Maid of dishonor, p.1
Maid of Dishonor, page 1
Maid of Dishonor
Gracie Ruth Mitchell
Copyright © 2021 by Gracie Ruth Mitchell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To the St. Louis Cardinals, for making me a baseball fan. And to all the Cubs fans out there: it’s not too late to change your mind!
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
Epilogue
To learn more…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Gracie Ruth Mitchell
One
Sam
Hello, and welcome to the Friend Zone! Population: me.
Literally just me.
Because it seems my best friend, Carter, will flirt with any woman at all. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, pretty, homely—everyone is fair game except for this girl right here. Samantha Quinn: baseball lover, plant mama, eternal Friend Zone dweller.
Maybe I should put that on a business card or something. Just to make sure everyone knows that I will be dying alone.
You know who’s not going to die alone? The redheaded waitress Carter is currently flirting with from across the restaurant.
He’s giving her those stupid bedroom eyes he does—those babies are potent. And based on her fluttering lashes, she’s falling for it, hook, line, and sinker.
I can’t judge. I fell for Carter a long time ago. But it doesn’t matter, because to him I’m simply the tomboy he’s been best friends with since we made a blood pact in sixth grade to have each other’s backs.
It was a little unsanitary. But we didn’t know any better, and it felt cool at the time. Blood pacts aren’t something you do every day. Or any day, really.
In fact, you probably should just stay away from blood pacts. Like I said: unsanitary.
The restaurant bustles around Carter and me, the noise level just loud enough that we have to lean closer to hear each other. Little Miss Waitress—yes, I named her, and yes, I could probably stand to be a bit less snarky about it—is making her way in our direction with an interested gleam in her eye that makes me slightly uncomfortable. Once again, though, I can’t judge, because I get it. Carter is a work of art. Paint a picture of that man and slap it in the Louvre. Six-two, lean, muscular. Bright blue eyes and tanned skin. A jaw worth drooling over. Hair the color of golden sand. Lips that probably taste better than chocolate—
Ahem. I digress. But it really is justified.
Little Miss Waitress clearly agrees. She moves with a confidence I envy, and I hate to admit it, but she is gorgeous. Her more womanly assets are all but hanging out of her shirt, and when she reaches our table, she leans forward, putting them on full display. I try not to roll my eyes.
Well, I don’t try that hard. I might roll them just a little.
But really. There’s a time and a place. And gorgeous or not, she’s acting like I’m not even here. Jury’s still out on whether she’s figured out I’m female yet—with my blonde hair pulled tight in a low bun under my baseball hat and a uniform that does exactly nothing for my figure, it can be hard to tell if you don’t take a second look. And I’m not sure she’s even taken a first look. She’s still drooling over Carter, who’s now giving her one of his sexy little grins. It brings out the dimple in his left cheek. He’s always hated that dimple, because he thinks it makes him look like a little kid, but I tell him it makes him more approachable. Something has to soften the effect of all that manliness.
“What can I get for you today?” Little Miss Waitress asks. Her voice is breathy and high pitched, and it grates on my nerves. She lowers her lashes seductively and says, “Please feel free to ask for anything.”
Wow. She’s just going for it.
I clear my throat loudly, because that’s quite enough of that. I’d rather not vomit before I’ve even eaten. “I’d like the twelve-count wings, please,” I say. “Buffalo sauce.” I glance at Carter, who’s still giving her that stupid little smirk. Then I look back to the waitress. “And he’ll just have a salad. He’s been having diarrhea all day; anything else might set him off again.”
I snap my menu shut, and the sound—along with my words, I’m sure—pull both Carter and the waitress out of their little eye contact marathon. Carter’s smile slips away, and the waitress looks mortified. She snatches our menus and rushes off.
“Sam,” Carter growls, turning to face me.
I shrug innocently. “It was that or a cold glass of water over the head, Carter. You can’t smile at girls like that. She was practically in heat.”
“Easy choice!” he says, throwing up his hands. “A cold glass of water over the head. Then I’d at least get something good to eat. You’re giving me half your wings.”
I snort. “Hard pass.”
Carter levels a glare at me. “We’re sharing. And then I’m going to go find that nice waitress and tell her you’re my deranged sister, out for a day on the town before going home to the asylum.” His eyes scan the restaurant again, but after a second of looking, he sighs.
“That sigh means you’ve just decided it’s not worth it to track her down,” I point out. “If it were meant to be, you’d think she was worth it.”
“Yeah,” he says glumly. Then he looks over at me. “But you’re still giving me some of your wings.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “We can share.”
Twenty minutes later, Carter’s salad sits forgotten on the far side of the table while we go to town on the hot wings, talking and laughing about the game we won this afternoon.
“Great hit, by the way,” I say, using a napkin to wipe the corners of my mouth. “At the bottom of the ninth.”
Carter shrugs, but I can tell by the twitch at the corner of his mouth that he’s proud of it, too. He’s good at baseball—really good. This is just a community league we play in—and yes, I am the only woman on our team—but he still gives it his all. He’s like that in everything he does. He gives 100 percent. It’s something I love about him.
There are so many things I love about him. It’s a problem.
“You made some good catches too,” he says, letting his smile free.
“Thanks,” I say, though I’m not really paying attention to his words now. I lean back in my chair, fanning my face. The wings always do this to me. I don’t know if that’s even a thing, but when I eat wings, I always get hot. It’s even worse right now because I was already a mess from our game earlier. I pull my hat off, and I can practically feel the sweat gathering on my scalp. Gross.
Carter’s eyes flick to my hair, and I hold up a finger before he can speak.
“I know it’s bad,” I say, tugging the hair tie out and letting my bun free. “No commentary, please.”
Carter just shrugs, his lips twitching, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
I snort. “I’m sure.” I continue to tousle my hair, hoping the texture will make up for how nasty it is now. “I know I’m no Little Miss Waitress, but—”
“Little Miss Waitress?” Carter says, grinning outright now.
“She was all over you,” I say defensively. “It was obnoxious. You want someone with a little more subtlety.”
Carter’s grin widens. “You were just jealous of her b—”
“Okay,” I say loudly. “That’s enough of that.” I give up on my hair, putting my hat on again, backward this time. “I wasn’t jealous. Just because I don’t flaunt them doesn’t mean I don’t have them.” And I do have them. But I also have self-respect. And an affinity for sports bras, because they make sure the ladies behave themselves with all the moving around I do.
Carter shrugs again, fingering the rubber band around his wrist absently as he eyes me. I can tell from his smirk that he either doesn’t believe me or doesn’t want to comment. I’m hoping it’s the latter. It would be really depressing if after all these years of me pining for him, he still doesn’t realize I have breasts. I mean, yeah, I’m a bit of a tomboy, but I’ve got curves.
“You’re doing it again,” I say, pointing to the rubber band. He wears it all the time, and he won’t tell me why. It’s infuriating to no end, but I’ve stopped asking, because he staunchly refuses to say anything about it. Every now and then I’ll see him snap it against his wrist. He’s a weirdo.
He glances down at his wrist, looking at the rubber band as though he’s surprised it’s there. He removes his hand from it and grabs his drink instead, slurping loudly. When he’s done, he says, “You ready to go?” He looks at his watch. “I told Maya I’d be over at three.”
Oops—I’d almost forgotten we were stopping by to see Carter’s cousin. “That’s right—you’re sure she’s ok ay with me coming along? She did say she wanted to talk to you about something important,” I say.
He waves one hand. “She said she doesn’t care.”
“Okay. Let me just get a refill of my drink, then.” I gesture at his cup. “You want one?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he says. “I’ll flag down the waitress and pay.”
“With your phone number?” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Nah,” he says.
I look at him, surprised. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “She’s not my type.”
“She’s female,” I say. I know arguing with him about this goes directly against my own interests, but I’m just calling it like I see it—and if she’s a woman, she’s his type.
Well, except for me, I mean.
He just shrugs again. “It’s like you said. I want someone less obvious.”
I give a mocking gasp. “Carter Ellis, are you taking my advice?”
He tries to glare at me, but the corners of his mouth quirk. “No way,” he says.
“You are,” I say, grinning. I grab his drink and stand. “And it’s about time. I’ve been waiting for you to ask my opinion on your love life since—”
“All right,” he cuts me off loudly. “Drinks, woman.”
I just smile wider over my shoulder at him as I saunter away and toward the soda fountain at the bar.
Once I’ve filled our cups, I wrestle the lids back in place. I don’t know why they make it so hard to take these things off and put them back on; this shouldn’t be a full-body workout. I’m finally just getting mine done, though, when I smell something…off. I wrinkle my nose, trying to place the smell, and then I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I whirl around.
And look. I try not to judge people based on appearances—books by covers and all that. But standing in front of me is a man I can honestly call gross. He’s attractive enough, I guess, and his hair is blond and styled, but there’s a look in his eyes I don’t really appreciate. There’s something slopped down the front of his preppy polo; it looks like it might be beer. He has a dazed, cocky sort of smile, but it brings to mind vacant immaturity rather than happiness or kindness. With every sweep of his eyes he sends off major frat boy vibes.
Likes: Axe body spray, energy drinks, girls named Tiffani and Ginger. Dislikes: feelings, commitment, emotional vulnerability of any kind.
His name is probably Chad.
I’ve just noticed an intriguing mole on Chad’s chin when the smell hits me again, full force this time. I hold back my gag. A grown man should not smell this bad. There are showers for these situations.
Okay, maybe I’m getting a little judgmental. Some people are smellier than others, and maybe he has a good reason. But even so…this is unmistakably BO, heavy cologne, and the sour stench of too much beer. Way too much, judging by his slightly glazed look.
The way Chad’s gaze rakes over me makes me roll my eyes, and for a second he just stands there, looking at me. When he finally speaks and the smell of his breath hits me, I’m overcome with a fresh wave of nausea.
“Hey,” he says, grinning and nodding at the drinks I’m carrying. “You drinking alone?”
My two cups would indicate not, but I don’t say that. “Just getting some refills,” I say lightly, trying to sidestep him, but he moves, blocking my path. He steps closer, and I instinctively move backward until my back is pressed up against the bar.
“Let me buy you one.” His words slur as he speaks, and I’m frankly surprised he’s intelligible at all.
“No, thank you,” I say.
“Such a pretty girl shouldn’t drink alone,” he says, and now he puts one hand on my waist, dragging it up and down my side—completely without permission.
I jump at the unwelcome contact and slap him away as well as I can while carrying sodas, cringing. “I’m not drinking,” I repeat. I’m past annoyed now. “And I’m not interested. Please move.”
“I—”
“She asked you to move.”
I sigh with relief at the sound of Carter’s steely voice. He’s behind the guy in front of me, so I can’t see him, but I know the look that goes with that tone; right now there’s undoubtedly a muscle jumping in his jaw, and his eyes are probably shooting daggers.
Chad stumbles backward as Carter pulls him away, blessedly taking that stench with him. Carter steps neatly around him, moving to me and slipping an arm protectively around my waist. I ignore the stupid butterflies that take flight.
“My girlfriend and I were just leaving,” Carter says to the man. His words are polite, but his tone is not, and I see that I was right; there goes the twitching muscle in his jaw, right along with the death glare. Then Carter turns his gaze back to me. “Ready, babe?”
“Yep!” I say, smiling brightly, handing Carter his refill and wishing that I really were his girlfriend rather than the girl he’s forced to save from creeps.
He nods once, decisively, and then leads me away, his hand on the small of my back.
“Ugh,” I say once we’ve pushed through the front doors, waving vaguely over our shoulders at the hostess who’s just told us to come again soon. “I attract the worst guys.”
Carter nods, his brow furrowed. “He looked familiar, actually.”
I shrug. “I’ve never seen him. But what is it with the guys that hit on me?” I say, looking at Carter. “Is it something about the uniform?”
Carter shakes his head, grinning once more. “It’s the hat.”
“The—what?” I say, stopping to frown at him.
“The hat,” he repeats, tugging on my arm to get me to start walking again.
“What part of a baseball hat says ‘I’m looking for a creepy man’?”
Carter laughs. “Not necessarily creepy men. I think you just remember the weird ones. But the backward hat…” He shrugs. “It’s kind of hot.”
My heart gives a little leap. “Huh,” I say with interest, pulling my hat off and looking at it. It’s old and worn, the red and blue faded from countless hours spent in the sun. “The hat? Really?”
He nods, unlocking his SUV and opening the passenger door for me. I look at it warily, a jolt of anxiety shooting through me as thoughts of the hat get pushed to the background. Yes, this is Carter’s car, but he knows I strongly prefer to drive, and he usually lets me.
“It’s not far,” Carter says, his voice soothing. “But you haven’t been there in a while. Let me drive. Please,” he adds. And then, more matter-of-factly, “You’re terrible at directions, Sam.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. And yet…
“It really isn’t more than ten minutes,” he says, approaching me. With one gentle tug, he pulls me to the passenger door, just looking at me.
Finally I make myself nod, and Carter ushers me in. I feel a twinge of guilt as I climb into the car—guilt that I’ve dragged my emotional baggage into his life—and then Carter buckles me in as though I’m a child instead of a twenty-six-year-old woman.
“Sorry I have issues,” I murmur once he’s in on the driver’s side, still feeling guilty.
But all he does is smile at me. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
That’s definitely not true, but I don’t say anything. He starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, and we’re silent for a second. I let my mind go to Carter’s cousin Maya. She’s five-ish years younger, but I like her, and I’ve known her through Carter for a long time. Her parents are both gone, and she’s an only child, so Carter sort of keeps an eye on her.
“What do you think this is about with your cousin?” I say, looking at him.
“Not sure,” he says, his mouth set in a tense line. “Maybe she’s finally going to dump her boyfriend.”
Ha. That would be great, but it feels unlikely. Carter and I have never met the guy—not for lack of trying on Carter’s part—but we’ve heard enough stories. Maya has regular complaints about the man she claims she loves. He’s immature and unpredictable, he’s unfaithful, he drinks too much, he can’t hold down a job—and yet they’re still together. She told Carter once that—and I quote—“the stars blessed their union,” which I think just means her horoscope said something encouraging.
