The Wedding Pact Box Set - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,10

her surprise, she loved it.

She wasn’t sure why. She’d never considered herself an outdoorsy person, but she began to cherish her monthly camping trips with her dad and brother.

This had irritated her mother to no end, and in fact, it drove an even deeper wedge between the two. And that wedge became a gulf when Megan graduated from Missouri University and flew off to Seattle to work for a nonprofit that worked to prevent over-deforestation. At the time, her well-planned escape had been an act of rebellion. While she loved her job and had quickly moved up the hierarchy to the position of grant coordinator and fundraiser, she now realized the move had cost her something precious—her close relationship with her father and brother.

But here she was, hip-deep in self-analysis again, when she still had no answer to the pressing issue of how she’d gotten from the plane into her old room.

It all came rushing back to her. Boarding the plane. Drinking two mimosas. Stealing Mr. McMillan’s drink. Blabbering to him about the flight attendant and her defunct fiancé.

She squeezed her eyes shut in horror. She’d made an utter fool of herself.

She sat up and swiped at her wet cheek, realizing the wet sensation was the result of all the drool on her pillow. Great. As if she needed to feel any worse. At least she could take comfort in the fact that she’d never see the man again. What did it matter if he thought she was crazy? Besides, there were bigger things to worry about.

She shook her head, trying to clear it, but spiking a fresh round of pain instead. She needed to focus so she could figure out how she’d ended up on her bed. The last thing she remembered was snuggling under the blanket in her seat on the plane. But if she was in her room, her mother must have found her somehow.

Her mother was going to kill her. It was a wonder she hadn’t taken advantage of Megan’s supine state to do so already.

Megan glanced around the room and found her old digital alarm clock on the worn white nightstand. 6:12. The sun was streaming through the blinds, but it was summer so that didn’t necessarily give her a clue as to whether it was six a.m. or six p.m. She supposed it didn’t matter. One way or another, there would be hell to pay.

Sliding off the bed, Megan moved to her door and cautiously cracked it open. Voices floated up from downstairs, one of them clearly her mother’s. Since her mother never got up before seven thirty if she could help it, it had to be evening.

She made her way down the stairs with an anxious ball in the pit of her stomach. She was going to have some explaining to do, though she had no idea how much, because in her drugged state she could have said anything to her mother between meeting her in the airport and falling onto her bed. But the sound of other voices in the kitchen gave her a small measure of reassurance. Her mother’s voice was light and airy—her company voice. This was good news for Megan. No matter how upset she was, Nicole Vandemeer would never under any circumstances murder someone in front of guests. No matter how justified.

“. . . Megan hardly told us anything,” her mother was saying as Megan approached the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details,” a man’s voice said. Why did he sound familiar?

“There she is!” Nicole Vandemeer exclaimed, clasping her hands together in glee. She was in full-on hostess mode, but she seemed even more enthusiastic than was warranted by a mere guest. “Megan! We were just talking about you!”

Had the Dramamine transported her to some sort of bizarre world?

Three people sat at the kitchen island, their backs to her, while her mother stood in front of the commercial gas cooktop, a martini glass in her hand. In tandem, the people on the barstools turned to face her. Her grandmother gave her a big smile and her father nodded, a twinkle in his eye. But it was the third person that made the floor turn to molasses.

Mr. McMillan, the man who had sat next to her on the airplane, was sitting at her parents’ kitchen counter.

Of course it couldn’t be true.

She squinted her eyes tight, trying to reboot her brain, but when she opened them, he was still there, giving her a hesitant smile. Which left