Page 10 of The Rented Bride

“Trent,” a familiar voice called.

He turned to face Celina Young. She was one of three people in the world he considered family—and that included his extended family.

Her eyes fixed on the tray of canapés he balanced in his right hand, then came back to his face. “Hankering for your old high school days?” she asked.

“We’re short of help in the kitchen,” he said.

She laughed. “And you’re pitching in.”

“Why not?”

He started to set the tray on the bar, but she said, “Hold on there, I’m hungry.”

He held the tray as she took two canapés, then set the tray on the bar.

“Can I get you a drink?” the barkeeper asked.

“Nothing for me.” He looked at Celina. “Anything for you?”

“No thanks. I’m on the wagon.”

“On the wagon—you mean you’re—”

She nodded. “Confirmed with the doctor yesterday. Three months pregnant.”

“And I’m just now hearing the news?”

She lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug, but he noticed the emotion buried beneath the casual action. “We wanted to be sure,” she said.

Trent drew her into a hug. “You’re going to make a wonderful mother,” he said, and couldn’t halt a pang of sadness at the possibility that his grandfather might live to see Celina’s baby born, but not Lindsey’s. He drew back. “Is Greg excited?”

She laughed. “He’d better be.”

That sounded like Celina.

“Am I overdressed for the party?” She nodded at his shirt.

Trent looked down, then realized she was referring to his missing jacket. He shook his head. “Phillip is doing a final press job on my jacket.”

“Ah,” she intoned. “Things weren’t up to snuff for your valet.”

“Very few things are up to snuff for Phillip.”

She laughed. “He’s a gem and you wouldn’t make it a day without him.”

“No,” Trent agreed, “I wouldn’t. But I’d better get back up there.” He glanced at his watch. Seven twenty-five. “Granddad agreed to come down at seven thirty. I have to walk down with him.”

Celina’s expression sobered. “How is he?”

“As long as he doesn’t overexert himself, you’d never know he was sick.” But appearances were deceiving. Stage IV heart failure was a walking time bomb. “Dinner is supposed to be served at eight-thirty. Help me keep an eye on him, will you? He won’t listen to reason.”

Celina nodded, and he knew what she was thinking: getting his grandfather to slow down, way down, was like applying failed brakes on a runaway freight train.

Trent kissed her cheek and squeezed her arm. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

She smiled and he started back toward the kitchen, intending to cut through to the rear stairs, then thought better of it and veered right. He didn’t want to get waylaid by Cassandra Adams again. Trent ducked into the hallway, strode the few paces to the staircase and started up. Twice, Ms. Adams had mistaken him for the help. The first time she’d simply been too busy for him to correct her. And, truth was, he’d been impressed with the way she handled the lobster tails. He liked a woman with backbone. Just not when she was intent upon ordering him around. Trent gave orders. He wasn’t used to taking them.

He wouldn’t have to worry about anything getting past the woman—including the party coming up ten servers short. She’d handled the situation well, right down to recruiting the boss, even if it was by accident. The second time, he should have told her who he was, but it was too damned funny, and it had been too long since anything had made him laugh.