Page 122 of First Star I See Tonight (Chicago Stars 8)

It was all a blur. The clerk asked for her driver’s license, and Coop had to take it out of her wallet. When it was time for her signature, he guided her hand to the proper line. And throughout the process, he rubbed her back, as if he were soothing a frightened animal.

With the final paperwork in hand, he led her back outside. When they reached the plaza, he tucked his fingers under her chin. “I know you’re upset. Worse than that you’re scared, and since fear is something you don’t know how to handle, we need to get this out of the way as soon as we can. I’ll handle all the arrangements. Invite whoever you want. All you have to do is show up at my place. Six o’clock tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” That thin, reedy voice couldn’t belong to her.

“Call Heath if you need anything before then. It’s best if he deals with you.”

“But . . .”

His face grew as grave as she’d ever seen. “I need a solid commitment from you, Pipe. I’m strong about a lot of things, but not about you. So you’ll have to take it from here without me pushing you. I’ve brought us to the goal line. You’ll have to carry the ball in.”

“But tomorrow? Couldn’t we . . . postpone this?”

“For how long? A year? Five years? When would you be comfortable enough to do this?”

She looked down at her feet.

“Exactly. The longer you put it off, the harder it’ll be for you.”

“But tomorrow?”

“I’m not as tough as you are, sweetheart. Better to get it over with and put us both out of our misery.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“I hope you’re wrong, because I gave you my word of honor. I said if you talked to me today, I wouldn’t try to contact you again.” His head dipped, and when he looked back up, she saw so much misery in his eyes she felt as if her own raw emotions were staring back at her. “This is all I’ve got, Pipe,” he whispered. “I can’t do the last part for you. Either you show up . . . or you don’t.”

And that was all. He walked away.

***

Annabelle had great contacts and a talent for working miracles, so Coop dumped all the wedding arrangements on her, but only after she’d made him sit through her lecture. “Marriage is a serious commitment, Coop. Not something you should do impulsively, and this is so rash . . .” On and on she went. He understood how it might look to her, but he’d never done anything less impulsively. Pipe would understand. She had to. And she’d show up, too . . . because if she didn’t— He couldn’t think about it.

He spent the next day trying to find something to do with himself until six o’clock other than get drunk. The press had gotten word of his appearance at the marriage license bureau yesterday, but he wasn’t returning their calls. Instead, he tested his recovery by running a couple of miles, then drank a pot of coffee and ran another mile. He went to the office and stared at his computer. Turned on ESPN. Turned it off. Tried to read.

Around one in the afternoon, Heath called. “I’ve got your former bouncer here. I gotta say, she’s a little high-strung. And loud.”

Coop gripped the phone tighter. “Among other things.”

Pipe shouted at him in the background. “You can’t get married without a prenup, you idiot! And a prenup isn’t something you put together in a couple of hours!”

“I’m afraid she’s got you there, Champ,” Heath said.

“You’re worth millions!” she yelled. And then, presumably to Heath, although she was still yelling loud enough for Coop to draw the phone back from his ear. “Do you see what I’m up against? He’s an adrenaline junkie.”

“She’s obviously thought about this,” Heath said. “Under the circumstances, I strongly advise you not to go any further without getting your attorneys involved.”

“Otherwise, I’ll take you for every cent you have!” Even with the phone held away from his ear, he had no trouble hearing that.

“Did you hear?” Heath said.

“Hard not to. You tell her to worry about herself.” He hung up.

***

Annabelle worked her magic. His garden furniture and potting table disappeared from the terrace. Workers delivered chairs, along with outdoor heaters to keep the guests warm against the November night chill and a wooden crate with something that looked suspiciously like a chandelier poking out of the top. As the caterers took over his kitchen, he sealed himself upstairs, growing more anxious by the minute. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he called Heath. “Is she going to show up?”

“Not a clue. I figure you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance at best.”

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