Twelve days. And yet, two hours before Brett landed, only three items were crossed off.

Get a manicure/pedicure.

Shave.

Wash all dirty clothes.

Fold all clothes.

Drop off dry cleaning.

Stock the kitchen with enough food to look normal.

Buy candles and burn throughout house the week before.

Do baseboards.

Change sheets.

Wipe down all surfaces and toss all trash.

Hide all clutter.

Move high school awards and items to garage.

Track down and hide all Modern Bride issues.

Throw away ruffled pillows and toilet seat cover.

Hide super tampon boxes and any embarrassing bathroom/medication items.

Kidnap Megan, Tammy, Jena, and Mitzi and lock them away until Brett leaves.

Okay, so the last item was a joke. Sort of. A joke only because the feasibility of kidnapping four bridesmaids in such a short time frame seemed a bit ambitious for a novice criminal. But, even if I threw that item off the list, I still had a shitload of work to do in a short length of time. I moved to the bedroom, sweeping my hair into a ponytail and unbuttoning my shirt with hasty fingers. I stepped out of my skirt and moved to the dresser before retracing my steps, picking up the discarded items and putting them into the hamper.

I was sure there were normal individuals out there who liked cleaning ... but I hated it. Hated it with a passion. If there were a way to murder Cleaning in the study with a candlestick, I’d be the guilty Miss Scarlet. I normally straightened up on Sunday mornings, sometime between cereal and an afternoon nap. But my weekend excursions with Brett had pushed those Sunday cleanings off by ... four weeks? Five? I mentally added “Clean toilet” to the list. Then I changed into a T-shirt and jean shorts and got to work.

***

Two hours and forty-three minutes later, my panic had reached a more manageable level, one where exhaustion sat on its chest and made it shut the hell up. I swapped my sweaty tee for a cute tank top and grabbed my keys, giving the house a quick glance over before heading for the car.

It looked good. Clean, but not like I’d prepared for him. For once, I was grateful for such a small home, the dirt not having too much square footage in which to hide. Checking my watch, I swore at the time, grabbing my cell from the counter and running out the door.

***

“You hungry?” I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, noting, for the first time, the cracks in its vinyl. I wondered what kind of car Brett drives. Seems weird that I didn’t know that. That I hadn’t been to his city, his house.

“Starving. I had some crackers on the plane, but nothing else.” He relaxed in the passenger seat, his hand resting on the back of my headrest, the faint scent of soap and a light cologne drifting over with his shift into place.

My stomach growled, as if it had the right to input an opinion. The sound reminded me of my failure to eat, not since eleven this morning, when I scarfed down a Wendy’s chicken salad behind the tellers. I probably burned a thousand calories during my cleaning frenzy. I was surprised my body hadn’t gone into shock.

“What’s a good local restaurant?”

I smiled. “Beverly’s is good, just be prepared.”

“For what?”

“Everything.” Might as well rip off the Band-Aid now. On the upside, it was after eight. Maybe the dinner crowd had thinned.

***

Nope. The dinner crowd was still in full force when I pulled into the gravel lot. My eyes scanned and recognized at least ten of the trucks in the lot. I felt a pit form in my cavernously empty stomach.

“Lots of trucks,” Brett commented.

“Farming is a major industry here. Add that to the redneck factor, and you’ve got testosterone fighting via mud flaps at every four-way.” I put the car into park and leaned forward. Kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you for coming here.”

“Thank you for letting me.”

“It’s been nice knowing you.” I grinned wryly.

“It won’t be that bad, I promise.”

I kissed his naïve little mouth and turned off the car.

Beverly’s was one big room, a buffet set on the back wall, picnic tables filling the large, paisley-wallpapered space. There were no private tables; everyone grabbed any available seat, community pitchers of tea on the tables, refilled on a regular basis by one of Beverly’s four girls. There was no menu, and there weren’t any specials. Lunch was seven bucks, dinner was ten, and credit cards weren’t accepted. Sweet tea, coffee, and water were the only drink options, and you cleared your own plate when done. When short on cash, Beverly had an IOU form at the front counter that you could complete and settle up when times got better.

I grabbed Brett’s hand and sucked in, squeezing between two tables and heading deeper into the room, beelining for an open spot at Table 9. I smiled at the Rutledges and Corina Rose, mouthed a “hey” to Patty Thomas. Breathed a sigh of relief when I stepped into the bench, flashing smiles to the individuals on either side. Watched Brett as he made his way to the other side. He wore a T-shirt and jeans with tennis shoes. I had told him to dress casual, had been worried that he’d stick out. But even in that, he looked expensive, couldn’t hide the aura of confidence and wealth that separated him from every other man in this room.

“This place is nice.”

I didn’t know if Brett was just being polite, but, in our town, it was the best food you were gonna find. I met his eyes and was pleased to see sincerity in them. I shrugged. “The food’s really good.”