Husband for Hire by Susan Wiggs

Jackson, so you’ll have to fly there, but that won’t be a problem. We’ve already reserved seats on the commuter flight and we’ve booked the accommodations.”
    “But you just…bought me,” he objected, feeling suspicious.
    “Oh, dear, there was never any question that you would be the one. We read all about you in the catalog,” said Mrs. Spinelli. “She picked you out right away. I think it was that Armani tux.”
    “No, the rose,” Mrs. Duckworth said. “The single red rose he was holding, Sugar. Don’t you think that was what pushed her over the edge?”
    Lauren, he thought, hope soaring. Lauren had set this up as some sort of weird practical joke. She had been the one who insisted on the tux and the rose for his catalog picture. She knew Mrs. Spinelli. She was having fun with him, putting these ladies up to this.
    “Now, there’s something we should clarify right off.” Mrs. Spinelli aimed a stern look at him. “This is important. You have to pretend to be engaged.”
    Rob laughed. It really was Lauren, then. Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent about marriage as he thought she was. Maybe she wanted to move their relationship to the next level. “Engaged, huh?”
    “Oh, certainly.”
    Enough of the dancing around. “All right, so Lauren put you up to this.”
    The ladies exchanged a glance. Mrs. Duckworth scowled. “We don’t know anything about anyone called Lauren. We have no idea what you are talking about.”
    Something told him they weren’t pulling his leg. Did they really mean to send him off to some stranger’s high school reunion?
    He studied their guileless, church-lady faces. Damn straight they did.
    “Sorry, ladies. I don’t think that’s part of the deal. This was supposed to be a date, not a deception.”
    “Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Mrs. Duckworth said in a scolding voice. “You never were any fun as a third-grader. I still remember how you used to hide in the cloakroom during make-believe time.”
    “This date’s all arranged,” Mrs. Spinelli added, sounding miffed.
    “I don’t think it would work out, ma’am.” He hadn’t meant to call her ma’am, just as he hadn’t meant to call Twyla ma’am earlier. It simply slipped out. It was odd, but he felt comfortable and at home with these well-meaning but wrongheaded little old ladies. He didn’t want to feel at home with them, didn’t want to feel the quiet, cozy unity of this small town. The friendly atmosphere of Lightning Creek had nothing to do with the life he had planned out for himself. The sooner he got back to Denver, the better.
    “Look,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. “I’ll write you a check to cover what you spent today, and we’ll call things even.”
    The older ladies sputtered in protest. As he was looking for a pen, he saw Twyla McCabe coming toward him, the folded quilt draped over her arm. “Good news,” she said, holding it out.
    “Yeah? I could use some.”
    “We just did the draw, and you won.”
    So the day wasn’t a total loss. At least he had the quilt to show for it. “Thanks, Twyla.”
    “You know each other already?” Mrs. Spinelli asked, clasping her hands. “Why, that’s perfect. Just perfect.”
    Rob narrowed his eyes. These ladies might look like Betty Crocker, but they sure as hell weren’t all sugar and spice. “What’s perfect?”
    “That you know each other.” Mrs. Duckworth spoke slowly and clearly in her teacher voice. “You can get started right away with your plans.”
    Rob stared at Twyla McCabe. The silky red hair. Big, soft eyes. Light dusting of freckles. A weary, workaday prettiness and a knockout figure to die for. Everything about her screamed small-town girl.
    “It’s you then,” he said in amazement. “It’s your reunion.”
    “Twyla’s ten-year reunion,” Mrs. Duckworth proclaimed. “You two are going to have such a marvelous weekend.”
    “That’s the other thing I came to talk about,” Twyla said, clearly