She bent forward and undid the strap on her other shoe. “It was my wedding day. The shoes were special.”
“It’s a strange phenomenon,” he said quietly, “the focus on the details surrounding a wedding. Seems to me the only important part is a man and woman committed to loving each other for the rest of their lives.”
Emotion clogged her throat. “Yes, well... Trevor and I love each other. We’ve been friends forever. Everyone knows it.”
Griffin raised a thick brow. “Then what are you doing here?”
A car door slammed, saving her from answering.
“My family,” she whispered, glancing around wildly like she could find a place to hide. A ridiculous idea, because there was no hiding from what she’d done today. Not in Stonecreek.
“I’ll go out the back, then circle around to get my car.” Griffin was already moving toward the hallway leading to the kitchen. “No one is going to want me here for this.”
I do, Maggie wanted to tell him, although she couldn’t figure out why. Griffin was nothing to her.
“Are you staying in town long?” she blurted, using the arm of the sofa to lever herself to standing. She needed to be on her own two feet—or at least the one that wasn’t screaming in pain—to face her grandmother.
Griffin looked over his shoulder, raking a hand through his already-tousled hair. The air between them sparked, his gaze going dark as Maggie sucked in a breath.
“Put some ice on that ankle,” he said instead of answering, then disappeared down the hall.
A moment later the front door burst open and various members of her family flooded through.
“Are you okay?” her father asked, tugging at his black bow tie.
“Are you crazy?” Vivian Spencer, Maggie’s grandmother, asked, pushing past her son. “You can’t call off the wedding, Mary Margaret. It isn’t done.”
“She just did.” Maggie’s sister, Morgan, followed Grammy into the house, picked up a cardboard box from a wingback chair and then sat down.
“No sass from you,” Vivian scolded, wagging a finger at Morgan.
Sixteen-year-old Morgan, the picture of teenage petulance, responded with an eye roll and a dismissive sigh. Grammy’s eyes narrowed, although her angry gaze returned to Maggie.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, looking at each of her family members.
Her fourteen-year-old brother, Ben, shrugged out of his rented tux jacket. “You should have seen how bad people were freaking out,” he told her, his eyes going wide. “Trevor’s mom looked like she wanted to shank someone.”
“Definitely me,” Maggie muttered.
“Jana Stone wasn’t going to shank anyone,” their father said. “Naturally, she’s upset and confused.” He glanced toward Maggie and then away. “We all are.”
Ben didn’t look convinced. “If someone handed her a rusty knife, she would have gutted Maggie like—”
“Not helping, Ben.” Jim Spencer leveled a glare at his teenage son.
Undeterred by the gruesome talk, Vivian moved toward Maggie until they were inches apart. Grammy barely reached Maggie’s chin and she’d proudly been a size-two petite for as long as anyone could remember. Her hair was teased into a silver pouf, and she wore a rose-hued coat and matching crepe dress that made her look like she took fashion advice from the Queen of England.
Her diminutive stature belied the fierceness of her spirit. Maggie’s grandmother was more than the family matriarch. She was the backbone of the Spencer clan, still with a hand in actively managing most of the family’s business holdings in town and the land they owned throughout the valley.
The Spencers, along with the Stones, had founded Stonecreek in the mid-1800s. It still grated on the nerves of various relatives, Grammy included, that the town had officially been named Stonecreek instead of the planned Spencerville.
The Stones claimed that founders Jonathan Spencer and Charles Stone flipped a coin for naming rights. According to Spencer family lore, Charles got Jonathan drunk, then sneaked out to file the town’s name in the early-morning hours while his friend slept off a night of whiskey and women.
That spark lit the fuse on the Hatfield-and-McCoy-esque rivalry between the two families. The friction had ebbed and flowed over the decades until settling into a civil, if awkward, truce.
Recently, the animosity had heated up again. The Spencers had been the more successful family for years, owning most of the businesses in town, as well as much of the land in the surrounding area. But Griffin and Trevor’s father took over the struggling family farm when the boys were still in diapers. Dave Stone began growing grapes in the volcanic soil and within a decade had turned the vineyard into one of the leading producers of pinot noir varietals in the lush Willamette Valley.
Suddenly, power shifted, and the rural farming family began to assert its muscle in ways the Spencers didn’t appreciate. The power play was subtler these days, with deals over dinner and drinks more than fistfights at town meetings. It had been Vivian who’d pushed Maggie to view Trevor as something more than a platonic friend.
Both of them had gone away to college, then returned to Stonecreek to work with their respective families. It had been easy to ramp up the childhood friendship to a more intimate level.
They’d dated for three years, and Trevor had been at her side when she’d won her first mayoral election, becoming the youngest person to hold that office in the town’s history.
If you asked her grandmother, it was the two families’ combined support that had propelled Maggie, relatively inexperienced in politics, to victory in the election. But Trevor had made her feel like she’d won on her own merit, and remained quite possibly the only person in either of their families who believed it.
He’d proposed last Christmas. Of course, Maggie had said yes. So what if their relationship was more of a comfortable partnership than romantic or exciting? She didn’t need excitement and believed Trevor felt the same. Oh, how wrong she’d been.
“You embarrassed me today,” her grandmother said, pale blue eyes flaring with temper, “and brought shame to the Spencer name.”
Maggie swallowed and purposely put weight on her right foot, focusing on the physical pain instead of the emotional sting of her grammy’s words.
“Mom.” Maggie’s father let out an exasperated sigh. “Let her explain.”
“Can you explain yourself, Mary Margaret?”
“I changed my mind,” she whispered, her gaze trained on the corsage pinned just below the collar of her grandmother’s dress. “Trevor and I realized we don’t love each other in the way two people who are getting married should.” She couldn’t look Grammy in the eye as the half-truths spilled from her mouth.
Not complete lies. She went into the wedding with a bone-deep understanding that her marriage to Trevor had more to do with
