Bargaining with the Bride: Honeybrook Love, Inc., #1

By Allison Gatta

Love was never an exact science… 

Rachael Ford’s world is collapsing around her. Not only has her fiancé run off with his in-home care nurse, but her wedding to said low-life is only one month away. Since she’d rather swallow a box full of nails than live up to her family nickname of “Wreck-it Rachael,” she’ll have to find someone to convince her parents she’s no longer the same flakey girl she used to be or run back home with her tail between her legs. 

…but there’s no denying their chemistry. 

Garret Adams can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong with his dating algorithm. He’s tried everything to make sure his company, Organic Chemistry, is the leader in matchmaking, but there’s no denying something is missing. So, when his right-hand employee threatens to leave after her botched engagement, he offers to help her out. He’ll go through with her sham marriage if and only if she agrees to be his science project. The only problem? 

Their attraction is one variable he hadn’t accounted for. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Write Conclusion LLC.
• Release date: Apr 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507058138

Book preview

One

It was the first time Rachael Ford had come home early in a year, and still her head was reeling with all the numbers she’d have to crunch in the morning. Not that there was any way around it. Ever since her coworkers had found out about her upcoming nuptials, she couldn’t use her office like the oasis it was supposed to be, and now she had almost nowhere to hide.

Add to that the fact that the programs had finally come in from the printers, and she was beyond done with wedding planning. She kicked the box beside the coffee table, her stomach sinking at the thought of her name strung together with Lance’s in the curly cue font.

Linked. For eternity.

The very idea made her heart play dead in her chest.

With a deep breath, she realized a drink would be in order before she told him about the programs. After all, it was a quarter past noon. A half of a glass of wine was acceptable in Europe—hell, encouraged, even. And, okay, Connecticut wasn’t exactly Europe, but that still kind of counted, right? It wasn’t like she lived in Pennsylvania anymore, and when in Rome...

She uncorked a bottle of her favorite, too-sweet red and poured a glass to the halfway mark. Perfect. Just the littlest bit to take the edge off. Enough to let the sharp urge to vomit fade at the very least, anyway.

Using the corkscrew in her hand, she slit the top of the box of programs and grasped the creamy card stock, tracing the raised edges of her name and then Lance’s, as she read over the words.

---

Two Hearts Become One

On this day, the wedding of

Rachael Antoinette Ford and Lance Patrick Hatchback

May the twentieth, two thousand and fifteen

Beheld at

Saint Gabriel of the Sorrowful Mother

---

In one month, she would be Rachael Ford-Hatchback. Seriously. The name was like lemon in an open wound that already had sand and salt rubbed into it. She closed her eyes and swigged her wine, reminding herself that this would all work out. Somehow.

Because, really, what choice did she have?

If she canceled, her mother’s non-stop insistence that nobody would want a workaholic spinster would flare up again—this time with even more gusto than before. She’d go on and on about how Rachael had been so close to tying the knot, and how she didn’t understand where she’d gone so wrong, raising two daughters who both apparently had no interest in giving her grandchildren one day.

And then, because Rachael was the oldest, it would inevitably become her fault that her sister wasn’t married either—because, to her mother, setting a good example was apparently the only way to get anybody to do anything.

As for her father…her head spun with numbers again, but this time it was the cost of the wedding, the image of her father’s face as he pushed a pile of receipts toward her.

Which, of course, also wasn’t her fault.

She hadn’t wanted to do anything at all. If she was going to be forced into this thing, she wanted it to be quick and almost painless—a little ceremony at the courthouse. But, of course, mother wouldn’t allow that either. She wanted to meet the mysterious man her daughter had been seeing but never discussed, wanted to show off to everyone that she was actually, finally a success of a mother for raising a daughter that someone deemed fit to marry.

Except, of course, her mother didn’t know that wasn’t too much of an accomplishment if that person was Lance.

Lance…

No, she wasn’t willing to think about all that right now. This was her day off and she was going to enjoy it.

She tossed the program onto the coffee table and then leaned back into her couch with a deep sigh. Tilting her head, she stared at her wine glass. Was it her imagination, or did that tiny splash of liquid look lonely? Maybe a full glass wouldn’t be so bad. After all, what was the point in skipping half a day of work if she didn’t get to relax?

She started to add wine to the glass, but stopped midway when she heard a gentle thud—once, then louder.

Shit.

Lance must have fallen out of his bed again. As if it was ever cause for alarm anymore. The first few times had been scary, sure, but now it was an eye-roll worthy offense. He’d probably been reaching for his remote control or he’d been masturbating a little too furiously for his bed to handle and he’d rolled off in the struggle. One or the other.

Rachael had begged him time and again to let the nurse handle it, that’s all she was there to do. Take care of him on the bad days when he couldn’t get around the way he had when they’d started dating. But he was so stubborn, refusing to listen to Rachael’s advice, or really anything she had to say in general.

She didn’t bother to set the glass down as she made her way to the back of the house.

His room was just off the kitchen, a special addition they’d added when they moved to be nearer his parents. Ultimately, it had been a futile move since the pair refused to see their son and still hadn’t RSVP’d to the wedding, but she believed it had been the right decision. After all the years of throwing money at the problem—special clinics, experimental drugs, private care—she’d thought being near family might have helped him. Anything, anything for him to get better.

And to give her a way out.

But nothing had worked. At least after moving, they could live separate lives, even if his life still required her constant care. Or her listening to his rants about politics. Or catching him doing something else awful.

No matter what the case, though, she was sure he preferred their distance. After all, he had before he’d gotten sick. Back then, he’d told her he was big into charity, even going as far as traveling across the world to give to the needy. In all of her college naiveté, she’d believed him.

It wasn’t until they’d been together for a year that she’d learned the truth—that his version of giving to the needy half a world away was sitting in a strip club in Brazil, stuffing his father’s tuition check down someone’s G-string.

After she’d gotten to the bottom of his deceit, she had decided to end things. Enough was enough, and when he got home from Vietnam (which was apparently code for The Bahamas) she was going to tell him as much.

Or, at least, that had been her plan.

When he finally graced her with his presence, he beat her to the chase with news of his own. He was sick with god only knew what—a souvenir from his many adventures abroad. She’d still come clean with him, told him she knew the real truth, but he’d apparently seen that day coming.

What will people say? he’d asked. "When you tell them you left your dying boyfriend? What will your parents say when you bail yet again? Are you so cold hearted that you’d do that to me?"

She wasn’t, but apparently he was cold enough to take advantage of it.

So she’d been dumb enough to let him.

And though her bags were packed and waiting by the door, she’d used them to ship out to Connecticut. From that moment on, every time she looked at those bags, her fingers twitched to unzip them and throw everything she owned into an escape pod.

Somehow, every time she was on the edge of leaving forever and losing the energy to care what people would say about it, he’d fall out of his bed, or he’d need a sponge bath. Or worse yet, her mother would call and remind her of exactly what a disappointment she was.

It was always something.

Something to prove she couldn’t leave him here, sick, and alone. That would be all too cold, even if it was only a tenth of what he deserved.

So here she was, two years later. Stuck. Engaged to a man she hated if only to ensure that his healthcare expenses didn’t continue to drain every last penny she had. As much as she’d tried to convince herself that things would change, they were the same from day one. Even confined to one room, one way or another, he found a way to be completely unavailable, and that was the only way he would ever be dependable.

She shook her head, clearing the dark cloud of thoughts that always fogged her mind, and approached Lance’s room. The thuds were louder still and even more rapid.

Was the equipment broken? Was he trying to get the nurse’s attention? And where was the freaking nurse? A thousand bucks a week, and this was what Rachael got for it?

She made a mental note to call the agency before rushing in, not bothering to knock before banging the door against the wall.

But the door wasn’t the only thing banging against the wall.

Her breath caught as she tried to take it in. So, he could walk.

What a fucking miracle.

In fact, he could stand so well that he had the redheaded nurse pinned against the wall beside his bed. Rachael wasn’t sure what affronted her more—the fact that her fiancé was still mid-nurse when he turned to look at her, or that he was wearing the nurse’s white cotton uniform and a pair of red heels while he was doing the deed.

Rachie, he said. Still inside the nurse. Did he not at least have the decency to unsheathe himself?

Feeling better? she asked. The words tasted bitter in her mouth, sticking to her cheeks and resting there while the remainder of her effort focused on not leaping across the room and strangling him.

This isn’t what it looks like. He finally slid out of the nurse, unbuttoned, and then dropped the uniform to the ground, turning to face her full on. Apparently, surprise made him flaccid. Not that there had ever been a big difference between the two states of wiener-hood for him.

It looks like physical therapy. Am I paying you overtime? She craned her neck to talk to the woman who was rushing to collect her clothing from the ground. At least the redhead had the decency not to look up.

Leave her alone, he demanded.

Rachael let out a short laugh, stunned that he had the balls to come at her, now. Because she’s an innocent victim? Tell me, how long have you been disease-free?

I think I should be leaving, a mousy whisper came from the woman cowering by the bedside, fastening the last of her buttons.

Oh, good idea. You should probably head to the dry cleaner’s, Rachael replied.

The dry cleaners? The woman knitted her brow as she attempted to side-step Rachael on her way out the door. It was the perfect chance. Rachael tossed the entire contents of her wine glass onto the front of Nurse Betty’s white uniform, and the blood-red liquid dripped from the hem onto her bare legs.

I hear wine stains are pretty tough to get out, Rachael said.

The woman was smarter than Rachael thought, though, because she didn’t bother to fight back before she left, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.

That wasn’t really necessary, Rachie. Lance’s pants were back on, at least. One less thing to remind her of what had just happened. Though the wine stain on the rug would be a bitch to deal with later.

I think you’re not really in a position to lecture me. She placed her fists on her hips and stared him down, waiting for the groveling. The please don’t leave that she would expect of any normal person who had been found boning the nurse their fiancé had been paying for.

But she’d forgotten that Lance was an anomaly of human, the missing link. The ass-hole-asaurus.

I wouldn’t have needed to do that if you didn’t work so much, he settled back onto his sick bed, hooking himself back up to the multitudes of beeping machines that surrounded him. He sighed and reached for the remote, as if he’d settled the whole situation. As if he couldn’t see the steam that was practically pouring from her ears and the heat rushing to her face.

"You mean if I didn’t work so much to cover your medical expenses? Because you can’t work? Even though you’re a freelance editor? And let’s forget about your naughty nurse for a minute. Why don’t you go ahead and explain to me how the hell you can suddenly get out of bed? Not only that, did you take some kind of super drug so you can finally muster the energy to fuck somebody?"

Do you really think there’s a need for language like that? He wore his go-to holier-than-thou simper, his long nose wrinkled as if he’d smelled his bedpan. The worst part was that he hadn’t even bothered to look at her. He just flipped through the channels, finally settling on The Young and the Restless. Can we discuss this when you’re a little more rational? My show is on.

"Your show is on?" Her voice had roared like a volcano before, but now it was an ant in the middle of a giant field. Quiet. Almost unnoticeable.

Yeah, the evil twin just killed her sister, so, you know, it’s pretty important.

Fire erupted in her stomach and she leapt like a hyena onto his bed, ripping the remote from his hand before throwing it into the TV, shattering the glass with satisfying force.

He jerked forward, but she held him down, staring at him until he finally met her gaze.

"Listen to me. You’re going to explain how you’re magically healed. Or I can get my lawyer to have you explain it to a jury."

Will you at least get off of me?

No.

He sighed. I don’t really think this is appropriate.

She lifted him off the bed and slammed his shoulders into the bedpost with a