“So I get married and that’s that? The foundation will be safe?” Chelle asked, fighting for breath as anxiety and a sense of claustrophobia squeezed her lungs.

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s about time you got with the program. Lucky for you, I have a list of men who would benefit from having you as a helpmate, even if you are much older than a bride should be—especially when it comes to having babies.”

Revulsion at the idea of marrying someone her uncle picked, much less having a child with them, rushed through her, and she shot up out of the chair. “No.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, shaky from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She marched the three steps to her office door and yanked it open. “I’ll handle the details myself. Now get out.”

“You think you can find someone who’d want to marry someone nearly too old to have kids and too fat to be a draw to the marriage bed?” He let out a cruel bark of a laugh. “Good luck with that.” He stood up, doing his best, no doubt, to look intimidating. “I’m offering you the only way to keep this foundation going.” He plopped his cowboy hat on his head. “You’ve been to the lawyers—don’t think they haven’t reached out to me—and you know that there’s no way to break your dad’s will. It’s either you finally take your place as God intended as a wife, or this foundation, which does indeed help the downtrodden here in Harbor City, closes its doors. Of course, I should have known you were too emotional to have a logical, adult conversation.” He walked around her desk to the door, pausing long enough to let loose one last barb. “Blessed be, there really is nothing worse than a hysterical woman.”

Then he walked out, strutting down the hall like a man who had everything in the world.

Chelle squeezed the doorknob tighter, needing something solid to hold onto. Unless she found a way out of this mess, she was absolutely positive that the foundation’s doors wouldn’t stay open after the new year.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Chelle

It had only been an hour since her uncle had dropped a marriage bombshell and stormed off, but Chelle was still no closer to coming up with a way around this ridiculous demand, and the high-pitched yaps coming from the crate in the corner of her cramped office could not be ignored.

“You two need to go outside?” she asked.

A chorus of doggie squeaks and yips erupted from the crate where her two pugs, Groucho Barks and Mary Puppins, had been tucked in for their fifth of approximately a million naps they took each day.