The Husband Maker Boxed Set Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Six Months Later

  The Match Maker

  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

  The Wife Maker

  Angus

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Angus

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Angus

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Angus

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Angus

  Charlotte

  Angus

  Charlotte

  Charlotte

  Angus

  Charlotte

  Epilogue

  Author's Message

  Also By Karey White

  The Husband Maker Boxed Set

  Copyright © 2015 Karey White

  Cover Design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover Photography by Leslie Harkness

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-941898-08-6

  Published by Orange Door Press

  I’d always heard the view from Top of the Mark was exceptional. When San Francisco Life listed the top ten places to view the skyline at night, Top of the Mark was ranked number three, so when the invitation to Harrison’s wedding arrived, I finally had an excuse to take in the view for myself.

  Stupid, stupid me. I should have taken a cab up the steep hills to 999 California Street, hopped on the elevator to the nineteenth floor, and looked out the windows. I could have come with or without makeup, and I could have worn jeans and a t-shirt. If I’d brought Mia or Aleena with me, we could have had a nice dinner or dessert. If I’d brought Angus, we could have had both. Since Top of the Mark was built at the crest of Nob Hill, I could have snapped a jaw-dropping photo or two with my iPhone and made the sparkling skyline my screen saver.

  But no. I had to come see it on the night my old boyfriend was marrying a 49ers cheerleader named Nicki, who’d had more remodeling than an episode of Property Brothers. She looked like a Who’s Who of Hollywood parts—Scarlett’s nose, Angelina’s lips, and Kim’s cheekbones. Her bias-cut dress clung to her other (ahem) purchased body parts and made me feel very un-girly in comparison.

  “Nicki, this is Charlotte.” Harrison looked me level in the eye, and for the first time all evening, I felt an inch of relief that things hadn’t worked out between us. Five-eleven is pretty average for a guy, and Harrison towered over Nicki, even in her stilettos. But the only way he’d ever have been able to look down at me the way he’d looked down at Nicki when they’d exchanged their vows was if he’d stood on a stool. I know it’s not important, and it makes me sound completely shallow, but I read a romance once where the leading man “gazed down at his true love with tender eyes.” Someday, I’d like a guy to gaze down at me with tender eyes. And I’d rather not have to be standing in a hole for that to happen.

  “It’s fabulous to finally meet you.” Nicki’s voice was chirpy, and her lips didn’t move quite right. “I want to thank you for breaking his heart”—she puckered up and baby-talked—“so I could put it back together.” She pulled him down by his tuxedo lapel to kiss his cheek, then wiped the red smear away with her acrylic-nailed thumb.

  Well, this was awkward. And I wasn’t the only one feeling it. Harrison’s eyes begged me not to set the record straight.

  You see, Harrison had broken up with me. “I’m not ready for the whole settling down with one woman thing,” he’d said four short months ago. “You’re ready to get married, and I won’t be ready for that scene for years.”

  Maybe he’d meant dog years.

  “Congratulations, you two. You make a much better couple than we ever did,” I said, although it stung to admit it.

  “Did Will come? I saw Angus a little while ago,” Harrison said. Will is my twin brother. No, his name is not Wilbur, although we’ve been asked if our parents had a thing for Charlotte’s Web more times than I can count. His name is William, and he’s the reason I ended up dating Harrison in the first place.

  Our families lived on the same street in Fairfield, but I barely remembered Harrison, who was two years older than us. Nearly a year ago, Will and Harrison had been at the same concert, and Harrison had asked Will if his little sister was still available. Will wasn’t sure if he meant me or McKayla, but since McKayla was already married, he gave Harrison my number. On our first date, Harrison admitted he hadn’t been asking about me, but he was decent enough to say he was glad for the mix-up. And the rest is history.

  A short and tragic history, but history nonetheless.

  “Will and his wife are in D.C. right now interviewing.” I stepped on my tiptoes and scanned the room over the groom’s head. “I didn’t know Angus was here.”

  “I talked to him earlier, but he might have left already,” Harrison said.

  “Aaahhh!”

  I nearly knocked over a waiter as I jumped away from Nicki’s scream. “Look, Kitten. It’s Baxter Kensington. I didn’t think he’d actually come.”

  Kitten? Did she really call him that? Harrison’s red face confirmed that yes, she had. “He plays for the 49ers,” he explained, and I nodded.

  “I’d better go and make room for the celebrities,” I said, and Harrison grinned. He’d always appreciated my sarcasm, and his cute grin jabbed at my not-quite-healed heart.

  “Thanks for coming.” He pulled me into a hug while his bride arranged her dress to best flatter her cleavage and patted the sides of her platinum fauxhawk. “Are things good with us?” he said quietly in my ear.

  I pulled away. “Oh sure.”

  “I was worried—”

  “Nothing to worry about. Go. Be happy.”

  “Thanks, Charlotte.”

  I tu
rned away, my eyes stinging, and nearly barreled into one of the most stunning specimens of athleticism I’d ever seen. His pale yellow shirt and silvery gray suit contrasted beautifully with his dark skin. No wonder the bride was swooning about someone other than the groom. Poor Harrison looked like a little boy in comparison.

  Ah, one of the hazards of marrying a cheerleader.

  Through slightly blurred vision, I saw Harrison put his arm around Nicki. Not too long ago, I’d thought that would be me, though the venue and guest list would have been drastically different.

  “Do you think he invited her?” A woman’s voice echoed in the granite and chrome ladies’ room.

  “I don’t know,” another woman said. “Does the bride knows she’s his old girlfriend?”

  “She was more than a girlfriend. His mom thought he was going to marry her.”

  “Well, I did too. One day I was seeing Harrison and Charlotte at the movies, and the next I was getting a wedding announcement for Harrison and Nicki.”

  I’d made a little pit stop to wipe away my final Harrison tears. I was surprised I had any of those left to cry, but under the circumstances, I could allow myself a few. I’d been ready to step out of the stall, but now my feet were glued to the marble floor.

  “That poor girl.”

  “The bride or Charlotte?” The women laughed, and I cringed. Why hadn’t I just headed home?

  “I meant Charlotte. I was shocked how quickly Harrison moved on.”

  I’d been a little shocked myself. I’d suspected he’d be engaged before too long, but the speed had surprised even me. How had he found a cure for his commitment phobia so quickly?

  “Why do you think Charlotte has had such a hard time finding a husband? She’s a beautiful girl. And so sweet. You know she was my Hannah’s roommate at college.” Now I recognized the voice. It was Mrs. Shelton.

  “It must be hard to have your twin brother and your little sister both get married before you,” the other woman said.

  “Her sister could have afforded to wait a few years if you ask me. I wouldn’t want my daughter to get married at twenty. I thought maybe she had to get married, but it’s been a year and there’s still no baby.”

  I wanted to speak up and defend McKayla. Connor was a wonderful guy, and they were happy. How was McKayla’s wedding any business of these two old gossips?

  “It’s not surprising. McKayla was always gorgeous. She could have had anyone she wanted. Charlotte’s not as flashy as McKayla, but she’s still a pretty girl.” I tried to get a peek at the woman who was speaking through the crack in the door, but I didn’t have the right angle. All I could see was Mrs. Shelton applying cherry red lipstick.

  “I think Charlotte’s even prettier than McKayla, but that’s just me.” Thank you, Mrs. Shelton. The compliment made me a tiny bit less annoyed with her.

  “Maybe she’s too choosy. I think some girls get so picky they won’t give a regular guy a chance.” Who was this knowledgeable woman?

  “I don’t think Charlotte is picky at all,” Mrs. Shelton said, and I silently banged my head against the door of the stall. “Hannah said Charlotte dated lots of guys, but it never worked out. Maybe she’s not picky enough. Whatever it is, somehow she just keeps driving guys away.”

  I’m too picky. I’m not picky enough. I’m beautiful, but I send guys running. This was exactly how I’d wanted to finish this evening. Maybe I’d get lucky, and these two women could gossip their way to a solution for my perpetual singleness. I could hardly wait to find out.

  Now their voices got quieter, conspiratorial. “Hannah says they gave Charlotte a nickname in college. They called her ‘the husband maker.’”

  I gasped and quickly put my hand over my mouth.

  The other woman laughed. “What does that even mean?”

  “Well, Hannah said every guy Charlotte goes out with ends up marrying the very next girl he dates. The poor girl is jinxed.”

  “Oh, dear. Does she know they called her that? That could be hurtful.”

  No, I didn’t know.

  Of course I knew every guy went on to marry the next girl they dated, but I hadn’t realized everyone around me had noticed the pattern. Who had called me that? Mrs. Shelton had said “they.” How long had I been the butt of everyone’s jokes? I remembered Hannah comforting me after a breakup. Had she just been trying to get information to share with others so they could have a good laugh at my expense?

  “It may be cruel, but if it’s true, you should set her up with Michael.” I couldn’t believe Mrs. Shelton was making jokes about me. She’d always been kind to my face. She’d even bought me a pink and gray comforter that matched Hannah’s so our room could be color coordinated. And now she was laughing at me.

  “It would be nice for Michael to get married and give me some grandchildren. My chances of being a cool, hip grandma are slipping away. But I don’t think Charlotte’s parents would approve of her dating someone who’s forty-two,” the woman said. “Although Charlotte’s not getting any younger. Isn’t she close to thirty?”

  “I think she’s the same age as Hannah,” Mrs. Shelton said. “That would make her about twenty-six.” I was actually twenty-five. For three more weeks, thank you very much. “I’m not saying she’d have to marry him. But if he dated Charlotte, he’d have it made. Even if he didn’t end up marrying her, he’d marry the next girl he dated.”

  The women giggled like schoolgirls. “Hmm. That’s not a bad idea. Michael could use a little . . .”

  Their voices faded as they left the restroom. I collapsed onto the toilet seat and buried my face in my hands. I never wanted to face another person again. If I waited long enough, everyone I knew would leave, and I could sneak out, catch a plane to Honduras, and never look back.

  If only I had a passport.

  I’m not sure how long I sat there. Two people came in, used the restroom, then left. Pretty soon, my right leg started to go to sleep, and I knew I needed to move. And what was I doing sitting here? No matter how clean the bathroom looked, I’d been sitting on a public toilet. I was in worse shape than I’d thought.

  I looked at my reflection with a critical eye as I washed my hands. My long hair was dark and shiny. My eyes were an interesting blue with specks of green and gold. I leaned toward the mirror and took inventory. I had good cheekbones and a good smile, thanks to three years of orthodontic care and nightly headgear worthy of a horror movie, and I had a little dimple at the left corner of my mouth.

  “Someone could love me,” I said to my reflection. When my reflection didn’t answer, I left the restroom.

  “Hey, Chuck, I’m glad you’re still here.” I was so glad to hear Angus’s voice, even though I hated that nickname. “If I’d known you were coming, we could have come together.”

  I tried to speak, but a giant jawbreaker-sized lump had lodged itself in my throat, so I nodded.

  “Harrison said you were here and...” His voice faded off. “Hey, are you okay?”

  I bit my lips between my front teeth and nodded.

  “You sure?” He put his arm around me, and my nod turned to a shake as he pulled me into his side. “Oh Chuck. Why do you do this to yourself?” I let him pull me into his arms and rub my back. “Do you need some therapy?” he asked softly, and I nodded into his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Luigi’s sounds like it should have spaghetti and spumoni on the menu, but instead, it serves up the messiest barbecue ribs and the richest avalanche pie in the bay area. It’s the perfect antidote for a broken heart because no one would ever choose to eat at Luigi’s with someone they wanted to impress, so it would never be a date destination. It’s impossible to eat the Carolina ribs while maintaining a level of decorum.

  Years ago, after my first tragic breakup, Angus had suggested we go get some ribs. The avalanche pie was my addition to our gastronomical therapy. Over the years, we’d “visited the therapist” whenever either of us had a breakup or experienced heartbreak. It almost made
breakups a good thing.

  Okay, that’s overstating it, but I always feel a little better after we stuff ourselves.

  Will thinks we’re crazy, and he might be right. He came to this conclusion when we were in college. I’d been dating Skyler, a film major with a sensitive ponytail. He liked to eat Indian food and go to hole-in-the-wall theaters where we’d see artsy movies, or the plight of humanity portrayed in modern dance. Some of what we saw was great. Some might have made me stupider as I sat through them.

  Skyler took off for some little town in North Dakota, or Saskatchewan, or some other bitter cold place to make a movie about a man who was braving the North Country without electricity. He hoped this would be his ticket to one of the smaller film festivals. He broke up with me from his cell phone in Montana. The coverage wasn’t good, and his reception kept cutting out, so the whole breakup conversation took place over several hours and seven calls. To make a six-hundred-and-thirty mile story short, he explained he didn’t want the baggage of a long-distance relationship distracting him from the job he was trying to do. It’d be best if we took a break until he came back four months later.

  I agreed. I didn’t want to be a distraction.

  Skyler married a Cree woman named Amber Starblanket three months later.

  But my mind wanders.

  After my lengthy phone call with Skyler, I called Angus to see if he was available for some therapy. According to Will, when Angus got off the phone, he fist-pumped the air and let out a whoop.

  “You know she just broke up, right?” Will had asked.

  “I know.” Will told me Angus hadn’t looked very sad for me.

  “So why are you celebrating?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. I guess it’s ’cause I’m hungry, and ribs sound good.”

  “You know you two can go eat ribs without Charles having her heart broken,” Will had said. (Charles, Charlie, Chuck, even Chuckers—they used them all. Once, Will even called me Woodchuck. Sometimes brothers and their friends need to be smacked.)

  “No, we can’t. We’ve made a pact that we’ll never eat at Luigi’s except in an emergency.”

  “Well, at least try and show some sympathy.”

  “You know I will,” Angus had assured him.

  And he had. He always let me rant and rave and cry. He even let me have a bigger share of the pie if I wanted. And I’d done the same for him, although his dating history was much more sporadic than mine. Angus dated, but he was so focused on school that he had long dry spells between girlfriends.