One and only, p.1
One and Only, page 1
© 2023- Karla Sorensen
All Rights Reserved
Cover Designer-Najla Qamber Design www.najlaqamberdesigns.com
Interior Design- Tina Stokes
Editor- Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies
Proofreading- Julia Griffis, The Romance Bibliophile
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
To my boys.
I hope you never read this, but if you do, you are the very best encouragers in the world and that’s about the only reason I finished this book on time.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Want more of the Wilder Family?
Other books by Karla Sorensen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Greer
In my own defense, the decision to hire a husband wasn’t actually a bad one. It was the execution where I stumbled.
Yes, I could’ve thought things through better (my tendency to act first and think second was one of my personality flaws) and sure, I could have tried to do it the old-fashioned way (really though, who has the time).
The truth was that I never should have scheduled interview possible husband candidates and last-minute design consultation for my stupid brother’s teammate on the same night.
Convenience—the location of the restaurant to my hotel, getting both of these things out of the way at once—and cravings—I would fight someone over baked ziti—were the drivers for that decision, and no doubt, I could look back on my desire for cheesy carbs as the thing that caused my downfall.
The walk from my hotel to the restaurant didn’t take as long as I thought, so I showed up plenty early and paused before I told her my reservation name.
In hindsight, this would’ve been the moment to call the entire thing off.
Before giving her my name, I was the only person involved.
Before sitting down in that booth, no one knew what I was attempting. In my mind, I could see the proverbial door of my escape sliding shut.
My chest went a little tight at the ramifications, but instead of walking away, I hitched my chin higher and approached the host stand.
“Reservation for Greer Wilder,” I told her.
She gave me a polite smile and grabbed two menus. “Of course. Follow me, please.”
The booth I requested was in the farthest corner from the entrance, curved for privacy. In the center of the table was a tasteful arrangement of short, squat candles flickering with warm light and a bud vase filled with a single rose.
Perfect.
I gave her a frank look and pulled a fifty out of my purse. “I will need this table all evening,” I told her.
She arched some seriously perfect eyebrows. “Okay?”
“I’ve allotted a very specific amount of time for each guy I’m meeting, and as long as no one shows early, it should be just fine.”
Her mouth fell open. “How many dates do you have tonight?”
First, they weren’t actually dates, and for a moment, I considered explaining that to her. But then there would be questions and judgment, and I really didn’t feel like pausing for either option.
Second, whatever they were called, I had way too many of them to be considered sane.
“A few,” I hedged. “I have something very specific I’m looking for.”
A nice smile.
Taller than me.
Relatively sane.
Moderately attractive.
Willing to fake marry a stranger for money.
I didn’t say any of that, of course. But nonetheless, when she gave me a wide-eyed look that straddled the line between worry and awe, I felt a hysterical bubble claw its way up the back of my throat.
The front of the restaurant was a long uninterrupted stretch of windows, so I specifically chose a seat in the booth that had me completely hidden from view. Normally, I’d want the opportunity to study any approaching male specimen—especially given my current situation—but for the sake of any early arrivals, I wanted to make sure they couldn’t see me from the host stand.
A server approached with two glasses of water and a speculative gleam in his eye.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Rocco, and it looks like we’re in for a fun evening.”
Someone had warned her coworker.
I sighed, reaching into my purse for another fifty. “Rocco, you have no idea.”
“What can I start you off with?”
“Fresh waters after every guest, please,” I said with a tiny smile. “And a chardonnay.”
He exhaled a laugh. “You got it, boss.”
I’d taken a small sip of my ice water, trying to decide whether it was rude to eat half the basket of bread before my first appointment arrived when my phone screen lit up with my sister’s name.
“Sorry, Poppy, don’t have the time right now,” I muttered and hit ignore.
I let out a slow breath, tucking my hair behind my ears while I waited. My hand reached out to straighten the perfectly straight silverware, but I pulled it back and set my clenched hands in my lap.
I could do this.
I had really good reasons and great gut instincts.
The hostess approached. “Here you go,” she said to gentleman number one. Her face gave nothing away.
Pasting a polite smile on my face, I turned to face my first … contestant? Option? I wasn’t quite sure what to call them yet.
“Greer,” he said, snatching my hand for an enthusiastic handshake. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
It was a testament to my sheer force of will that I didn’t lose my smile.
He was at least forty years older than his profile picture.
“Mike?” I asked slowly, my eyes darting to his thinning white hair and the reading glasses tucked into his plaid shirt.
He took his seat, pulling the glasses out and settling them on his nose as he studied the menu. “Well, this looks wonderful.”
Oh gawd, what did I get myself into?
“I only have time for one drink,” I reminded him.
“Of course, dear,” he said. “My granddaughter told me that drinks are the way us singles do things now.”
I took a healthy swallow of my chardonnay.
Contestant two was not much of an improvement. His age bracket was nearer mine, and he smiled nicely. He was an inch or two taller than me in my heels, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief as he took a seat. It was just as I registered the nice, dimpled smile, the broad shoulders underneath his tailored shirt that I also saw the wedding ring.
“You’re married?” I asked him. That was conveniently absent from his online profile.
He grinned. “We’re … adventurous,” he said silkily. “And you are just our type.”
I cleared my throat and flagged down Rocco.
Contestant three was friendly. Funny. Only one year younger than me, and his hand was ring-free.
But the top of his head hardly cleared my tits, and there was no universe in which my family would buy into that.
When he left, I walked to the bathroom and slumped against the wall by the restroom. Rocco met me in the hallway with a basket of bread.
My general demeanor must have screamed exhausted and cranky and full of second-guessing thoughts.
“He was short,” he said.
I ate two pieces before I answered. “Too short, Rocco.”
“Who’s next?” he asked.
“I don’t even remember,” I answered glumly.
Rocco snapped to attention. “Incoming.”
I pinched my eyes shut. “Tell me.”
His facial expression was cautiously optimistic. “A seven. Maybe an eight if you can get him to fix the clothes.”
“Really?” I smoothed a hand over my hair and snatched one more piece of bread. “You’re a godsend, Rocco.”
Contestant four was, unfortunately, a complete pig.
Even though he gave me a warm, thorough study from head to toe as I approached the table, it didn’t take long to knock him off the list once he opened his mouth.
“Normally, I like my girls short”—he leaned forward, eyes locked on my mouth—
“Rocco,” I called out. “We’re done here.”
Contestant four sat back with a shocked grin. “What’s that mean?”
Rocco appeared at the table. “Sorry, man, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
“Bitch,” he muttered as he stood.
“Have a good night, asshole,” I called after him. I slumped in my seat.
Hostess Miranda approached. “Do you have some time to eat before the next one?”
Wearily, I glanced at my watch. “Yeah, maybe something quick.” Then I sighed, setting my forehead in my palm. “Next guy isn’t a date, thankfully. It’s a business meeting. Shouldn’t take much longer than thirty, though. Then one last guy after him.”
Miranda patted my arm. “Rocco’s getting you some food.”
“Thank you.” I lifted my head and smiled. “You two are the best.”
She rolled her lips together, eyeing me curiously. “You’re like … hot. And you seem really nice. I don’t understand what you’re doing with these guys.”
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
I hated crying. My family had done enough of it the past few months, and I always kept my shit together when everyone else was falling apart.
Crying wouldn’t help anything. Not tonight.
My shoulders slumped, weariness cutting down to the bone. “Have you ever been willing to do something insane … just to make someone you love happy?”
Miranda nodded slowly.
“That’s what I’m doing. I’ll probably regret it,” I added. “If that helps.”
A group arrived at the restaurant, and Miranda gave me a regretful look. “Sorry, I gotta go seat them.”
“Go ahead.” I watched her walk away. Maybe I’d invite Rocco and Miranda to my fake wedding.
I pulled my phone out and saw two more missed calls from Poppy and a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: It’s Parker’s friend, Beckett. I’m running a couple of minutes behind, but I’ll be there.
I didn’t answer because Rocco set a small plate of bruschetta in front of me.
“Bless you,” I told him. I demolished two before my phone rang again.
When I saw my little sister’s name, I glanced at my watch to check the time, then hit the button to answer the call. Before I could even say a word, she was talking over me.
“Where are you? I just stopped at your apartment and you’re not here.”
“It’s a Saturday night. Aren’t I allowed to be gone?”
“You never go out on the weekends,” she said. “You’re either at your place or home.”
“That is categorically false,” I told her. “I do things all the time and don’t tell you. Besides, why are you stalking me at my apartment?”
“Erm, just dropping something off.”
At her tone, I narrowed my eyes. “Dropping what off?”
“That blue sweater.”
“You mean the blue sweater you said you didn’t borrow when I asked how it disappeared from my closet?”
Poppy was quiet for a moment. “Yes?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m in Portland for a couple of days.”
“Why?”
Hopefully finding someone who will pretend to marry me for financial compensation because I didn’t know how else to feel in control of a very uncontrollable situation.
I cleared my throat. “Meetings.”
“Are you seeing Parker?”
At the mention of our brother’s name, I snorted. “No. He’s still playing hard to get, but he texted the other day to see if I’d do a favor for one of his teammates.” I glanced at the face of my watch. “He should be here any minute for our initial design consult.”
“Oooh. Which teammate?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” Poppy laughed. “You’re not even a little interested in who you’re meeting?”
I toed off my heel under the table and arched my foot, groaning at the stretch after wearing them all day. “Of course I’m interested in who I’m meeting, but also … it doesn’t really matter, you know?”
She sighed, one of those little sister sighs that made me feel like I was old and beyond help in her eyes.
“What?” I asked. “I’m just helping him with a design for his daughter’s room, and that’s it. It doesn’t really matter to me who he is or what he does.”
“Oooh, a daughter. So he’s one of the unmarried ones.”
“How on earth do you know that?” Despite the bruschetta, my stomach was still grumbling unhappily. I took another bite.
“If he was married, or dating, his significant other would help with the room, wouldn’t they?”
“I suppose,” I said, words muffled through the food in my mouth.
“Gawd, Greer. Please don’t talk with your mouth full when he gets there.”
I laughed. “I won’t.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Clothes.”
She groaned.
With a sigh, I glanced down. “Dark jeans, nude heels, and the black wrap top that you said makes my boobs look good.”
Poppy hummed. “I’ll accept it.”
“It’s not a date, Pops.” I actually wasn’t sure what my activities could be called, other than a night trapped in a hell of my own making.
Curse my soft gooey heart who would do anything for my family.
Curse it up, down, and sideways.
She ignored me. “I can’t believe you don’t know who it is.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t know. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Greer.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why, do you have the entire roster memorized?”
“Yes.”
I laughed even though I damn well knew my little sister was serious. The Portland expansion team was still relatively new in the league, and our brother Parker had transferred in the off-season.
He was close to home, just a few hours west of Sisters, Oregon, where our family lived. And our family … well … that was a touchy subject at the moment. We were all a little raw and, judging by my current state of affairs, not making the best decisions.
“Text me when he gets there. I wanna know who it is.”
“I’m not going to text you once my meeting starts,” I said offhandedly, turning to look at the front of the restaurant. Miranda shrugged. If he was too late, he might run into contestant five’s time, and I was not trying to make this night harder than it already was. “But his name is Beckett. There. Now you can go about your evening and leave me to mine.”
“Wait,” Poppy said, “Beckett Alvarez or Beckett Coleman? They are both cute. Alvarez is their center. Coleman is a tight end with Parker.”
I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t know, Poppy.”
“I can’t believe you’re so blasé about this!”
With another glance at my watch, and the realization that he was now even later than I’d thought he would be, I shifted irritably in my seat. “Poppy.” I sighed. “Let it go.”
“What? It’s a big deal that Parker asked for your help. He’s not talking to any of us right now. The dick,” she muttered under her breath.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He’s not a dick. He’s grieving.”
“We all are,” she pointed out. “But he’s the only one grieving and avoiding us.”
“I know.” I took another bite of food. A really, really big one.
“They have to be friends if Parker asked you to help.”
There wasn’t enough bruschetta in front of me. I stared at the remaining pieces and tried not to pout when Rocco swooped in and cleared the plate before Beckett Unknown Last Name arrived.
Emotional eating was so real, and the more Poppy talked about why Parker was ignoring our family, and why I was in Portland, I was gonna need a loaf of bread the size of my face.
“Poppy, I’m not dragging a new client into our family drama.”
