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Behind him, the rolled banner suddenly unfurls, revealing the surprise ending. The crowd gasps as the words “Thompson Fieldhouse” are lit from behind by a custom LED display that Diego invented.
“Well, shoot, that was supposed to happen at the end,” he grumbles.
Last year, the college failed to raise enough funds to save the Fieldhouse and the stands. Despite being a championship team, football had sort of outgrown its confines here. They were going to move it to the other side of campus, probably doubling the size.
That is, until Spencer got involved. His donation saved the Fieldhouse, and Diego’s invention—retractable, expandable seating—saved the stadium.
Spencer leans forward with a cocky grin.
“And that, as they say, is that!”
The crowd goes wild. I’ve never heard anything like it. They are all on their feet at once, stomping their heels and cheering and clapping as the band plays our team fight song.
The feeling is overwhelming, and I have to hold Trevor’s hand so tight to keep from bursting into happy tears.
Spencer feels it. He stands beside the podium and raises his hands, waving at the crowd as he smiles.
I can feel it. I can sense him from way over here. A feeling of real satisfaction. Accomplishment, pride. Spencer gave something to everybody, and what he gets back now is what he has always wanted.
Pure love. It surrounds us.
Excerpt from One Bride for Four Ranchers
Jessa
Iignore the eyes on me at first. I’m not at this environmental conference to mingle, after all. I’m here to write an article. Of course, that would be easier to do if the damn story I am trying to write didn’t have me half asleep.
The hotel bar is almost empty this time of day, with everyone still attending the conference functions. And since it’s still relatively quiet, it’s a nice place to work. With the polished wood bar and exposed brick, it has an old world charm that fuels my creativity.
For a while, I push through. I make it through yet another chunk of the article, showing ways companies can go green with incremental steps. I tell myself the eyes on me probably belong to a super nerd who can’t talk to women.
I couldn’t be more wrong.
Still, I pretend I don’t feel the pinpricks on my neck that tell me I’m being watched. I’m in a bar, sure, but it’s early. And it’s a hotel bar, and one of the only places in this hotel that still had plenty of seating when I left the conference proper at noon. When the conference fully lets out it will be crazy busy, but that won’t happen for a couple hours yet.
I sip my coffee and work.
By the halfway point in my article, curiosity overwhelms me. I look to my right to see a stranger, in fact, watching me. Hah. Knew it. I’d have patted myself on the back if I could have. But the man’s gaze catches me, will not let me go.
Piercing blue eyes, muscular arms. Dark hair just tousled enough to look rugged, not like he just rolled out of bed. Tall and broad-chested, he looks like a wet dream made real.
He doesn’t fit in here—not at this conference and not in New York City. I’ll eat my computer if he is a scientist of any kind. He’s dressed casually for one—most of the environmental scientists dress up for these conferences. Jeans, but a nice shirt. He’s tall and sexy as sin, but that isn’t what gives him away.
It’s theboots.
A moment after I make eye contact, he gets up and heads toward my table. Not too eager, I like that. The mansaunters. Confidence coats his every movement, and a small grin touches his face.
“You’re far too beautiful to be here alone,” he says, his deep voice going right through me to my core. “Buy you a drink?”
He’s tall, over six feet. Handsome enough to make any woman googly-eyed. Luckily, I’m not easily impressed. Okay, he’s pretty darn impressive, even to me. But that doesn’t mean I have to show it.
“Does that line ever work?” I’m genuinely curious because, mortifyingly, it’s already working on me. I shut my laptop lid. The article will have to wait until tomorrow because I’ve found something far more interesting to pay attention to now.
Taking my reply—or maybe my disconnection from my laptop—as an invitation, he pulls the chair out across from me and sits down. “Sometimes.”
His crooked smile is infectious. I want to grin back at him like an idiot. The strong desire to do so is enough to keep my expression firmly neutral. “You’re not from around here.”
“No, ma’am. What gave me away?”
