Contractually Yours

By Jennifer Griffith

The secret millionaire is back home to claim the girl who contracted to marry him.

Aircraft mechanic by day, wildly successful author by night, Cash never forgot his first love, Annabel. In fact, she is the princess character in all his bestselling sci-fi novels.

Dental assistant and former actress Annabel will do anything to protect her eccentric old inventor father—even agree to marry a man she doesn't love, the town's most-eligible bachelor.

When a work assignment sends Cash back to their hometown, he sees Annabel, and his heart knows he can't let her slip away again. Especially into the clutches of that slimy lawyer she's dating.

But how?

Cash has one ace up his sleeve—he could sue her in court. After all, she once signed a contract to marry him.

With heart-melting emotional connection, bucket-list dates like hot-air balloon rides and digging for diamonds, and the die-hard devotion of a secret millionaire, Contractually Yours keeps romantic dreams coming true.

"Wonderfully entertaining!" --Goodreads Review
"quite clever and rather hilarious." --Goodreads Review
"This book could totally be a Hallmark movie." --Goodreads Review
"a brilliant book" --Goodreads Review
"This kind of book is a gem that like a red diamond, doesn't come around very often!" --Goodreads Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stewart Plaid Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215871287

Book preview

Contractually Yours

Jennifer Griffith

Stewart Plaid Publishing

Chapter 1

Cash

Two thousand or so miles in his rear-view mirror, five miles left to go.

Cash Conway made the final turn out of the mountains and down toward the coast in Jones, his vintage truck. The email message from management played on a loop in his mind.

Cassius Conway, job site transfer alert. Reassigned to Eastwell Field at Torrey Junction HQ. Report for duty immediately.

Cash was going home. Arriving his birthday week, no less. He probably should’ve alerted Aunt Mary Kay or his cousins to his return. There might have been a welcome-home party that way.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

Really, nothing about this should feel strange. After all, he’d spent the first eighteen years of his life in Torrey Junction, smelling the salt air of the Pacific, going down to the wharf on the weekends with his family as a kid, and then later with his friends.

Except, after twelve years away, it did feel strange. Some of those wharf-going friends were still living around here. A particular friend included, one he’d be tracking down faster than a space-cruiser at light speed, or at least with the gas pedal for Jones hitting metal.

Will she remember?

The fields and forested areas gave way to a broad expanse, and the ocean view opened up before him. Ah, Torrey Junction. Quite a sight. His heart pinched. How could I have forgotten this place? Not that he’d forgotten Annabel Houston.

His gas gauge was dipping low. What a drive. How far now to his company housing at Eastwell Field? He rubbed the back of his sore neck. Jones was not built for comfort on cross-country road trips.

His phone chimed a few times in a row. That happened when he came out of canyons all along the drive toward the coast. He pulled over and checked the messages.

The first one was from Fred-the-Editor, aka, the Freditor.

Seriously, dude. Get me the manuscript. You have a pre-order up and thousands of fans chomping at the bit.

Being on a road trip as the sole driver didn’t help him finish his drafts when he was under deadline for his side-hustle. Well, if writing sci-fi novels could be considered a side-hustle anymore at this point. Last year the Captain Vartigan series written under Cash’s secret pen-name had netted him many times what his annual day-job salary paid. Aircraft mechanics did all right, too.

The Freditor’s next text was even bolder. While you’re at it, quit that day job. I need these stories faster.

No way. Cash had too good a thing going. Sure, the Vartigan Chronicles paid the bills, and then some. They’d even bought him a plane of his own. The royalties could have replaced Jones, but the truck and Cash had a history, and Cash was a man who appreciated the past.

But they were no Cadbury Prize winners.

Someday soon, Cash would write his real novel. And then he wouldn’t cower behind a penname. He’d put Cassius Conway on it bold as brass, and he’d quit Eastwell and write and tell the world. And tell Annabel. She could be proud of him then.

Or, yeah, not quite. More like be asked to resign.

No side-hustles allowed for Eastwell employees. Company policy.

Which meant he was stuck behind the Yardley Gregson penname for now, until the great idea hit him, and until the real novel came about.

Jones rolled past the first houses of town, the grand estates of the oldest families, including Houston Hall, where Annabel grew up. Lots of good memories there. The stately mansion was set back and high atop the grassy hill, with one of its shutters askew and its paint a little faded. Does she still live there? It was crazy to think that he didn’t even know where she lived these days, what she was doing, whether she was married or not.

Wherever she was, though, and whoever she was with, he knew one thing for sure: she was turning thirty, same as Cash.

Twelve years. Too long without her.

In fact, she might not even remember him.

That thought was a knife in his heart. I should have come to her sooner.

The cheery, wooden sign decorated with carved tulips proclaimed, Welcome to Torrey Junction when he hit downtown. Or what they called downtown around here. With just one or two major employers, the population didn’t reach five figures. In fact, if Eastwell Aircraft hadn’t begun its life right here, there was no way Torrey Junction would be home to an aircraft maintenance facility.

Nope, Torrey Junction mostly boasted a few seafood restaurants, a shipping dock, and a championship high school hockey team—and not much else.

At the first stoplight beside Filbert Dental, Cash reflexively signaled a right turn, when—

Hokey smoke! Was that Annabel? Cash nearly drove Jones straight into a power pole because of the figure crossing the dental office parking lot. His wheels screeched on the asphalt, and he had to swerve to keep himself out of the gutter.

Annabel! he breathed. He’d stopped smack dab in the middle of Park Drive. Annabel! he said louder, but of course she couldn’t hear him at this distance. Plus his window was rolled up.

He reached across the cracked-vinyl bench seat and with vigor rolled down the window, but she had disappeared back into the dental office, leaving a ghostly image of her curvaceous figure, her dark blond hair, and her unmistakable gorgeous face.

Restarting Jones’s engine on the third try, while ignoring the honks of traffic behind him, Cash wheeled into the parking lot, jumped from his truck and rushed to the door of the office. Annabel! he hollered a few times before he read the sign.

Closed for lunch.

Blaster-crush it! He pounded, but no one was visible through the glass. Double blaster-crush it! He’d been so close to her. Probably. Had it really been Annabel? Or was it some ghost he’d conjured up, like one of those halide trails that lured Captain Vartigan down into the belly of that Chylockian Beast?

Never mind.

Cash trudged back toward Jones. He sat in the parking lot there until his heart-rate regulated. Should he wait here until the lunch hour ended? Would she even be in that office, or had she been going as a patient?

No idea. Anyway, he’d better fuel up the truck. The warning light had come on.

At the Fuel-4-U, he pulled up next to a pump. The fumes of gasoline swirled around him, and out of habit Cash began whistling the theme song of Star Journey.

A much nicer truck pulled up on the other side of the same pump. An older man got out and started pumping gas. A second later, he peeked his head over top of the gas pump. "Star Journey? he asked. Best TV show of all time."

Right? Cash said, looking up at the guy. Older, nicely combed hair. Shirt and tie. I have pretty much every episode memorized. Maybe not something he should be proud to admit, since the general public had never embraced the show.

Complete tragedy it was canceled after two seasons. The man whistled the tune, picking up where Cash had left off, right before the chorus. Good to meet you. I can always trust a fellow fan of Admiral Tate.

Long life and prosperity. Cash tapped his heart. To you and your peoples.

With three quick clicks of the pump, the man topped off his tank and then held up his palm with two fingers pointing skyward—to the Andromeda galaxy. Long life and prosperity.

The man motored away.

Cash kept pumping gas into Jones. Should he go find Annabel now, or … No.

Might as well unpack all his belongings into his makeshift but furnished apartment for now, on the campus of the Eastwell Field facility, and either brush his teeth or pop a mint or shower or something. He’d been driving for days and was a rumpled mess.

I want to look as striking as Captain Vartigan in dress uniform when first she sees me. Not that he’d be like Captain Vartigan. Not Cash. He’d never fit that archetype’s mold. He was just plain old Cash. No ship’s captain. The mechanic, sure, maybe even the professor-like first mate, but not the captain.

The first mate never got the beautiful princess in books. Only the captain did.

An hour and a half later, one box, three boxes, eighteen boxes—mostly books—were emptied from Jones’s rusty truck bed. Everyone said digital books were better these days. Less bulk. But Cash sided with Cicero on that: a room without books was like a body without a soul.

These Spartan company quarters he was moving into would have tons of soul, if nothing else.

Hey, there. An elderly woman poked her nose inside his front door. You Mr. Conway?

He dusted his hands on his jeans. Hi. Cash Conway.

Good to know you. She shook his hand but didn’t give a name, as if everyone should know her on sight. I have a move-in contract for you, as well as a couple of info packets about the city. The old woman smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. Oh, but I forgot. You hail from here, eh?

It’s been a while, but yeah. Third generation Torrey Junction Timberwolf. You might know my aunt, Mary Kay Kaplan. And you are Mrs. …?

Mrs. Owen. She waved the contract in the air without extending it toward him. You’re having a birthday. Saw it on the paperwork. Happy birthday in a few days. Thirty, huh?

Thanks. Yeah. What else was she snooping into?

Now, can I help you unpack a few of these things? She nosed right into the kitchen table’s first box, one filled with old paperwork, and started pulling out certificates and manila folders.

Oh, brother. This was not the help he needed. Cash hustled over. It’s okay. I can work through all these. I’ll have time. He tried to take her prize away from her, but she had a death grip on it.

Hmm. Contract for marriage. This is interesting. What you got here, mister?

Marriage contract! What the—?

Very interesting. Mrs. Owen nodded, twisting aside to keep the paper out of Cash’s immediate reach. Your paperwork said you were a single man, Cash Conway.

I am, thanks. This was getting personal, and he might have to get aggressive—especially since he hadn’t seen that particular paper in far too long.

Not according to this here signed affidavit. Or whatcha-ever-call-it. Let me see. She held it up to her face closer, squinting, and Cash whisked it out of her hands, tucking it deep in the box.

Not before she’d digested some of the contents, though, apparently. Oh, what a laugh. I thought I recognized a name on there. You know Annabel Houston, I take it? Why, I guess you’d be about her age. Pretty girl. Such a crying shame about her old father, though. Such a cautionary tale, if I ever saw one embodied in a person. She clucked her tongue and shook her head.

What was wrong with Dr. Houston? Cautionary tale! Hardly. The guy was a mechanical genius. Taught Cash how to fix his first carburetor, in fact.

Mrs. Owen went for the box again.

It’s nothing. Lie. He couldn’t wait to get a look at it himself, if she’d just leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me. He tried hustling her toward the door, but her feet were nailed to the old Linoleum.

Doesn’t look like nothing. Mrs. Owen raised an accusing eyebrow. But, I’ll tell you. Annabel Houston is spoken for.

She’s married? A heat bloomed in Cash’s stomach, followed by a stabbing pain. I’m too late. I hadn’t heard.

Mrs. Owen made a sound between a giggle and a scoff. Close enough.

What was that supposed to mean? He ached to press Mrs. Owen for more information, but a weird glint in her eye shut him down. That eye-glint reminded him too much of the Urbloch ambassador Captain Vartigan had dealt with in the Prolox System—not to be trusted.

Thanks for the update. She’s an old friend. He pulled the box off the table and tucked it underneath, kicking it out of her reach. I’ll bring the completed paperwork into the office with me when I report for duty. It was nice to meet you. He showed her the door, and she finally left him, but not without a few harrumphs and indignant grumbles.

Whomp. He shut the door, and then he stubbed into the living room and slumped onto the scratchy old couch.

Oh, who was he kidding? Annabel wasn’t the type of girl who would fall for Cassius Conway. She deserved the Captain Vartigan type, not the First Mate Nyko type. Cash was First Mate Nyko incarnate—books, books, books. Not swagger or swashbuckle.

Married? No. But spoken for. What did that mean?

It means she’s not married. So she’s fair game. At least that’s what Captain Vartigan might say.

He went back into the kitchen, slid the box out from under the table, and dug through until he found the contract.

Contract to marry. The details of the event were fuzzy, but the contract announced them loud and clear. The below signed parties agree that … The gist was on their thirtieth birthdays, if they weren’t already married to other people, they’d marry each other. Signed, Cassius Conway and Annabel Houston. In ink. With witnesses Roger Dunlap and Tivoli Iverson.

Roger had drawn up the contract, and he’d even insisted that they solidify it by exchanging something of value for what he called consideration, noted in the second paragraph.

I still have that token of consideration right here. The antique Blue Russian trade bead from the Tlingit Native American tribe Annabel had given him had hand-cut facets. It had been her grandfather’s and had remained in his jeans pocket every day, and on his nightstand with his keys every night. Does Annabel still have the Italian five-lire coin from my mom’s college trip to Italy?

She wouldn’t. Not after all this time. Not if she was marrying someone else.

Who is she marrying?

Maybe it was dumb to carry that Tlingit bead with him everywhere, like a talisman, but hey. He’d never left it home, and he’d never once crashed his plane—so no one could prove it didn’t bring good luck.

Speaking of his plane, he’d better go check whether it had arrived at the hangar down-field. Would Annabel like to see his plane? Maybe go watch the setting moon in it on the morning of their thirtieth birthday? He could show her the contract, demand his rights …

Oh, maybe Mrs. Owen was right and Annabel was all set in life and didn’t need anything messed with. Worse, Annabel might not even remember he existed.

His phone rang. Cassius Conway? We just got word that you’ve arrived at Eastwell Field. Report for duty.

Cash shoved the contract down into the couch cushions, crumpling it in the middle.

Chapter 2

Annabel

W hat’s wrong with you, Miss Annabel? Miss Charity removed the box of non-latex gloves from Annabel’s hands and placed them on the stand next to the dental chair. You haven’t been right since just before lunchtime. Did you see a ghost or something?

Maybe? Or a figment of her wishful imagination. I’m fine, she lied.

Well, you don’t look fine, Miss Faith harrumphed. You look like you spent the entire morning scarfing down your entire birthday cake a few days early and put yourself into a sugar coma.

Miss Hope, Dr. Filbert’s third daughter on staff, came up and deadpanned, It’s not like you to go around in a glazed-over state. The patients are going to notice. Snap out of it already.

Snapping, Annabel said, straightening her posture. See? Snapped.

Miss Faith tsked and shook her head, walking back down the hallway to where the afternoon’s root canal patient waited for the nitrous to take effect.

As soon as the three sisters were out of sight, though, Annabel’s posture drooped again. What kind of mental delusion was she living all of a sudden? She hadn’t seen Cash Conway since they graduated from high school and left Torrey Junction for their respective trade schools—Annabel to dental assisting and Cash to flight school. It couldn’t have been Cash on Park Drive in that truck identical to Jones today.

No, Cash was probably out flying planes somewhere, not thinking of her or hallucinating that she appeared in the street or the sky near him. Just because it was her thirtieth birthday this week, and because she’d been obsessing about Cassius Conway for far too long, it didn’t mean he would actually show up now.

Just because Annabel kept her promises, it didn’t mean that everyone did.

Miss Annabel? Dr. Filbert asked. Could you please assist in room five. Judge Busby is the patient, and he asked for you specifically.

This time she did snap her posture back into place. No sense doing anything to make a patient feel impatient. Besides, Judge Busby was a friend of Dad’s, and Dad could use all the friends he could get these days.

Hello, Judge Busby, she said with her biggest smile, the one she used to reserve for onstage appearances. It’s so good to see you. How is your family?

Judge Busby normally had one of those faces that looked like he’d just tasted something putrid, but not today. Today he wore a faraway look. Right as the Intergalactic Passage when the galaxies align.

Huh? That sounded familiar. "Wait a second. Are you quoting Star Journey?"

Judge Busby sat up in his chair, nearly whacking his forehead on the dental halogen light. Annabel Houston, as I live and breathe. You are a fan of Admiral Tate and his adventures?

Mini-cringe. "Well, sort of. I used to have a friend who quoted it all the time, so I kind of feel like a tangential fan. Deep breath. I was a fan of the fan. Does that count?"

Judging from the look on the judge’s face, it didn’t quite count.

You’ll still do. He lay back down. Thanks to your dad.

Whew. At least she hadn’t blown that relationship. Unlike the one she’d messed up with Cash Conway way back when.

Dr. Filbert clomped into the room and took over the work on Judge Busby’s teeth. Annabel assisted, but her brain went into an intergalactic passage of its own.

Why couldn’t everything rewind? And worse: why was everything in her tiny little sphere of life pointing neon arrows at Cash Conway today? Not just seeing his ghost earlier, but now Judge Busby’s reference to that Star Journey show, Cash’s obsession. Not to mention every year around this time she got high-jacked by a time machine that reminded her she’d shared her birthday with Cash all through high school. They’d always gone to Claw and Fin Seafood Eatery for their free plate of fish and chips—and then to Iggy’s for their free hot fudge sundae.

I could go for a hot fudge sundae right now. These days, she might not be able to afford eating out on fish and chips on a regular basis, but she at least didn’t have to wait for the annual freebie sundae, thanks to Dr. Filbert—who she really owed, now that Dad’s employment had fallen from the prestige of the university and he only worked part-time for LEON Technic out of his laboratory in the basement.

More suction, Miss Annabel. Dr. Filbert’s voice was sharper than usual. Uh-oh, had he asked her more than once?

Sorry, sir. She corrected her aim of the little vacuum tube. Maybe Miss Charity was right and Annabel was living in some kind of ridiculous sugar coma, what with the hallucinations of Cash and the zoning out. She’d better mind her business or someone would be making unkind comparisons to Dad.

Soon, Judge Busby’s procedure was finished.

Miss Charity, Annabel said, heading for the rear exit, "I’ll just