Stop the Wedding! Read Free

state repaying her school loans in return for a two-year stint. One year down, and one to go.
    At first she’d been appalled at her exposure to the underbelly of family disputes, but the occasional moral victories had made the struggle worthwhile. And in the process of dealing with other people’s problems, she had gained enormous internal strength. She rejected Michaela’s assertion that she’d grown cynical where relationships were concerned—she was simply realistic. Statistics didn’t lie. Thankfully, she had stumbled upon a simple solution to her dating dilemma: She didn’t. And she was suspicious of those who did.
    As for her mother, well…Belle was obviously suffering a lost-partner empty-nest mid-life crisis.
    Annabelle turned in the direction of ground transportation, then swung her computer bag to her shoulder and started walking. To save money, she could ride the Marta train as far north as the rail had progressed since she’d last visited, then take a cab to her childhood home. She was saving the recent windfall she’d received to split between a down payment on a house and a decent used car for her mother. Otherwise, her budget remained fairly tight, and the last-minute ticket had set her back a few paces. She hoped the airline found her luggage soon, because she couldn’t afford new clothes, and she couldn’t spend the next two weeks in her travel garb of roomy denim overalls, pink T-shirt, and thick-soled sandals.
    The first blast of early summer heat hit her as she climbed out of the stairwell up to the train platform. A few strands of her dark hair had escaped the haphazard clip she preferred on non-work days, and her split ends tickled her nose. She fingered the hair behind her ears, then donned her yellow-lensed sunglasses against the intense glare bouncing off the concrete. Sunny and H-O-T.
    Annabelle smiled—welcome to Atlanta.
    When the train ground to a halt at the station, she joined the crowd pressing forward, then dropped into a hard seat facing backward. People spread out to maintain their personal distance, the doors slid closed, and the train shimmied forward. The cross section of passengers ran the gamut, from tattooed college kids to wide-eyed tourists to stoic professionals. Annabelle loved to people-watch and weave a story about the characters based on their body language.
    The petite brunette ignoring her rowdy kids was wondering what had happened to her marriage. The elderly couple sitting close had arrived for a visit with their grandchildren. And the stone-faced businessman drumming his fingers on his expensive watch wanted to be somewhere else—with his lover?
    She squinted. No, his dark features were too hard-edged for him to be thinking about anything remotely romantic. His olive-colored suit and white shirt were duly crisp, but the knot of his tie sagged and his black eyes and jaw were shadowed with jet-lag. He stared slightly to his left, out the plexi-glass window, but she suspected he saw none of the blurred scenery. The unshaven man wasn’t on his way to a meeting—maybe a funeral? Her imagination took root and flowered. Yes, he’d come home to attend a funeral. A funeral for someone he wasn’t close to, but should have been.
    He glanced her way and caught her staring. The intensity of his expression sent a tickle of feminine awareness up the back of her neck. Annabelle swallowed, but couldn’t bring herself to look away. Satan himself couldn’t have been more compelling. His large nose, strong jaw and heavy brows were assembled in a way that would make a photographer keep walking, but cause an artist to pause. He sat a head taller than most men, and his wide shoulders spilled his frame into the empty connected seat. He looked vaguely familiar, although she was sure they’d never met. She might have asked, but the man wore his dark features like a caution sign: Approach at Your Own Risk.
    He flicked his gaze over her, giving no more deliberation to her face than