The Fake Husband

Eyes wide, Phoebe looked from Abby to Jacquie. “Which is…?”

“He’s gorgeous,” Abby said. “With a capital G.”

Phoebe turned in her seat to get a quick peek. Flushing, she sat back again, facing Jacquie. “Oh, yes.”

Beside Jacquie, Abby straightened up. “And he’s heading this way.”

CHAPTER THREE

OTHER THAN THE CHANCE to pick up a cup of coffee for the twenty-minute drive back to Fairfield Farm, Rhys hadn’t expected anything out of his visit to the diner across the street from Andrew’s school. Finding Jacquie inside was a stroke of good luck he was sure he didn’t deserve, but one he intended to take full advantage of.

She had friends with her—a plump, chestnut-haired beauty standing by her shoulder and a cool blonde seated in the booth. They reminded him of watchdogs. If he didn’t behave, he had a feeling they were prepared to chase him off the premises.

“Good morning,” he said as he approached the table. “Is this where weary parents come to recover from the struggle of getting teenagers out of bed before noon?”

Jacquie grinned. “There’s a special pot of double-strength coffee set aside for those of us who need it.” Then, as if she’d suddenly remembered she didn’t want to talk to him, the grin faded. “Let me introduce you to some of your new neighbors. This is Abby Brannon.” She nodded to the woman standing beside her. “She and her dad Charlie run the Carolina Diner. Phoebe Moss,” she said, gesturing to the blonde, “lives just down the road from me, and when she’s not taking care of rescue horses, she works as a speech therapist. Abby, Phoebe, this is Rhys Lewellyn.”

“I’m glad to meet you.” Rhys tried out a smile on each of them, without much success. Phoebe’s gray gaze seemed to possess X-ray powers with which she intended to expose his every sin. If Jacquie had shared the details of their personal history with her friend, then there were a hell of a lot of sins to be found.

“Would you like anything else with your coffee?” Abby had a commercial interest to protect, he understood, which forced her to talk to him. “Doughnut, biscuit, piece of pie?”

“Just coffee, thanks.” When he smiled again, she lifted the corners of her mouth slightly, but he wasn’t sure that counted as progress.

“I’ll bring it out right away. Can I get y’all anything else?” She looked at Jacquie and Phoebe, who shook their heads, before hurrying off to the kitchen.

“This seems to be a popular place for breakfast,” Rhys commented, trying to keep the conversation going. No one, he noticed, had asked him to sit down.

“And lunch and dinner.” Jacquie looked around the room instead of meeting his eyes directly. “Most people in New Skye probably eat at the Carolina Diner at least once a week.”

“Some of them eat here every day,” Phoebe said, as the bell on the door jingled yet again. “Like my fiancé. Adam?” She lifted her hand and waved to the dark-haired man coming in the door, who quickly joined them.

Rhys stepped closer to Jacquie as the newcomer bent to give Phoebe a kiss. “Good m-morning, s-sweetheart, I didn’t know you’d be here. I’d have c-come in s-sooner.”

Phoebe’s smile was gentle as she laid her palm along the man’s jawline. “I came for breakfast with Jacquie.”

“S-sorry, Jacquie.” The guy straightened up and grinned. “I didn’t m-mean to ignore you.”

“That’s okay—you have your priorities right.” She winked at him, with a camaraderie Rhys envied. “Let me introduce you to Rhys Lewellyn. Rhys, this is Adam DeVries, Phoebe’s fiancé and, incidentally, the mayor-elect of New Skye. Adam, Rhys moved in during the snowstorm.”

“W-welcome to the area.” DeVries extended a strong hand. “Where are you c-coming f-from?”

“New York.”

The mayor-to-be laughed. “Well, if you were hoping to escape the sn-snow, don’t worry—we don’t usually get this m-much. Every f-few years we’ll have a fr-freak storm, but m-mostly we see an inch or two that melts by m-morning.”

Relieved at the absence of undercurrents, Rhys smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. The horses thought we’d done all that driving for nothing.”

“Horses?” DeVries sat down beside Phoebe, who scooted over to make room. “This is a good part of the country f-for horses. I know Jacquie’s been riding since she could walk—did the two of you know each other before you arrived?”

Rhys looked at Jacquie and found her staring at him, her eyes wide with alarm. He turned back to DeVries. “Jacquie came up to train at my barn, quite a few years ago. But we haven’t been in contact—it’s just my luck that she’s in this area.”

Abby returned just then to hand him a large foam cup with a cover. She saw Adam and gave a genuine smile. “Morning, Mr. Mayor. What’ll you have?”

“’M-morning, yourself, M-Miss Abby. The usual will be great.” DeVries looked up at Rhys. “Can you s-sit down with us?”

“I—” He would have refused—Jacquie obviously didn’t want him here. But, still without looking at him, she moved over into the corner of the booth, which left him no other option. “Sure, I’ll sit down for a few minutes.”

DeVries was a personable man, and a politician, so the conversation flowed easily enough for the next few minutes, until Rhys thought even Jacquie had begun to relax beside him. At least she’d eaten some of her breakfast. His awareness of her was like sitting near a blazing fire on the winter’s coldest night—the burn along that side of his body created a penetrating warmth that reached all the way to his core. Only as the ice began to melt did he realize he’d been frozen for fourteen long years.

“Have you met Erin?” DeVries asked, then smiled at Abby as she set his breakfast plate on the table. “Jacquie’s daughter is every bit as horse crazy as her mother was at that age. And from what Phoebe tells me, she’s really good.”

“I’ve talked to her on the phone. Jacquie and I are supposed to set up some lessons, I believe.” Rhys risked a glance to his left and found Jacquie’s gaze focused on the napkin her fingers were busy folding into a fan. “I’m looking forward to that.”

“Do you have a family, Rhys?” Phoebe Moss had evidently decided to suspend hostilities…or else she planned to come in under his radar.

“I’m divorced. My son Andrew lives with me.”

“How old is Andrew?”

“Going on fifteen.” Beside him, Jacquie stiffened for a moment, then relaxed again.

“Just a little older than Erin. Does he ride?”

“He could hardly help it, given the family business. Our branch of the Lewellyns has trained and sold horses for a couple of centuries, now, in Wales and the U.S. But Andrew does love it, thank God. He’s aiming for the Olympics.”

Phoebe buttered a piece of toast. “Like his father?”

DeVries looked up. “The Olympics?”

“Rhys has been to the Olympics twice,” Jacquie said. “He took a gold medal last time in eventing.”

The other man quirked an eyebrow. “I apologize. I didn’t recognize your name.”

Rhys shook his head. “No reason you should. Equestrian events aren’t as widely publicized as, say, track-and-field.”

“And what is eventing, exactly? I’m still being initiated into the horse world.”

“Eventing—held at what we call horse trials or three-day events—is a competition designed to test the endurance, athleticism, and discipline of horse and rider. The first day’s test is a dressage performance, in which we execute a complicated series of figures on flat ground within a ring of specified length and width.”

The mayor-elect nodded. “Right. I’ve watched dressage.”

“On the second day, horse and rider compete in the speed and endurance section, which includes several elements of fast work. The most impressive is the actual cross-country run, over seven kilometers or so on a course which includes obstacles ranging from simple fences to water hazards, even buildings to ride through. Each ride is timed, and any refusal or fall pretty much eliminates the pair for the entire event.”

“The jumps are massive,” Phoebe added. “Four feet high, or more, and at least that wide. Or in a series, where you make two or three jumps, one right after the other.”

Rhys grinned at her. “Right. And those jumps are fixed in place—they don’t come down if they’re hit.”

“Painful,” Adam DeVries commented.