Marrying Mr. English: The English Brothers #7 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 11)
Read Marrying Mr. English: The English Brothers #7 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 11) Online
Authors: Katy Regnery
MARRYING MR. ENGLISH
The English Brothers #7
Katy Regnery
MARRYING MR. ENGLISH
Copyright
© 2015 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery
Sale of the electronic edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.
Katharine Gilliam Regnery, publisher
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com
First Edition: December 2015
Katy Regnery
Marrying Mr. English, a novel / by Katy Regnery – 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-09909-003-9-9
For my own mother and father, who have a
breathtaking love story of their own.
I love you.
And for Henry.
Because he asked.
And because I love him tons.
“Once upon a time . . .
Vail, Colorado
December 1981
“C’mon, Ellie,” pleaded Eve Marie. “They’re, like, rich.”
“They’re
all
rich,” said Eleanora Watters, hustling into the kitchen of Auntie Rose’s Breakfast-All-Day Chalet with an armload of dirty plates.
Eve Marie followed her through the swinging door.
“But they seem
ni-i-i-ice
,” she whined.
“They
all
seem nice,” said Eleanora over her shoulder, nodding at Manny as he took the dirty dishes and winked at her.
“But these two really
are
.”
Eleanora turned to face her younger cousin, pushing a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear and planting her fists on her hips. “Like the last ones? And the ones before them?”
Eve Marie had the decency to look embarrassed.
“When are you going to learn, Evie? They’re all rats. Rich, old, entitled, grabby rats. They come to Vail looking for a young waitress or hotel maid to warm up their bed for a week, and once they’ve had their fun, they leave. Do you know
who
they leave?”
“Us,” said Eve Marie dolefully.
“Us,” confirmed Eleanora. “And are we harlots to be thusly used?”
Eve Marie screwed up her face in confusion.
Eleanora rolled her eyes, rephrasing, “Are we hos, cuz?”
“No,” said Eve Marie, though there wasn’t much conviction in her voice.
“No, we are not,” said Eleanora crisply. “We deserve better than that, Evie.”
Images of home flashed through her mind at lightning speed before she could stop them:
her father’s grubby double-wide, choked by a rusty chain-link fence . . . the hellhole of a bar where her tips hadn’t been worth the slow death of her dreams . . . and—
she touched Evie’s cheek gently with her knuckles as a fierce burst of protectiveness flared within her—
her step-uncle’s leering eyes and filthy, grabby hands.
Eleanora dropped her hand and lifted her chin with determination. “If we keep our legs closed and our options open, we just might find it.”
She turned to the warming lights and picked up two plates of pancakes and bacon for table two before bustling through the swinging door, back into Auntie Rose’s main dining room. Designed to resemble a rustic ski lodge, the restaurant was a favorite of skiers and snowboarders who wanted to fill up on a hearty breakfast before hitting the slopes.
“Will you at least, like, say hello?” persisted Eve Marie at her cousin’s shoulder, her voice almost drowned out by John Lennon’s “(Just Like) Starting Over” blasting through the ceiling speakers
.
Eleanora ignored her cousin and plastered a smile on her face as she carefully delivered the plates to the table. “Stack of hot cakes, side of oink. Bon appétit.”
“Looks great,” said the man on the left side of the booth, reaching for her wrist. He handled her gently but firmly, looking up into her eyes. “Now how about making it delectable
by giving me your number?”
Without fighting for her imprisoned hand, Eleanora flicked her eyes over him. He was wearing a cream-colored Irish wool sweater—the type that sold in the local boutiques for hundreds of dollars—and had sunglasses in his heavily gelled hair. Vuarnet? No. Versace, she noted, glancing at the stem close to his ear. His hair was salt-and-pepper, and his eyes were lazy but hopeful as he grinned at her with what he probably believed was charm.
“My number . . . hmm.” Eleanora sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, then released it with a provocative pop. “Sure. Okay.”
He looked surprised but delighted, tightening his grip on her wrist to pull her closer. “Oh, yeah?”
“But which number?” said Eleanora, tapping her chin in thought. “So many to choose from . . .”
“Oh, I meant your—”
“—my age? It’s twenty-two. To your what? Forty-five? Or the number of years between us? Roughly twenty-three. Or my birth date maybe? Nine, three, fifty-nine. And yours? Well, I’m guessing it ends in . . . hmm . . .
thirty-six
? How about
those
numbers? Probably not what you were looking for, though. Ooo! I know! Maybe you’re one of the good ones and you’ve fallen madly in love with me and you want my ring size? It’s a six. No. Come to think of it, you don’t look like the type to buy me a ring, so how about the serial number on my father’s shotgun? It’s four, three, six, oh, oh, seven—”
“Forget it,” said the man, his face bright red as he dropped her wrist.
“Sure thing.”
“You’re a bitch,” he muttered, looking up at her with narrowed, angry eyes.
“Maybe. But I’m not a chump,” she answered, ripping the bill from her pad and placing it on the table before turning on her white Keds and heading back toward the kitchen with Eve Marie at her heels.
***
Tom English watched the sassy little waitress make her way back across the bustling dining room, chuckling softly as he admired everything from the sharp way she’d taken down that dickweed to the way her tight ass swayed back and forth under the big white bow of her pink gingham dress.
“Wow!”
Pulling his eyes away from the waitress with a stab of regret, Tom looked across the table at his companion, Van, raising his eyebrows.
“Talk about sharp nails!” said Van.
Tom chuckled again, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip of the strong brew.
Van sneered as his eyes tracked the blonde. “You couldn’t pay me enough to go out with a girl like that. I don’t care how hot she is. That guy had it right. Bitch on wheels!”
Tom’s grin faded as he placed his mug back on the table and looked up at his friend. “I don’t agree.”
Van scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Are you effing kidding me?”
Tom shifted his gaze back to the kitchen, hoping for another glimpse of her. “Nope. I thought she was fairly spectacular.”
“Fairly spectacular,” mumbled Van, grimacing as he shook his head. “Well, you’re not known for your taste in women. I hope to God she’s not the friend the cute brunette was referring to.”
Tom, on the other hand, desperately hoped she
was
because he had zero interest in the vacuous brunette, but that spitfire blonde? Oh, man. She was something different.
And he could sure use the distraction.
In just four days, Tom English was going to lose every cent of his fifteen million dollar inheritance, because his fiancée, Diantha Montgomery, of the Philadelphia Montgomerys, had run off with her ski instructor, leaving Tom high and dry the night before their wedding.
It’s not like he was heartbroken—he hadn’t been marrying Di for love. No, theirs had been an agreement, a marriage of convenience. Tom’s thirty-second birthday was in four days—on Christmas Eve—and unless he was married by the final day of his thirty-first year, his eccentric old codger of a grandfather would disown him. Tom had heard the lecture a thousand times:
A good woman makes a man honest, makes him work harder, makes him true. If you don’t have a good woman in your life by age thirty-two, you don’t deserve a cent and you won’t get a cent. I’m not letting some devil-may-care wastrel playboy squander my millions!
Diantha, more than happy to pocket a cool million in exchange for saying “I do,” had planned a lavish wedding in Vail, and they’d invited dozens of friends and family to witness the temporary nuptials. The plan was to stay married for a few months, secure Tom’s inheritance, and then get a quiet divorce and go their separate ways.
But when Di didn’t show up to her own rehearsal dinner last Friday, things didn’t look good. A tearstained note shoved under Tom’s hotel room door confirmed the rest:
Paolo and I have fallen in love and decided to elope. We’re leaving for Italy tonight. I’m so sorry, T! Love, Di
While all the guests had returned home, Tom remained in Vail with his erstwhile best man and sometime investing partner, Edison Van Nostrand, for the week that should have been Tom’s honeymoon. Time had certainly flown by with Van as their entertainment coordinator—today was Friday and Tom’s birthday was Tuesday.
He shrugged and swallowed the rest of his coffee. If he was being cut off in four days, he may as well enjoy his last few days as a “devil-may-care wastrel playboy.”
Van had asked their waitress—cute, airheaded brunette Eve Marie—to meet them at the bar of the Hotel Jerome tonight for some fun. The young waitress, checking out Van’s brand-new Rolex, snapped her gum and offered Van a sparkling smile as she promised to “do her best” to find a friend for Tom.
Van brightened suddenly, looking over Tom’s head with a lascivious grin. “Hey, angel, don’t break my friend’s heart and tell him
your
friend said no.”
Tom shifted in his chair to find Eve Marie standing behind him, wringing her hands nervously. She blew a small bubble with her gum and sucked it back quickly, snapping it between her teeth.
“Um . . . she’s not my friend; she’s my cousin.” She shifted her eyes from Van to Tom. “And she needs
you
to, like, answer a question first.”
“Me?”
The waitress nodded at Tom, her cheeks flushing. “Yeah. She’s, like, um, well . . . she needs to know your favorite book.”
Without skipping a beat, Tom asked, “Fiction or nonfiction?”
This question proved a bumpy road for Eve Marie, who froze, staring blankly at Tom.
“Which one,” he asked slowly, “do you think she wants to know?”
Eve Marie chewed once, then held up a single finger and hurried away. Tom watched her beeline to the feisty blonde (yes!), who was taking an order across the dining room. Tapping her cousin on the shoulder, Eve Marie cupped her hands around the blonde’s ear for a moment, then leaned back expectantly. A second later, she returned to Tom.
“Fiction. Ellie said fiction.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Tom chuckled softly, nodding at Eve Marie, who sighed happily, like she’d finally done something right.
“My favorite book of fiction. Hmm . . .”
Glancing around Eve Marie, who was twirling a long strand of teased hair around her index finger as she chewed her gum and eye-fucked Van, Tom looked across the dining room at—what had Eve Marie called her? Ellie?—Ellie, who still had her back to him, writing on her pad. Pocketing the pad, she held out her hand and collected the menus.
When she turned around, her eyes slammed into his, almost like she’d known he was staring at her all along. With the menus pressed against her chest, she stared back at him for a long moment, her posture straight, her blue eyes keen and bright. When her lips wobbled just a little, he realized she was trying not to smile, and he suddenly felt his own lips lift into a grin. But that broke the spell they were under, and she dropped his eyes quickly, heading for the kitchen and disappearing behind the swinging door without a second glance.
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his lungs started to burn and he exhaled with a soft puff.
“Uh, Tom?” asked Van in a low voice, utterly captivated by gum-snapping, eye-fucking Eve Marie. “A book. Name a book. For the love of God,
please
name a book.”
Ellie seemed brighter than average—she was quick with numbers and interested in books—but she looked young too, which meant she’d be impressionable. He considered lying. He thought about saying
A Clockwork Orange
(to seem edgy), or
The Catcher in the Rye
(to seem deep). But in the end, something about those clear, blue, unsmiling eyes made him feel ashamed of even considering deception, and he heard “
The Swiss Family Robinson
” fall from his lips instead.
Eve Marie winked at Van before looking down at Tom with glistening lips and a sexy smile. “Hmm?”
“Tell her my favorite novel is
The Swiss Family Robinson
, and ask her the name of her favorite poet.”
“Uh . . .,” Eve Marie stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. Be right back.”
She sauntered away toward the kitchen, and Van adjusted his pants, grimacing. “Fuck, she’s hot. How many hours is it until tonight?”
Tom looked at his watch. “About ten. But I assume you’re buying her dinner first, so more like ten and a half.”
“Fuck,” Van muttered again. “Dinner better buy some tail.”
On cue, Kenny Rogers started crooning “Lady” overhead, the lyrics
Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor and I love you
an ironic follow-up to Van’s comment.
“That’s real nice.”
Though, judging from Eve Marie’s come-hither glances, he doubted Van would have much trouble securing that tail. Him, on the other hand? He wasn’t so sure. Ellie didn’t look like a girl who put out as easily. Her appearance wasn’t contrived to seek attention—it didn’t appear that she wore makeup, and she kept her hair in a plain, tidy ponytail—and yet she was so naturally beautiful, every pair of male eyes in the room naturally gravitated toward her.