Take Me (Take Me 1)

“A bit too much,” Denny gently chastised.

Kate and her youngest brother butted heads over only one thing: her independent streak. Denny, as with the rest of her family, would prefer she try to be one of the Stockmans. Join the family practice as a GP or, better yet, get married and have a few children. Keep up with her siblings and their growing broods.

Mirabeth unwittingly spared her from an impending lecture by saying, “Kathryn, I’m hosting a fund-raiser for the Copeland Foundation. What would it take to convince you to headline our fashion show?”

Kate’s jaw dropped.

Jude grinned. “Brilliant idea.”

Kate hadn’t even collected her thoughts when Charlotte clapped her hands together and declared, “A remarkable selection, Mirabeth!” She clasped Kate’s free hand. The other one held an empty champagne flute—that Jude quickly and discreetly exchanged for a new one.

“Please consider this,” Charlotte pleaded. “We were literally thrown into the lion’s den at the eleventh hour. Mirabeth and I have no clue how to reel in a new crowd. The ‘usual suspects’ are all expecting the same ole, same ole…and continually expect to donate less and less for said same ole, same ole.”

“We’re desperate for an exciting twist,” Mirabeth added with genuine excitement in her tone. “Something more avant-garde and…what’s the word?” She snapped her beautifully manicured fingers, apparently in hopes the word would miraculously materialize before her very eyes.

“Sophisticated?” Charlotte offered.

“Chanel is the height of sophistication,” Mirabeth countered. “A staple for us, without doubt. I’m thinking of a more heart-pounding showmanship. Fiery, red-carpet-worthy sensationalism that just—”

“Pops,” Jude simply s

aid.

Charlotte and Mirabeth gasped—delightedly.

Kate’s parents and brother gaped—dejectedly.

“Yes!” Mirabeth exclaimed. Much to Kate’s surprise. “That’s precisely what we want. Mr. McMillan, is it?” She batted her long lashes at Jude. “I’m Mirabeth Presley.”

“Jude, please.” He shook her hand carefully. Elegantly.

A stirring sensation rippled through Kate. She’d made her own brilliant selection. Jude really was turning out to be the perfect escort this evening.

“Kathryn, we need you for this event!” Mirabeth insisted.

Kate’s gaze slipped to Jude once more, who still grinned. And gave a brief nod.

Kate took a deep, deep breath.

She was just about to acquiesce, when her mother finally let out that condemnatory tsk she’d been holding in check. And said, “Honestly, ladies.” Her tone held notable displeasure. “The Copeland Foundation is incredibly prestigious with a renowned reputation. My friends and I support this particular event every year. We expect…we’re accustomed to…we’re…” Her drawn-out sigh held her disconcertion.

Kate’s heart fell.

Her mother said, “I’m so sorry, ladies. Your forward-thinking is to be commended, but as former leaders of the Foundation—and dear friends of the Copelands—we have clear objectives in mind for the promotion of its brand and—”

“Mother,” Kate interjected. “It’s okay.” To Charlotte and Mirabeth, she said, “I’m not comfortable in the spotlight. You understand, right?”

They both hedged.

Kate winced. These ladies who lunched were accepting her into their lair? And her mother was…mortified? Did she fear Kate would disappoint the Foundation and her mother’s close-knit circle of socialites? Or worse…embarrass her?

Kate’s body tensed. Likely, that was precisely her mother’s worry. Image was everything to Betsy Stockman, and being the model doctor’s wife was exceedingly important to her. That meant having the model family to parade around.

Saving her from agonizing over that further, Charlotte suddenly declared, “Oh! I’m getting the signal from Lillian, one of my bridal consultants, that dinner is about to start. Let’s all find our seats, shall we? The cognac-laced lobster bisque is going to curl your toes!”

The group dispersed. Kate let out the breath she’d been holding.

Jude murmured, “Loosen up. Everything’s fine, Kate.”