Amber Leigh Williams - Wooing The Wedding Planner

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.”