Wooing The Wedding Planner

That “mate once for life” business was all too real. And that was the trouble.

Byron lifted his chin, catching Kath’s gaze. “What can we do for you?”

The twinkle Constantine had brought to the woman’s eyes faded out. “The Xerox machine is on the fritz.”

Byron pushed up from his chair. “Again?”

She held up her hands. “I’ve tried the manual. I’ve tried customer service. I even channeled Pelé and gave the dang thing a few kicks like you did last week. Until the maintenance guy gets here later in the week, I’ll have to run to the library to see if they’ll let me use theirs.”

Byron shook his head. “It’s too cold out. You stay in. I’ll go to the library.”

“But you have a meeting,” she reminded him.

“I’ll have plenty of time to get back and prep.” Pointing at the manila folder she’d folded against her chest, he asked, “Is this what we need copied?”

Kath relinquished the papers. “They’re for today and tomorrow’s appointments. I usually make three copies of everything. One for records, one for the client and one spare.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Byron said.

Kath eyed Constantine over Byron’s shoulder. “You and the missus sure raised this one right.”

“Ah, I’m a bad influence,” Constantine said with a smirk. “This one’s the work of his mother.”

“Whatever the case, he’s gentleman to the bone,” Kath noted. “The world could use several more just like him.”

Byron tossed a heated glance into Grim’s office when he heard his business partner snigger. “Thank you, Kath.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said as she returned to the lobby.

As Byron stuffed the folder into his satchel and pulled on his coat and scarf, his father buttoned his peacoat. He peered into Grim’s office and asked after Priscilla and the baby before joining Byron at the door while saying, “Vivi’s flight was delayed again.”

“She still hasn’t flown out?” Byron asked, pushing the door open into the cold. Byron didn’t particularly care for his sister being on another continent, not to mention a third-world country. The flying didn’t soothe him either. She and her fiancé, Sidney, treasured their humanitarian calling. Their work was important, but Byron would feel a lot less edgy when his baby sister was back on home soil. “She’s going to miss her own wedding.”

“She’ll be here. Don’t you worry.” Constantine clapped an arm around Byron’s shoulders. “Remember, you need us, we’re here.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Byron said, amused.

“Go see Athena.”

“First chance I get,” Byron promised. He wrapped an arm around his father. “Come here, you old geezer.”

“Ah.” Constantine squeezed him into a bear hug, rubbing circles over Byron’s back just as he had when he was a child. He gave him a few thumps for good measure. “Fruit of my loins.”

“Pop, word of advice,” Byron quipped. “Don’t talk about your loins when you’re hugging people. Unless it’s Ma. In which case please ensure the rest of us aren’t anywhere within hearing distance.”

A laugh rolled through Constantine’s torso. He grabbed Byron’s face and kissed him square on the mouth. “I love ya.”

Byron rubbed his lips together. “Save some for her, huh?”

Constantine opened the driver’s door of the Prius and folded his long frame behind the wheel, defying everything Byron knew about logic. He winked. “Valentine’s Day, leap year, Lincoln’s birthday...” He cranked the Prius to life. “Doesn’t matter what day it is. My girl gets the lion’s share.”

Byron threw his father a casual salute. He waited for him to leave the parking lot before starting off for the library to the north. He bypassed the children’s park, taking a shortcut between the buildings that walled off Fairhope’s version of the French Quarter to cut the wind off his face.

As he came out onto De La Mare and turned east toward Section, he collided with the brunt of an icy gale. His scarf loosened and went flying. He spun around quickly to snatch it. The wind swirled, sending the scarf sailing the other way. And a torrent of rose petals rushed up to meet him.

He raised his hands to shield his face from the odd deluge. When he lowered them, he saw the woman standing on the curb, looking at him in dawning horror. Her peaches and cream complexion went white as Easter lilies as the petals winged away. “Oh, God,” she uttered, the round box in her hands empty.

Byron reached out to grasp Roxie Honeycutt’s arm. She looked dangerously close to falling to her knees. “Hey, hey. It’s all right. They’re just flowers.”

Her gaze seized on his, her lips parting in shock.

Clearly not the right thing to say to a wedding planner. He extricated the box from her gloved hand. “I meant there’s probably more where those came from, right?” He tried smiling to draw her out of her blank stare. The woman he’d known for a little over a year was normally expressive. Bubbly, even. Sure, she’d been a thinner, quieter, more subdued version of Roxie over the last ten months thanks in large part to her husband’s affair.

Idiot, Byron thought automatically whenever Richard Levy was mentioned. Make that her ex-husband, and rightly so. Any man who slept with one of his wife’s sisters deserved to be kicked brusquely to the curb.

Roxie licked her lips. “I’m...so dead.”

Her hand was in his. It was small, wrapped in cashmere. It folded into his big, icy fist like the wings of a jewel-breasted barbet. He moved his other palm over the back of it for friction. “Let’s call Adrian,” he said instantly. The florist was a mutual friend. She and Roxie often collaborated on events. “She’ll get what you need.”

Roxie blinked. “Adrian? She’s doing flowers for a wedding in Mobile.”

“Shit. Sorry.” He shook his head. It was ridiculous. They were friends. He could curse in front of her.

She always put him on his toes. Not that she ever spared him the free-flowing tap of her amiability. There was just something about her... It didn’t set him ill at ease. Not at all. It...brought him to attention. Close attention.

Kath would’ve said it was the “gentleman” in him responding to the lady in her.

“I’m sure there’s a solution,” he asserted, giving her hand a squeeze. He looked to her Lexus. There were boxes stacked neatly on the ground and more in the trunk. “First...why don’t I help you get these where they need to go?”

She nodded. “That would be wonderful.” Her gaze locked onto his again. Her mouth moved at the corners. “Thank you, Byron.”

The first time he’d seen her smile, he’d stopped breathing. Actually stopped breathing. The zing of her exuberant blue eyes, her blinding white teeth—straight as Grecian pillars—had hit him square in the chest. Her beauty was impeccable. He remembered thinking that she was the most unspoiled thing he’d ever seen.

She was riveting. The kind of riveting that made a man stare a few seconds too long.

Carefully, he looked away from her warm round eyes. Growing up, his parents had lived in a house on the outskirts of Atlanta. Larkspur had grown there, blooming in blue-flamed spikes in high summer. When he looked into Roxie’s eyes, he remembered just how blue those spikes were.

He bent to retrieve her packages. “Where’re you headed?”

“Just around the corner,” she told him, placing the empty box in the trunk as he gathered the others. “To the library.”

“Fancy that,” he said. “Me, too.”

The small smile grew by a fraction. “That is fancy.”

They crossed De La Mare, bound for the intersection of Section Street and Fairhope Avenue, the hub of downtown. On one corner was the white Fairhope Pharmacy. On the other was the city clock that chimed the hour. As they waited for traffic to move off so they could venture across, Byron saw that Roxie’s pale cheeks were tinged pink. He might’ve thought it was the wind had her smile not grown into a full-fledged grin. “What?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

He nudged her arm with his. “Come on.”

She licked her lips. Then she said, “You just always show up on my epic fail days.”

He frowned. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” she insisted. Her stare flickered over his middle. “You remember last March.”

He studied one of her gloved hands—the one that had wound up in his solar plexus that day in March. It had been an accident, of course. He’d stepped into the blow unwittingly and she’d apologized profusely...before crumbling on him and crying buckets. All as a result of finding Richard and her sister Cassandra in the middle of a tryst. “That?” He shrugged, dismissing the incident completely. “That was nothing.”

“I hit you.”

“You were having a bad day.”

“When I break a nail, that’s a bad day,” she pointed out. “That one could only be deemed hellacious in the extreme.”

“I wouldn’t lose sleep over it,” he advised. The light changed and they began to cross. “It’s been a year.”

“Eleven months, almost,” she said thoughtfully.

He knew she was thinking about her divorce and not their exchange that day. He changed the subject in a hurry. “What’s happening at the library?”

“There’s a vow-renewal ceremony. Fifty years.”

Byron whistled. “Impressive. Who’re the lovebirds? Anybody I know?”

“Sal and Wanda Simkin. They’re both retirees. They moved down south recently to be closer to their daughter and her family. They’re from New York, where Wanda worked as a librarian and Sal as a janitor. She was working late one night while he was cleaning. She fell off a ladder. He was there to catch her.”

“There’s a happy accident for you,” he mused as they crossed again, eastbound. The library was just ahead. When she pursed her lips, he asked, “What? You don’t believe in accidents?”

She thought over it. “I don’t know. A year ago, I would have said no, I don’t believe in accidents, happy or otherwise.”

“So you think it was what—kismet?” Byron asked, shifting the bulk in his arms from one side to the other.

“I’m not sure where I stand on all that anymore.” At his curious gaze, she added, “Fate. Kismet. I used to be a big believer in serendipity. In signs. Now...?” She shook her head. Sniffing in the cold, she continued, “Anyway, Sal and Wanda wanted something small at the library. One officiant. Their daughter and her family as witnesses. But the daughter wanted to surprise them after the ceremony. As they exit onto the street, all their friends and extended family will be waiting outside.”

He nodded understanding. “With the rose petals.”

“That are halfway to Canada by now,” Roxie noted as another gale blazed a trail through the tree-lined grove across the street where the college campus and amphitheater were located.

“It won’t be hard to find more,” he told her. “It is Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes. It is.”

Ah, he thought, gauging the slight hint of her displeasure. A kindred spirit. “After I use the Xerox machine here, I might have time to stop by the market, pick some up for you. Or I could try another florist. As long as you don’t tell Adrian.”

“My assistant will be here in a half hour or so. I’ll have him stop by Flora and see if Penny can scrounge together some more petals.” She stopped when Byron nudged the door open and stepped back to let her pass. Blinking at him, she gave a surprised smile. “Oh. Thank you.”

Byron frowned as she brushed by him into the warmth of the hushed building. How little courtesy had she been shown through the last year that the simple opening of a door struck her off guard? Inhaling, he followed her subtle, sensory cloud of lilac that was florid and pristine.

Lilies. Larkspur. Lilacs. Could he be any lamer?

“Oh, my God!” Roxie exclaimed, bringing him to a halt behind her as she whirled around to face him in the lobby.

“Jesus,” he muttered, bobbling the boxes at the renewed pallor on her face. “What?”

“Your scarf! It’s—”

“Halfway to Canada?”

“It’s my fault,” she said ruefully. “We might still be able to find it—”

“Rox.” Byron leaned toward her, lowering his voice as he cocked a brow. “It’s a scarf.”

“Yes, but it’s yours,” she lamented. “I’ll get you a new one. I promise.”

Byron nodded briefly to the woman sitting behind the information desk before setting the packages on the ledge. He relieved Roxie of hers to give her arms a break. “I’ll do you one better. I’m picking up Olivia’s tavern shift tonight. You could come by, buy me a beer, brighten my day.”

“Oh.” She stared at him, stunned. “I’d love to.” She rubbed the cashmere gloves together. “But I actually have a date.”

Byron didn’t know why his spirits tanked at the news. Of course she had a date. It was frigging Valentine’s. And she was Roxie Honeycutt. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Bertie Fledgewick,” she said. “My sister Julianna knows his family. She set me up. You know how it is.”

The only person either of his sisters had ever set him up with was Adrian. Adrian was now married to his friend James Bracken. “This isn’t your first date since...?”

She lowered her eyes to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees and cocked her hand on her hip. “The second. Bertie took me out for martinis two weeks ago. Tonight’s a little more formal. Dinner at Alabama Point.”

“Sounds classy. You’re still living in the apartment beside your shop, right? Above the tavern?”

“In Olivia’s old bachelorette digs—” she nodded “—for the time being.”

“Bring him by when he drops you off,” Byron invited. “Drinks are on me.”

She licked her lips to smooth a canny smile. “You want to buy our drinks or size him up?”

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m excellent at multitasking.”

She laughed. It was like tinny bells on Christmas. It brought mirth and a pleasant flush to her face—a face he thought still a touch too thin after last year. It couldn’t be her first good laugh since the divorce, could it?

She pressed her knuckle against the space beneath her nose as the laughter began to fizzle. She shook her head, eyes still sparkling. “I needed that.”

Bertie, you lucky bastard. He picked up the boxes again. “Anytime. Tell me where these are going.”

CHAPTER TWO

WOW. AND I THOUGHT chivalry was dead.

As Bertie helped her out of his car, Roxie pressed her lips together, remembering how Byron had opened the door to the library for her.

I guess, after everything, I might still be a sucker for a gentleman.

Bertie’s hand squeezed hers as she stood in the parking lot of Tavern of the Graces, her friend Olivia’s bouncing bayside bar. His hand lingered there, bringing her back again to the events of that morning when Byron had held it, too, tucking it against his middle as he comforted her.

She frowned. Looking up, she noted Bertie’s presence. They’d had a pleasant evening. There had been wine, conversation, candlelight. He’d ordered the smoked oysters. She’d wondered at the selection...just as she’d wondered over the hand he’d let stray to her knee under the table as the appetizers passed into entrées and finally dessert.

He’d blazed through a bolero album all the way home.

His palm was a bit damp against hers. She wished for her cashmere gloves, then dismissed the thought, pasting on her best smile. It had been so long since she’d dated. Had Richard’s hand sweated when they’d first gone out all those years ago? They’d been married only three months before she’d caught him and Cassandra practicing their best wrestling moves on her Aubusson, but he and Roxie had been engaged for four years after dating since graduate school. So it had been almost a decade since she’d dipped her toe in the dating pool. Perhaps she’d just forgotten what it was like...

The first time, she’d thought she’d sluiced through the dating pool skillfully, hooking Richard along until the end of the meet. In the long run, though, she’d sunk. She’d sunk hard, dragged out by the unseen undertow.

Still, no matter how much had happened in the intervening years—no matter how much the dating world had changed with its Tinder apps and its trending hookup culture—Roxie Honeycutt did not put out on the second date. It made no difference how many glowing reviews Julianna had given on Bertie’s behalf.

Bertie shut the car door. Roxie licked her lips when he stood close in the chilled night air. The wind shrieked off the bay, gaining strength. Bertie bounced at the knees, hissing through his teeth. “Let’s get you out of the cold, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. He couldn’t have known that was exactly what Richard had called her. Roxie’s heart pounded, calling up the same restless ache she’d had trouble quelling since the divorce papers had been hastily drawn last spring. She eyed the lights in the windows above the tavern. The place had been her sanctuary. The thought of bringing a man into it...

Roxie tried to keep the smile. “I can walk up on my own,” she told him. She saw the line dig in between his brows and misunderstanding glean. Poor fella. He wasn’t used to rejection. Trying to ease the sting, she added, “I had a good time tonight, Bertie. Thank you so much for dinner.”

He searched her briefly, before humor flashed across his face. “Is this you being a tease, Roxie?”

She felt his hand at the small of her back edging her toward him. Her hand flattened against him. Her smile fled. “I’m not a tease,” she stated plainly. “I’m just not ready for you to walk me up to my place.”

He bit off a sour laugh, clearly amused. “Julianna warned me about you.”

“Did she?”

“She said you’d try to keep me at arm’s length,” Bertie said, the hand on her back lowering an inch. It pressed her middle against his. “Said you’d need a little encouragement.”

Oh, double, double, toil and trouble. Why wasn’t anyone exiting the tavern? The parking lot was full up, yet not one patron had passed in or out of Olivia’s bar from the time she and Bertie had driven up. He’d knocked back two martinis at the restaurant while they waited for the entrées. With the wine on top of it... He’d driven just fine, but had he had too much? “I’m certain this isn’t what she meant.”

“Ah, come on,” he said, swaying against her, into her. The fingers of his other hand clamped on her forearm, as if he knew that her flight reflex was jumping into high gear. “You’ve strung me along too far.”

Her voice clipped. “We’ve only been out twice, Bertie. Two dates isn’t enough—”

“That’s bullshit, Roxie. Complete and utter bullshit. And you know it.” His mouth came crashing down onto hers.

Too hard, too hard! His mouth, his hands. Panic threatened to go on a tear inside her, buckling her at the knees.

She remembered vaguely the defense class she’d taken with Olivia, Briar and Adrian months ago. Olivia, pregnant at the time, hadn’t been able to do much more than shout instructions. Roxie tried to summon her righteous words to mind now.

Get loud. Push back.

“Bertie!” She planted her arms between them, trying to wedge space enough to at least breathe. “I’m warning you, back away!”

He laughed. Actually laughed at her. The grip of his arms didn’t let up. Worse, his hand moved over her rear in a possessive sweep.

“Oh.” Her hand came up. She meant to strike him flat across the cheek. Instead, her hand balled and she put more force behind it than perhaps necessary.

Her knuckles connected with his cheekbone. Pain flared down the back of her hand. He stumbled and she hissed, cradling the fist. “I did warn you,” she reasoned when he looked flabbergasted. She hadn’t broken the skin.

Seconds passed as he sized her up. Finally, he tilted his head in challenge. The wake-up call hadn’t worked. If anything, she’d poked the snake with a stick and it was coiled to strike harder. “You think you can take a swing at me like that and walk away?” he asked, advancing.

“Yes,” she said, putting her good hand out to shield herself. “It’s called consent. I didn’t give it.”

“Come here.”

He was used to giving orders. He was used to people following them. But Roxie wasn’t one of his subordinates. When he reached for her, she blurted, “I don’t want to hurt you again!” When he made a grab for her anyway, Olivia’s voice filled her head once more.

Hurt or be hurt.

Where? Roxie thought wildly.

Olivia answered. Go for the eyes. Gouge those suckers out. The groin’s good, too. Knee to the groin, very effective. Or, if you have to, just—

A long arm snatched Bertie away. His hold loosened, throwing Roxie off balance. She staggered, gaining her feet as an unmanned elbow came down against Bertie’s neck. He crumbled, his face and hands close-encountering the gravel drive. It was then that Roxie saw Byron.

He’d loosened his tie. Reaching up, he tugged at his collar. His neck was red, his lips seamed tight. He eyed Bertie’s prone form in a way that made the sea-tinged air go from chilly to glacial.

His eyes were blue. She knew that. Conversation with him was always very distracting with those midnight blues smiling back at her. However, under the low beam of the streetlight, they looked black. She wanted to reach out to him, soothe the deadly look on his face. Maybe assure herself he was still Byron. She’d never have guessed that behind the smiling eyes there was this.

“Get up,” he sneered at Bertie. “Get the hell up.”

“Byron,” Roxie said. Damn it, her lips were quivering.

He held up a hand without turning his head to her. “Just a second, duchess.” When Bertie didn’t rise quickly enough, Byron hauled him up by the back of his jacket. “Turn around,” he warned, not raising his voice. God. Not that he had to.

Bertie lifted his face. There was blood in his nostrils. He sniffed wetly. “My nose. You goddamn broke it!” Scowling, he pinched the bridge. “I was just dropping the lady off. You don’t know what’s going on here, chuck.”

“The hell I don’t,” Byron told him. “Now, judging by your breath, I’d say you’ve gone one too many rounds with the Grey Goose tonight. Maybe normally you’re not the kind of guy who gets his jollies off feeling up a lady who in no way wants that type of attention. But, hey, what do I know? You could in fact be that pervert. So I’m going to give you one of two options...”

Bertie rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake—”

Byron jerked a finger in Bertie’s face. “Number one,” he said, undeterred, “you call a nice cabbie to take you back to the hole you crawled out of. You put the tavern and Ms. Honeycutt here in your rearview and you approach neither of them ever again.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Bertie remarked.

“Number two,” Byron continued, “you keep acting like the vodka-soaked prick I just saw take advantage of my friend, and I put my fist in your mouth and call every single one of the rough-and-tumble tavern regulars out from behind those doors to join me. You leave in an ambulance and your sweet little Merc gets towed to the garage with over a grand in damages. I testify as a witness in the sexual harassment suit that’ll be brought against you and you go to jail long enough at least for the other sex offenders to take a shine to you.”

Bertie’s eyes darkened. Roxie saw his fist come up and his body twist, coiled to strike. She cried out. Before the sound was partway out of her mouth, Byron quickly stepped into the space Bertie opened up in the area of his shoulder. He bent his arm and again the elbow came up against the brunt of Bertie’s head, snapping it back.

Bertie lost his footing, stumbling back to the 4x4 truck behind him. Byron’s hands closed over the other man’s throat. The words that growled low from within cut through Roxie as effectively as the wolfish wind. “I’m getting real tired of your attitude,” he warned, “and I’m just mad enough to knock out enough of those pearly whites to make you look like a clown at the circus. You’ve got exactly five seconds to change my mind. One...”

“Byron,” Roxie said again, touching his arm. “Really. He’s not worth it.”

“Two...”

Bertie’s face was turning an alarming shade of puce. His fingers clawed at Byron’s hands over his throat.