Life was easier when there were no wild swings up and down. And she'd seen too vividly how passion had driven her parents to extreme displays of rage and trivial acts of revenge.
Brittney had resolved to avoid such drama at all costs. She wanted constancy and patience and serenity, and Andrew provided them in spades. He was always the same: charming, affable, and pleasant. He would bestow the contented existence she'd persistently sought, but had never found.
She was just irked sometimes—like now—when he was so preoccupied. It didn't help that he was forty and she was twenty-six. She'd convinced herself that she liked him being older and more mature, but occasionally, he treated her as if she was a young and foolish girl, as if he was her father rather than her fiancé.
When he was together with her and her mother, he had more in common with Jacquelyn than Brittney, and Brittney was still figuring out how she felt about that.
"Andrew?" She was determined to snag his attention, but he didn't answer. "Andrew!" she repeated more irritably.
"Yes, darling," he eventually said. "What is it?"
She gnashed her teeth. She hated it when he called her
darling.
It sounded so outdated and pretentious.
"You're terribly busy. I'd better let you go."
"No, no, I always have time for you." Even though he wasn't actually interested, he asked, "How are the preparations coming along?"
She'd attempted to discuss them with him once, but he'd insisted he would be fine with whatever she chose. She hadn't raised the topic again.
"I'm exhausted," she said. "It's difficult for me, being here by myself with my mother."
"I know."
"I make a decision, but she immediately counters it. My opinions don't matter."
"Would you like me to speak to her?"
"No," she scoffed. "I can deal with my own mother. I just need to vent."
And for you to listen to me.
"I'll try to join you next week," he said. "It will be easier for you if I'm there."
"Do you think we could—"
"Hold on," he interrupted. There was another exasperating pause, and when he finally returned, he hurriedly explained, "I have to go. I'll call you tonight."
He hung up before she could say goodbye.
She stared at the phone, then hit the off button.
This would be her life with him. Conversations cut short. Broken plans. Inattention. Her husband would be focused on the world and money and his lucrative ventures and everything but her.
She'd allowed herself to be caught up in the idea of marrying, but she was growing terrified that what he would bring to the union was not what she wanted.
The notion panicked her, and she refused to consider it.
It's bridal jitters
, she told herself. It was the fact that she was feeling overwhelmed and hadn't had a moment to absorb what she'd set in motion.
Wedding fever was in the air, with the Merriweather siblings tying the knot left and right.
Her brother, Lucas, had gotten married at Christmas. Her brother, Dustin, was marrying in a few days. Was that why she'd been so eager when Andrew had proposed?
She'd been given the chance to marry too, and she'd jumped at the opportunity. She couldn't change her mind, couldn't back out. She had to calm down and behave like the sensible, centered woman she was.
She took a deep breath, let it out, then proceeded to the front parlor to find her mother. As she walked down the hall and entered the foyer, her mother was out on the verandah and waving to someone in a van that was pulling out of the driveway.
"Brittney," Jacquelyn said as she came inside, "there you are."
"Who was that?"
"The caterer."
Jacquelyn went to the stairs as if she'd climb to her room.
"Where's he going? I thought we were meeting with him at one o'clock."
"We rescheduled."
"You talked to him without me?"
"Yes," Jacquelyn admitted without an ounce of shame, "and I hired him. The food will be fantastic."
Brittney was roiled by a flood of anger so potent that little red dots of fury darted through her vision. Her head was pounding so hard that she wondered if she was about to suffer a stroke.
"Mother!" she snapped like a petulant toddler.
Jacquelyn was already on the fourth step. From her higher vantage point, she glared down at Brittney like an imperious queen.
"What is it?"
"Stop this."
"Stop what?"
"Stop planning my wedding for me. I swear to God, if you don't knock it off, I'll send you home to Santa Fe, and I'll finish up without you."
Jacquelyn scoffed. "As if you could manage an event of this magnitude without my assistance."
"Don't stand there and insult me."
"I'm not insulting you. I'm simply stating the obvious. You have no skills that are relevant to this situation. I don't even know why you're here."
Jacquelyn spun away and continued climbing, and Brittney watched her until she disappeared. There were a thousand comments she might have hurled, but what was the use?
Her mother was miserably unhappy and—as far as Brittney could tell—had never enjoyed being a parent or a wife. She'd hated her husband and her children. The manner in which she'd just spoken to Brittney was how she'd always spoken to Brittney. The caustic exchange was nothing new.
Typically, Brittney ignored the truth, but for once, reality was crushing her. She might have been five years old again, hovering in her mother's shadow, yearning to be noticed. The strongest urge swept through her, the same one that had rattled her every second since Jacquelyn had arrived in Denver: to run away, to run and run and run and keep on running forever.
She turned from the stairs, and to her great embarrassment, Matthew Monroe was down the hall, audaciously leaned against the doorway to the front parlor. His arms were crossed over his chest, giving him a bored air of superiority.
He had to have heard every despicable word her mother had spewed. Brittney should have been outraged, but instead, she was extremely ashamed.
Jacquelyn's antipathy was a well-kept secret, like having an alcoholic in the family. Lucas and Dustin were tired of her antics and had quit dealing with her. Brittney was the only one who still tried, the only one foolish enough to pretend that her mother was normal and they had a normal relationship.
On realizing that the disgraceful truth had been revealed, Brittney felt stripped naked, as if she was posed in the foyer without any clothes.
For an eternity, they stared, not speaking. He assessed her, his striking blue eyes digging deep, prodding at all her old hurts and insecurities. She saw understanding in his gaze, she saw compassion and sympathy. Gad, she saw pity.
How dare he pity her!
Incensed beyond measure, she whirled away and marched outside, hurried across the wide porch and down to the sidewalk. She started walking, not sure of where she was going, but she didn't care. The blocks passed in a blur, the neighborhood gradually altering. The houses grew smaller, the traffic increased.
She didn't think about any of the issues plaguing her. Not her approaching marriage that had her so distressed. Not her fiancé who had her worrying that he wasn't the man she needed. Not her mother lurking like a black cloud back at the mansion. Not her brothers who were congregating up in the mountains for Dustin's own wedding.
She didn't know how long she continued. An hour? Two? By the time she slowed, she had no idea where she was. She was in shorts and sandals, and she had rubbed a raw blister on her heel.
Desperate to get her bearings, she halted and gaped around like a blind person.
A car rumbled up, idling at the curb, and when she glanced over, she was stunned to find a classic red Mustang and Matthew Monroe behind the wheel.
"Get in," he said. He pushed open the passenger door.
She wanted to refuse. She wanted to be bitchy and rude and tell him to go screw himself, but her burst of temper had flamed out.
She was tired and thirsty and hungry and…sad. She'd like to hop on a plane and fly to a tropical island where no one knew her, where no one expected anything from her. She'd pick a location that was hot and sunny and lay on the beach for a week. Maybe then, she'd feel better. Maybe then, she wouldn't be so out of control.
She slid into the car, and he hit the gas and took off. He had loud music playing, a bluesy band with lots of bass so it was impossible to talk, for which she was grateful. She couldn't think of a single thing to say.
He jumped onto the Interstate and headed west. Very quickly, they were out of the city and ascending into the foothills. She wondered if he had a destination in mind or if he'd simply drive and drive and they'd never return to Denver. At the moment, with her emotions in such turmoil, it was a refreshing notion.
But an exit was approaching, and he wound them onto a smaller highway. They continued for a few miles until they passed a sign for a scenic pullout. He whipped into the parking lot and shut off the motor. The spot was cool and quiet, the only sound the pinging of his motor and the wind blowing through the trees.
Denver was spread out below them, the flat prairie beyond, as if she could see all the way to Kansas.
He made her too uncomfortable, and she didn't know how to converse with him. And she certainly didn't have the energy to verbally spar. She opened her door and crawled out.
She went over to the rock wall at the edge of the lot and sat on it, staring out at the view.
For awhile, he left her alone, then she heard him climb out too, his boots crunching across the gravel. He didn't bluster up, but kept his distance, staying a good ten feet away.
She tried to ignore him, but he was so macho, so confident, so…alive. It was like being next to an elephant, and she couldn't pretend he wasn't there.
"What a great place," she murmured.
"I stumbled on it one day when I was driving around. I like to spend time here whenever I'm feeling low. It puts things in perspective."
"Do you come here very often?"
"Like I said: when I'm feeling low."
Which wasn't much of a reply.
Was he frequently despondent or distressed? What could trouble a man like him? He seemed too tough to have any worries.
"Thanks for picking me up."
"My pleasure."
"How did you know where I was?"
"I followed you. I'm supposed to keep you safe, remember?"
She snorted at that. He might be able to keep her physically safe, but the real danger was the scattered thoughts roiling in her brain. How could he protect her from those?
She was so confused about what she wanted. She'd assumed it was a wedding and marriage and what came afterward.
Marriage was such an ordinary choice. Everyone else accomplished it with ease. Why was it so difficult for
her
? She hadn't viewed herself as a person of high drama and stirring emotion, but evidently, she was.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said.
"Sure, but I won't promise that I'll answer."
"How come you put up with your mother when she treats you like that?"
"It's complicated."
"She's a royal you-know-what, pardon my French."
"She definitely is."
"You're rich, and you have credit cards and plenty of money in the bank. Why don't you bag out on her? Hop on your private jet and flit off to one of those exotic houses you own all over the world."
She scowled. "My private jet? My exotic houses? Where do you get this stuff?"
He grinned that sexy grin of his. "I was fully briefed on you before I took the assignment."
"Well, whoever trained you is an idiot."
"Which part is wrong? You're not rich? You don't own a private jet? You don't own houses all over the world?"
She rolled her eyes and glanced away. It hurt to look at him. He was so self-centered and cocky. He flustered her. He had her heart racing, and if she wasn't careful, she'd start babbling like a fool.
He came over to sit beside her, settling so near that their thighs were touching. She was facing the valley, but he was turned the other way, so he was staring directly at her.
He studied her with an attention to detail that no other man had ever exhibited toward her, and she found it thrilling. But early on, she'd learned not to let any guy get too close. They always ended up having ulterior motives—that being her fortune—with only Andrew having sufficient money of his own that she hadn't had to agonize over the sincerity of his interest.
Yet he was so busy, so distracted. He'd never gazed at her as Matt currently was.
"Why are you so sad?" he quietly asked, and it seemed as if he really wanted to know.
"I'm not sad," she insisted.
"You shouldn't lie to me. You're so bad at it."
"I'm not lying," she fibbed.