She rubbed her palms on her pants, then fisted her hands so that her nails dug into her flesh. The sensation was a touchstone to help get her mind off the absurd possibility that there had been a double meaning in what Miles had said.
You know there was. It was as palpable as her rapid heartbeat.
It was the way he’d said it, and despite the little voice inside her head that warned that she was playing with fire, that now of all times was not the time to get distracted by physical attraction. Because she was already preoccupied with the possibility of moving back to St. Michel—and she’d told him her secret even before she’d told her best friends and co-workers …
Still, despite good sense and propriety, she heard herself saying to him, “You want to see more of me? Is that strictly professional … or personal?”
“Both,” he said.
Celebration’s Bride
Nancy Robards Thompson
Award-winning author NANCY ROBARDS THOMPSON is a sister, wife and mother who has lived the majority of her life south of the Mason-Dixon line. As the oldest sibling, she reveled in her ability to make her brother laugh at inappropriate moments, and she soon learned she could get away with it by proclaiming, “What? I wasn’t doing anything.” It’s no wonder that upon graduating from college with a degree in journalism, she discovered that reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Since she hung up her press pass to write novels full-time, critics have deemed her books “funny, smart and observant.” She loves chocolate, champagne, cats and art (though not necessarily in that order). When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, hiking and doing yoga.
This book is dedicated to Gail Chasan for all you do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT:
Special thanks to Caroline Phipps for her continued help with all things army-related.
Contents
Prologue
“Did you tell anyone you were coming to St. Michel?” Maya LeBlanc asked.
As she watched Sydney James shake her head, she wondered how such a smart, capable, beautiful woman could be so clueless about everything that was good and right for herself.
“Nobody in Celebration, Texas, knows I’m here,” Sydney said. Her British accent sounded so crisp and proper. “I don’t want to say anything until I know whether or not I have the position. There is no sense in getting everyone up in arms if I’m not chosen for the job.”
Sydney shrugged.
Maya sensed hesitancy in the usually self-possessed woman.
“So this is not what you want, then?” Maya asked as she stirred the pot of drinking chocolate she was preparing for the two of them.
Sydney did a double take. Her narrowed gaze flitted from Maya’s face to the copper pot of chocolate, then back to Maya.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said. “Of course I would love a cup of chocolate, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Maya put her free hand on her hip and studied Sydney. “I’m talking about the job interview. You’ve made the process so clandestine. I don’t understand why you’re keeping it from everyone who cares about you. If moving back to St. Michel will truly make you happy, then it shouldn’t be such a secret.”
Maya watched Sydney’s body language intently as the woman studied her hands, shifting from one Ferragamo-clad foot to the other. She swallowed hard before she cleared her throat.
“It’s time for me to leave Texas,” she said. “It’s time to move on. That’s all.”
Right. Maya’s friend sounded as excited as a woman who was marching to her death.
“Why couldn’t you tell A.J., Pepper and Caroline?” Maya asked. “Your friends would be happy for you. They wouldn’t hold you back if this were truly your path. Unless you don’t really want to leave?”
Sydney didn’t answer.
Maya averted her gaze to the bubbles in the chocolate and quickened the pace with which she stirred. She grabbed a pinch of cinnamon and dropped it into the pot. Its coppery, sienna color stood out against the dark, rich brown of the chocolate, forming a rough design that made Maya do a double take.
Interesting…
She watched the image shift as the liquid boiled. She never knew when or how the sign would present itself. Sometimes the message came on the wind, other times—like now—it registered itself randomly, as it seemed to be doing in the chocolate. There was no way to predict it. But when it turned up it was unmistakable.
