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  Marrying Up

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox

  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.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  This story is dedicated to weddings, and to the hope that one day soon we’ll all safely be able to return to the dignified tradition of gathering in ballrooms to celebrate love and dance to “Baby Got Back.”

  Marrying Up

  A country boy, city girl contemporary romance

  By Abby Knox

  When loyal ranch hand Smitty is asked to help a big city wedding planner arrange his boss's nuptials, he's ready to saddle up. The gorgeous whirlwind of a wedding coordinator quickly takes over the ranch and stakes a claim on Smitty's heart.

  Ally has one job to do and that's to get Sam and Wren married in one week. Tall and capable, this ranch manager turns out to be pretty good at more than just helping her drape tulle at this rustic-chic affair; his kisses also touch down like a twister in Tornado Alley.

  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

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  An excerpt from Shacking Up

  Chapter One

  Smitty

  Who in the world appears for jury duty and comes home in love?

  My boss, Sam Evans, that's who.

  I worry that the old man has finally lost his marbles.

  "This is it, Smitty. She's the one."

  All the doubt I might have had stampedes out of my mind when I hear him say it. Sam's voice is sober, his intentions as clear as the blue sky after a prairie gullywasher. He means it. He's in love and he's bringing her home to the ranch with him.

  Just in case it's not clear that he's a completely new man compared to the one I knew just over a week ago, he gives the other ranch hands and me five days off so he and Wren can have the whole place to themselves.

  I'm not much for vacations but I'll do anything Sam asks me to do. In a most non-Smitty turn of events, I find myself reserving a high rise condo in the city. A part of me feels a little bit motivated to meet someone, and going by pure numbers, I like my chances of meeting a fun single woman close to my age in the city, much more than my chances of doing so while staying put in the sticks.

  With my beat up canvas duffel bag stowed in the bed, I steer my rickety Ford pickup out of the country, across the river, and into the congested downtown area. I get a little excited seeing the skyscrapers looming above me.

  I don't much care for city driving but I'm surprised at how easily I find the building where I'm staying. The condo's owner has provided such specific directions for parking and how to get inside, that I am kicking myself for not taking some time to explore downtown before now.

  When I arrive in the condo, the unexpected feeling of home washes over me. From our brief chats through the rental app, I had assumed this place would have city slicker written all over it. It is indeed slick, full of hip furniture like I've only seen in magazines at the grocery store checkout. But it's also full of cozy touches that make me feel like I belong here: bright colors, cool art on the walls, lots of antique furniture that's been cared for. Oddly, I see no family photos anywhere.

  This place doesn't just exceed my expectations, it's like I almost feel a connection to whoever lives here. I can see and feel her sweetness everywhere I look, and I haven't even laid eyes on the lady.

  I know where I need to go first. In the bathroom, the condo owner, Ally, has left a stack of magazines that I know she picked because of my answers to her online survey about my preferences. I don't think any of this is what normal vacation rental owners do.

  The bathroom shelf is full of fancy homemade soaps and shampoo bars that I find myself picking up to examine and smell, a thing that would never occur to me to do on a normal day. Soap is soap; I'm strictly an Ivory or Irish Spring kind of guy. But this "sandalwood and bacon" stuff is not too bad. I find a little handwritten note there, as well, in penmanship that looks nice enough to be calligraphy: "Feel free to use all the products you find. I tried to match them to what I thought your personal preferences would be. Enjoy!"

  Lord Almighty, this lady thinks of everything.

  On the kitchen counter, she's left a basket full of brochures, along with another handwritten note. "Welcome! Here are the menus of all my favorite local spots, plus some info on area museums, theaters, and parks. If you want a steak, I highly recommend Roy's. If you want something more adventurous, try Coriander."

  She's done too much, but I sure do appreciate it.

  I text her through the app to let her know I'm settled in and to thank her for all the thoughtful details. And, I don't know if it's the city water but I'm not feeling quite myself, so I add, "You should do vacation rentals for a living. You're good at this."

  Minutes later, while I'm back in the bathroom, cleaning myself up using some of the manly hair products she's left for me and trying to work out the hat hair before I go to dinner, she replies and tells me she's a wedding coordinator. It all makes sense. Writing back, I tell her my boss might require a wedding coordinator pretty soon, and then I stuff my phone in my jacket pocket and head out for dinner and a walk around the city.

  Seeing the buildings, hearing the traffic, and watching groups of pretty women gather for after-work drinks, I can't help but feel refreshed already.

  At Coriander, I eat a curious type of dish that I'm pretty sure has been served to me on a bed of moss. It's good, but I find myself wishing I had a dinner companion to discuss the moss situation, specifically her. I feel like she wouldn't talk down to me and my raised-on-home-cooking palate.

  Even though I've never met her, she's already the nicest part of my trip so far.

  Chapter Two

  Ally

  I don't like to call any bride I work with a bridezilla, but holy shiitake mushrooms.

  I've just stepped out of the wedding venue to grab a huge, overpriced black coffee because I'm going to need it to make it through this Friday night wedding. While I am out, I check my email and see that my renter arrived at the condo with no issues.

  He sent me a very polite email through the rental app, which is more than I can say for most of the people who rent my condo. I keep the place immaculate because I mainly use it as a home office when I first meet with clients. I spend so little time there on weekends because I'm working weddings all over the city, so I'll usually spend weekend nights in hotels near the wedding locations or at my Pops and Grams' house.

  I may not love Taffy, the bride I'm working with tonight, but as soon as Taffy's check clears, I'll be able to put a down payment on a second property. I'm thinking of a picturesque spot in the country where I can stay on weekends while I work on weddings in more rural setting
s. It makes sense because half of my weddings these days are held at a vineyard or somewhere out in the rural areas. With as much driving as I do and the late nights I work, I do need multiple places to crash.

  Creating memorable dream weddings has always been my passion. But what makes me memorable are the personal touches I put on everything I do, which is true for weddings and renting out my condo. Case in point: as I sip my coffee and scroll through my rental profile, I see that Mr. Smith has already left a review.

  I smile like a dope, letting myself feel good about having at least one satisfied client tonight. His post reads, "Place is immaculate. Owner is very thorough with directions and advice for things to do in the area. Her sweet notes made me feel welcome, and the place feels even better than home."

  Mr. Smith's praise has me feeling a little giddy, and before I can tuck my phone away I get an alert for another email from him, telling me his boss, the ranch owner, might be getting married soon. I forward him my contact card and let him know he can text me at that number directly if he has any questions.

  I had hoped the bride would maintain her calm while I stepped out. It took me literally five minutes to run across the street from her venue here at the Windsor Hotel, but she's in full meltdown mode when I return.

  "I told that woman to wear black. It was on the invitation," Taffy wails at me, her arms gesturing wildly, her teary eyes threatening to ruin her makeup. "Everyone is supposed to be wearing black floor-length gowns or black suits. If she's not in black, it ruins the photos. You might as well go ahead and send the photographer home because I don't want a single moment of what she's done to me on my day preserved forever!"

  It's not necessarily my job to talk a bride off the ledge, but I'm pretty good at it. Taffy's maid of honor is drunk and crying over having gained half a pound since the last fitting, so she's no help. It's an hour before the ceremony and things are already out of hand.

  But that's OK. I got this. It's what I do.

  I hand over my coffee to the maid of honor. "Drink this," I say sweetly, and then plaster on my brightest smile and hiss for only her to hear. "And get your shit together; your best friend is getting married in an hour."

  I lead Taffy to the chaise in the bridal suite.

  "Honey," I say, talking to my client like she's my lifelong best friend, even though she's been the all-time worst client of my entire life. All she needs is a reminder that the love of her life is waiting for her downstairs to start their life together, and whether or not her mother decided to wear charcoal is not going to matter when they're on their honeymoon in Paris.

  I feel her pain, a little bit. I'd be pretty pissed if my mom did that to me, but then, if I do ever get married, I won't give a flip what people wear to the wedding. The guests could be naked for all I care. I've done several hundred weddings in the last five years -- and a huge guest list with a dress code is almost always a recipe for disaster -- if the bride cares too hard. And the bride always cares too hard.

  Taffy is on another level, claiming that these photos are going to give her PTSD.

  I'm about done with this nonsense. It's time for some tough love.

  Asking everyone including the makeup artist to clear the room, I offer some perspective. "Taffy. You are about to marry Jason, the love of your life, and you are about to make partner. Your daily barre class has your backside killing it in this dress, and your bridesmaids are carrying flowers that were imported here from Vietnam. I didn't think I could pull that off for you, but I did it. So let me tell you something else about PTSD. My grandpa—who was drafted in 1969, served proudly, and received a Purple Heart—has actual PTSD, and flinches whenever he hears helicopters."

  Taffy's eyes go wide.

  "Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and hides under the bed. That, Taffy, is actual PTSD. Do you understand now?"

  I worry for a moment that I might have pushed too far, but I press on.

  "So do you think you can overlook your mother wearing a charcoal gray dress and get that immaculate backside of yours downstairs to get married?"

  Taffy seems to understand but she still pouts. "I just don't know why she has to be so spiteful."

  I squeeze her shoulder in understanding. "Some moms be crazy. Move on, woman."

  Just then, a voice comes into my ear via my headset. My assistant tells me that all the guests are seated and it's time for the bridesmaids and the groomsmen to make their entrance.

  "Send Dad on up. Let's do this."

  Taffy gives me the hairy eyeball. "I can't believe I'm paying you to talk to me like this."

  I smile sweetly and say, "Honey, that little pep talk is extra."

  Chapter Three

  Smitty

  The next day, I take in the art museum that's a short walk from the condo.

  Wandering around looking at art has never been my thing, but I have to wonder why not. Some of it I don't care for, but a lot of it is pretty cool.

  A painting of a famous artist's bedroom catches my eye, and I find myself staring at it for a long time. The colors are bright and cheerful, and yet somehow it makes me sad. Maybe it reminds me of my empty bed. All around me, happy couples and families are taking in the art together, having interesting conversations, and I feel even more alone.

  I keep thinking about how nice it would be to have brought a friend along with me.

  Feeling the need to get away from all the happy couples, I take a walk around downtown for a while. I have to laugh at myself. How does a person meet friends in the city? Do I go to a bar? A dance club? That doesn't seem right to me.

  I'm feeling a little bit disoriented, and look around for something, anything that feels comfortable and familiar. I don't want to go back to the condo yet. I'd feel like I failed at being a tourist in the city if I gave up exploring after only half a day. I look around, hoping for anything that looks like it won't cost me $12 for a craft beer. I wander into an Irish pub and belly up to the bar, feeling slightly more at home. It's not a cowboy bar but it'll do.

  Scrolling through my contacts, I resist the urge to text Ally directly. That would feel too forward, having no reason to bother her. Besides, it's Saturday afternoon, and surely she's getting ready for another wedding today.

  I get a surprising phone call from Sam while I drink my beer.

  "I've already talked to that wedding coordinator whose number you sent me, so Wren and I are gonna go ahead and pull the trigger. The lady had a cancellation and says she can pull everything together in a couple of weeks. I don't know how long it usually takes weddings to get done but she seems legit.

  "Wren goes back to work on Monday, so that'll give you all enough time to get everything done, but you gotta keep it a secret from Wren. I want it to be a surprise. She's never had anything nice done for her in her whole life and I want something beautiful for her, even if it's small. All I need you to do is lend a hand, otherwise stay out of the wedding planner's way. She's a real go-getter from what I understand. As soon as the lady gets here on Monday, I'm going to need all hands on deck because this is a lot to pull together for next weekend."

  All of this came out of left field. I always knew he wanted to retire when he got married and sell me the ranch, I just didn't know when it would happen, and I surely never thought it would happen while I was still in my thirties. Sam's not an impulsive man, so if he says he's ready to retire and get married, I believe him.

  I finished off a 20-ounce mug of beer and I'm feeling pretty good about the fact that I get to meet this Ally person face-to-face next week. I figure that's a good enough reason to text her directly.

  "Hey, I know you're probably busy at a wedding today but my boss Sam just let me know he hired you for his wedding. Looking forward to seeing you Monday at the ranch! It's a tight schedule but me and the boys will lend a hand wherever you need it."

  To my surprise, she texts back almost right away.

  "Thank you so much for the referral, Mr. Smith! And don't you worry, I've pulled of
f weddings with much bigger guest lists, in a shorter time, in way more remote locations than across the river in the country. We got this, my friend."

  Maybe it's the beer, but I text back a single, smiley face emoji. The one with the cowboy hat. Instantly I regret it. What the hell was that? So dorky.

  She texts back with the heart eyes. Whoa. Something catches in my chest.

  Is she flirting? No, she's just a real nice lady.

  I decide to quit while I'm ahead and not text her back. I think I'm starting to like this woman, which is crazy because we don't know each other. She could be forty years my senior and I wouldn't care. She seems like a person I'd enjoy spending time with. I don't often get the chance to talk to women, other than the married veterinarian who comes to the ranch every so often.

  Pulling up the web browser on my phone, I look up her business, which leads me to her social media page. I shouldn't be creeping on her like this, should I? I justify the creeping because, well, if she's going to show up to work on the wedding on Monday, I'd better know what she looks like.

  And, wowza.

  Long hair, green eyes, freckles, and a killer smile look back at me. She looks much younger than what I pictured, but her uptown suit and diamond necklace tell me everything I need to know. She's beautiful, but definitely out of my league.

  Chapter Four

  Ally