reading the magazine. But truth be known, she’d been staring down at the same article on backyard decorating for the past twenty minutes and hadn’t absorbed a thing.
The rest of the evening had gone like a charm. The two of them swapping humorous stories over their second bottle of complimentary Merlot. Though he’d had nothing to do with it personally, the innkeeper had been quite embarrassed by Mike’s earlier run-in with the champagne bucket and had insisted on more wine as an apology.
Mike had accepted graciously, asking if it would be too much trouble to sample a different vintage, a sweet Virginia red perhaps, as they’d already moved on to dessert.
It still struck Carrie as odd that a realtor knew so much about wine. Not that he didn’t have a right to be a connoisseur if he wanted. It was just that Carrie couldn’t help the niggling sensation that something about Mike didn’t add up.
He seemed so out of character as a realtor. And yet, if he professed that was what he did, what gave her reason to doubt him? Perhaps it was merely her own guilt seeping through. Guilt over not being completely honest with him about who she was or what she did. Though she’d informed him of the generalities, she’d very purposely ignored the particulars.
Mike seemed to like her so much, just as she was—the homespun girl from Virginia. And she, Carrie admitted truthfully, laying a palm over her fluttering heart, had been very much enjoying his down-to-earth, manly attentions. Finding out her net worth would surely change how he looked at her. And, at thirty-three, Carrie St. John had tired of being looked at as nothing more than a financial opportunity. Both of her boyfriends thus far, even the younger one in college, had seemed to sense she was going places and had wanted to latch on to her coattails. At least temporarily.
And that, probably, was why the romance had never lasted. No man had ever truly been attracted to who she was inside. No matter what her bank account said now, on the inside, Carrie was still the same simple girl who had sewn her dress from scratch in order to afford the prom.
But understanding her humble roots was not something even a nice man like Mike Davis could likely relate to. He, after all, had grown up in the lap of privilege himself. Ashton Academy cost more per year than Carrie’s full university scholarship had provided per annum.
Carrie snapped off the light and sank back into the mattress, wondering just who she thought she was fooling. Mike was simply a nice man who had taken pity on her present circumstances. And no matter how badly her heart ached to be near him, it was high time Carrie started listening to her head. They were far too different from one another—she and Mike—to ever form anything long-lasting. She might as well just lie back and enjoy the temporary ride of having him in her life as her fiancé. From the looks of her life, it was as close to the real thing as Carrie would ever get.
“Ready to go?” Mike asked, standing in her open doorway. After a quick, cordial breakfast together, they’d each headed to their separate rooms to pack up.
He looked even better this morning than Carrie’d remembered, his well-tailored slacks and sports coat over open-collared shirt accentuating his exceptionally fit form. Carrie heaved a sigh, grateful, at least, for the dynamite impression he was going to make. But in some ways, having him wow her family was going to make it that much harder to disillusion them in the end. Somehow, she’d never considered that angle. Although it was definitely far too late to go having second thoughts now.
“Having second thoughts?” Mike asked, leaning forward and picking up her suitcase.
“Not at all,” Carrie reported, fighting the fire in her cheeks. “Let’s get started.”
Mike took a cursory scan around the gravel parking area. “Your car or mine?”
Carrie cast a sideways glance at her shiny teal-blue BMW convertible.
The rest of the evening had gone like a charm. The two of them swapping humorous stories over their second bottle of complimentary Merlot. Though he’d had nothing to do with it personally, the innkeeper had been quite embarrassed by Mike’s earlier run-in with the champagne bucket and had insisted on more wine as an apology.
Mike had accepted graciously, asking if it would be too much trouble to sample a different vintage, a sweet Virginia red perhaps, as they’d already moved on to dessert.
It still struck Carrie as odd that a realtor knew so much about wine. Not that he didn’t have a right to be a connoisseur if he wanted. It was just that Carrie couldn’t help the niggling sensation that something about Mike didn’t add up.
He seemed so out of character as a realtor. And yet, if he professed that was what he did, what gave her reason to doubt him? Perhaps it was merely her own guilt seeping through. Guilt over not being completely honest with him about who she was or what she did. Though she’d informed him of the generalities, she’d very purposely ignored the particulars.
Mike seemed to like her so much, just as she was—the homespun girl from Virginia. And she, Carrie admitted truthfully, laying a palm over her fluttering heart, had been very much enjoying his down-to-earth, manly attentions. Finding out her net worth would surely change how he looked at her. And, at thirty-three, Carrie St. John had tired of being looked at as nothing more than a financial opportunity. Both of her boyfriends thus far, even the younger one in college, had seemed to sense she was going places and had wanted to latch on to her coattails. At least temporarily.
And that, probably, was why the romance had never lasted. No man had ever truly been attracted to who she was inside. No matter what her bank account said now, on the inside, Carrie was still the same simple girl who had sewn her dress from scratch in order to afford the prom.
But understanding her humble roots was not something even a nice man like Mike Davis could likely relate to. He, after all, had grown up in the lap of privilege himself. Ashton Academy cost more per year than Carrie’s full university scholarship had provided per annum.
Carrie snapped off the light and sank back into the mattress, wondering just who she thought she was fooling. Mike was simply a nice man who had taken pity on her present circumstances. And no matter how badly her heart ached to be near him, it was high time Carrie started listening to her head. They were far too different from one another—she and Mike—to ever form anything long-lasting. She might as well just lie back and enjoy the temporary ride of having him in her life as her fiancé. From the looks of her life, it was as close to the real thing as Carrie would ever get.
“Ready to go?” Mike asked, standing in her open doorway. After a quick, cordial breakfast together, they’d each headed to their separate rooms to pack up.
He looked even better this morning than Carrie’d remembered, his well-tailored slacks and sports coat over open-collared shirt accentuating his exceptionally fit form. Carrie heaved a sigh, grateful, at least, for the dynamite impression he was going to make. But in some ways, having him wow her family was going to make it that much harder to disillusion them in the end. Somehow, she’d never considered that angle. Although it was definitely far too late to go having second thoughts now.
“Having second thoughts?” Mike asked, leaning forward and picking up her suitcase.
“Not at all,” Carrie reported, fighting the fire in her cheeks. “Let’s get started.”
Mike took a cursory scan around the gravel parking area. “Your car or mine?”
Carrie cast a sideways glance at her shiny teal-blue BMW convertible.
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