carrie cast a sideways glance at her shiny teal-blue BMW convertible. “Yours would be better, I think. Mine—needs work…”
    “Oh?” Mike asked. “Maybe I can take a look at it. I’m pretty handy with cars, you know.”
    As far as Carrie was concerned, Mike seemed pretty handy with just about everything. “Uh, no. Thanks, I’ll just take it to the shop when I get back.”
    “Seriously,” Mike said, dropping the bags dangling at his sides to the ground. “Might be something really simple. I’d hate to think of you spending the—”
    “Maybe when we get back,” Carrie said, tugging at his elbow. “We really can’t be late. My Grandma Russell would have a fit.”
    “Okay. Let me just put your suitcase in your car, then.”
    Carrie blew a hard breath and nervously latched on to a loose strand of hair. In all her boardroom negotiations, she’d never come across anything like this. Still, a very large part of her success had come from thinking on her feet.
    “Actually,” she said, motioning to her bag, “I’ve got some gifts in there for my aunts and grandmother. Too cumbersome to get it all out now.”
    Mike shrugged, seeming to buy that easily. “Oh, all right. I’ll just toss it in my trunk, then.”
    Mike strode over to a late-model Mustang. Ancient but meticulously restored. Candy-apple red.
    “Love the car,” Carrie said, appreciatively patting the hood as Mike laid the bags in the trunk. “She’s a real…” Carrie stopped short of saying “investment goldmine.” “…beaut. You’ve done a great job with her.”
    “Thanks,” Mike said, smiling as he came around to unlock Carrie’s door. “I guess I do pretty well at taking care of the things that are important to me.”
    Carrie swallowed hard and stepped into the car without uttering a word. Did his words really carry the weight she thought he’d intended them to? No, Carrie, she admonished herself, don’t be stupid. Get through this day, that’s all. One day at a time. She’d think about the coming weekend, and Mike’s reunion, and her miserable life afterward—tomorrow.

Chapter Eight

    Paulette Pierce held out her narrow grip. “My, my, how time improves,” she said, unabashedly looking Mike up and down. The moment they’d arrived, Carrie had been lost to a swirl of old ladies in pastel brocade, and Mike hadn’t seen her since.
    “Why thanks, Paulette,” Mike said, shifting on his feet and taking her hand. The woman was birdlike and gaunt, probably Carrie’s age, though her thinness made her appear much older. “I take that as a