Amber Leigh Williams - Wooing The Wedding Planner

In the master suite, she gawked at the turtleback ceiling...and frowned over an overlarge television set up on an otherwise gorgeous antique dresser. The dresser could stay. The television...it stuck out like a sore thumb. The bed was built up on a platform to distinguish it from the sitting area. She’d trade the bed frame for the iron one she’d bought after the divorce. It would work well with the curlicue iron accents she’d seen throughout the house.

Briar, Harmony now snoozing on her shoulder, stepped out of the walk-in closet across the room. “There’s enough room in here for the Duchess of Devonshire’s trousseau. Wigs and all.”

“Don’t tease me,” Roxie advised, moving toward the closet door to peek inside, too.

“Have you checked out the bathroom?” Briar asked, pointing to the closed pocket doors. She reached for the slight parting between them. “If there’s a whirlpool tub, I might have to hate on you a little bit.”

“Fair enough,” Roxie said as she peered over Briar’s shoulder.

Briar slid the pocket doors back. They whispered along the tracks in the wall. Steam greeted them. Roxie squinted through it. Just as Briar tensed beside her and reached out to grip her arm, a long form took shape before her. “Um, who...”

The intruder stood at one of the matching sinks, a razor raised to his chin. As the doors clacked against the jamb, he jerked and grunted a pained cry. He turned partway toward them, his hand clasped to his chin. Briar’s gasp reverberated off the periwinkle tiles and Roxie exclaimed, “Byron!”

Shock and bemusement flashed across his face. He didn’t say a word, just stared at them.

She stared back. He wasn’t Byron. He was naked Byron. Or...almost-naked Byron. How could she not have known all this was under those suits and ties? His skin was the color of golden piecrust hot and fresh from the oven. There wasn’t an ounce of body fat on him. The bastard. Everything was ripply and muscly, sprinkled with a fine dusting of dark hair that looked so soft that Roxie had the dubious urge to run her fingertips through it. He would have been bare if not for the black briefs hugging his... Roxie’s cheeks heated quickly when words like cruller, bear claw, sweet roll rushed through her mind. Damn it, Liv!

Flustered, she balled her hands into fists, physically forcing her gaze anywhere but on his...accoutrements. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Me?” he asked. Before he could go further, he looked beyond her and Briar into the bedroom and paled considerably. “Ma?”

Vera’s voice cracked like thunder. “Byron Atticus Strong!”

As if realizing he was bare as a bumpkin, he reached down to cover himself. Roxie’s face flamed hotter at the move and she covered her mouth. “What is this, a town meeting?” he asked.

“Why the Dickens aren’t you next door?” Vera said sharply.

“Next door?” Roxie asked. The truth hit her flat in the face. “You’re the tenant?” Of course he was the tenant.

“I used to be,” Byron answered. “Now I live here.”

Briar’s mouth formed into an intrigued O. She then cleared her throat and gestured toward the bedroom door. “Harmony and I will just tiptoe downstairs and wait.” She cast her eyes in Byron’s direction, fighting a grin. “Hi, Byron.”

He pressed his lips together. “Briar.”

Roxie waited until Briar was gone before lifting her shoulders. “What do you mean you live here now?”

Byron glanced around her to his mother. “By any chance, have you spoken with Pop about the house lately?”

“No,” Vera said. “Why?”

Byron cursed under his breath. His gaze veered back to Roxie. “If you’re interested in leasing the Victorian, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Why?” Roxie asked, fearing she knew the answer already.

“Because it’s mine,” Byron finished. “Sorry, duchess.”

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