Kelsey Roberts - Unlawfully Wedded

Tory pointedly ignored J.D.’s apparent interest in Rose’s announcement. The woman’s stiletto heels clicked against the wood-planked floor as she held the door open wide.

Tory smiled as she caught sight of Dr. Mitchell Greyson, dean of student services at Oglethorpe College. Dr. Greyson shuffled in, his small body listing to the side where his hand toted a sizable briefcase. The scent of witch hazel reached her a fraction of a second before the rumpled, balding man. His appearance sent signals of disaster surging through her. Greyson only left his office to deliver bad news. She braced herself against the table....

“Miss Conway,” he greeted in his proper southern accent. “I’m sorry to trouble you at your place of employment.”

Tory’s grin grew wider. She was a waitress, not the CEO of some fancy corporation. Greyson acted as if he’d interrupted important merger negotiations.

“No problem,” she told him brightly, tucking a dish towel into the waistband of her apron. Gesturing to one of the chairs, Tory offered him a seat as she glared at J.D. He was leaning back in his chair, watching her as if she were the main feature at the theater.

J.D.’s expression didn’t falter when their eyes briefly met. That bothered her.

“I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news,” Dr. Greyson began as he sat down and placed his briefcase on the table, then slowly extracted a crisp, white sheet of letterhead, which he handed to her.

Taking the letter, Tory’s eyes scanned the neatly typed print. She read it again, sure she had somehow misconstrued its meaning.

“This isn’t possible,” she managed to say in a strangled voice.

Rose came over then, standing behind her with one hand comfortingly resting on Tory’s shoulder.

“What does it mean?” Rose asked.

“I’m dead,” Tory answered as the full impact of the news settled over her like a heavy blanket.

“Not necessarily,” Dr. Greyson cut in. “I’ve brought along a directory of college funding,” he said, pulling a tattered paperback from his briefcase.

Tory groaned. “I’ve been all through that. I couldn’t find a single one I qualified for.”

“Perhaps there are some new listings?” Greyson suggested.

“Maybe,” she responded dismally.

“You know,” Greyson said as he patted the back of her hand with his pudgy fingers. “You can take a year or so off. Perhaps by then the ‘forces that be’ will reinstate the program.”

“Maybe,” Tory repeated.

“I’ll keep my ears open,” Greyson promised as he scooted his chair back and rose to his modest height. “Perhaps the board of trustees...”

Of course, she knew the board could do nothing on her behalf.

“I’m finished,” Tory whispered, expelling an anguished sigh.

“Can we help?” Rose asked, taking the seat Greyson had vacated. “Shelby and I—”

“Are hardly in a position to cough up seventeen thousand dollars,” Tory finished. “Shelby has Chad and she’s expecting another baby any minute. And I know you have all your cash committed to the rehab of the outbuildings. Until you finish the work on the dependencies, you aren’t in any condition to loan me money.”

Rose’s painted red lips thinned and she adjusted the black leather belt cinching her waist. She reached forward and grabbed the directory that Dr. Greyson had left behind.

“Forget it.” Tory shrugged. “I’ve already maxed out my eligibility for student loans, along with every grant and scholarship known to mankind.”

“But you haven’t even tried to find alternative funding,” Rose argued with a snort.

“Rose,” Tory began slowly. “All you’ll find in that directory is a bunch of weird stuff. Scholarships for blue-eyed women with Spanish surnames born in the month of May. Grants for anyone born under the same star as some philanthropist’s Maltese.”

She followed the sound of the deep, throaty chuckle. Having J. D. Porter laugh when her whole world was shattering didn’t sit well.

“Amused?” she asked tartly. “I’m so glad you find my crisis funny.” She stood and braced her hands on her hips. “I need some air,” she told Rose. “If I don’t get away from him, I might just take out my frustrations on your useless son.”

She stormed out of the room, the vision of J.D.’s dancing gray eyes vividly etched in her brain. He had laughed at her! She fumed as she stepped into the early-June humidity. What kind of unfeeling jerk would laugh at a time like this? “Jackass Deluxe,” she grumbled as she stalked through the overgrown gardens behind the property.

The tall, damp grass licked at her ankles above her socks, leaving a sheen of moisture on her white aerobic shoes. The air was thick with the scent of the wild vines growing along the brick exterior of the dependency.

The scent inspired memories from the past. Memories of when her family had owned this place. She had been a ten-year-old princess and this had been her kingdom. Her hand reached out to touch the coolness of the weather-beaten stone wall. A small lizard skittered along the surface, then disappeared behind the growth of vegetation threatening to overtake the dilapidated building.

She was thrilled that Rose and Shelby had decided to restore the outbuilding of the Charleston single house. The dependency, which had once served as both kitchen and servants quarters, had been neglected for more than a hundred years. Her only misgiving was the man hired to do the work.

J. D. Porter was an architect known for his dramatic, modern structures. She frowned, imagining what Mr. Steel-and-Glass Towers might do to this historically significant structure. Cringing, she allowed her fingers to admire the stone. J.D. didn’t appreciate or even understand historical preservation. He didn’t appreciate Rose, either. He was charging his own mother an hourly rate for the renovation. “That man is a piece of work.”

“Thanks.”

Tory spun around and her hand flew to her mouth. Wide-eyed, she looked into the relaxed face and instantly felt her cheeks burn. “I didn’t...hear you,” she stammered.

J.D. shifted so that his large body cast a long shadow over Tory. Deep lines appeared on either side of his eyes as he squinted against the sunlight.

“I take it you’re being squeezed out of the world of academe.”

Tory felt her shoulders slump forward. “It seems that way.”

“What will you do?”

She shrugged and dropped her gaze to the front of his shirt. It was a stupid move, she realized too late. Her eyes lingered at the deep V where he’d neglected to button his shirt. A thick mat of dark hair curled over solid, tanned skin. She swallowed and forced her eyes to the ground.

“I may have to wait a year or so until I can get another grant.”

He shifted his weight again as his thumbs looped into the waistband of his jeans. “What about your family? Can’t they help with your tuition?”

“Interesting concept, coming from you,” she said as she met his eyes. “I don’t really have any family.” Needing to change the subject, Tory asked, “How can you charge your own mother top dollar?”

His expression grew dark, and something vaguely dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I’m a businessman, Tory. Not a philanthropist.”

Heartless creep! her mind screamed. “She’s your mother.”

“Biologically,” he qualified.

“It still counts,” Tory told him with a saccharine smile.

Lifting sunglasses from the breast pocket of his shirt, J.D. placed them on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. Tory was left to view her own reflection in their mirrored lenses.

“Want to give me a hand?”

“What?” she fairly squealed.

Her voice caused an immediate smile to cut the sharp angles of his face. “Assist me?”