Amber Williams - Wooing The Wedding Planner

He turned to her. The streetlight fell over him like a halo. His long, rich black hair was smoothed back from his face. It fell to the nape of his neck. It should be illegal to be so effortlessly handsome. In profile, his long face was a half-moon thanks to his large chin. He had an ever-present five-o’clock shadow. His proud aquiline nose was a touch overlong but it spoke of his Mediterranean heritage and suited him well.

At six-five, his broad frame saved him from being lanky despite his trim physique. His shoulders filled his button-up shirt.

It had been ten and a half months since she’d wept on him—and that long precisely since she abandoned any long-held notions of fairy-tale knights, whether they appeared in shining armor or tailored Brooks Brothers.

There was no chance she was going to start believing again. No matter how well he wore that Brooks Brothers.

He scanned her closely. She wished she was steadier. She was mussed—her dress, her hair... The glassy edge of fear was too close to the surface. She raised her chin again, locking her arms over her chest as he looked at her. Really looked at her.

He pushed the air through his nostrils and gave her a short nod. “Yes,” he decided before returning to her, handing her the clutch.

“Thank you.” She opened the handbag, letting her hair fall across her cheek, shielding his view. She riffled through the contents. Everything was there, in place. As she checked that her smartphone was safe in the hidden pocket in the lining of the bag, her hand tweaked. Damn it, that hurt.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, clipped. She stopped, hearing the bite. She mirrored him, breathing deep, trying to unlock the tension. She closed her eyes and shook her head when it didn’t work nearly as well as it had for him. “Really. I am.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. She could feel his eyes on her face, perusing. His hand lifted, as if he wanted to touch her. “Look,” he said, lowering his head toward hers instead, “it’s not your fault.”

She felt something touch the corners of her lips. Something light. Humor? Fighting ghosts of aftershock and hysteria, she couldn’t sort one emotion from another. “I know. I know that. It’s just...a mess.”

“The guy’s a tool.”

“He also happens to be the son of one of the wealthiest hoteliers from here to Fort Lauderdale,” Roxie told him. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t hear from his daddy’s high-powered litigators by the end of the week.”

Byron lifted a noncommittal shoulder. She’d forgotten he’d once been a high-powered litigator, too, and didn’t seem at all concerned with the threat. “What kind of a name is Bertie anyway?” he asked.

“Short for Robert, apparently,” she told him and rolled her eyes. “He’d do better to call himself that.”

Byron scowled. “No, he’d do better to keep his hands to himself.”

In the taut pause that followed the coarse words, Roxie saw him measuring her again. “I’m fine, Byron.”

“Sure,” he said, but closed the distance between them anyway. He reached up to take her elbow, making sure to keep his movements slow so she could track them. “Come on. I’ll buy you that drink.”

A laugh wavered out of her. “That’s kind of you. But all I want to do is go upstairs, take a long shower and down half a bottle of moscato.”

He glanced over her head to the apartment above. “All right. I’ll call Adrian. Or would you prefer Briar?”

“Neither,” she said quickly. When he looked at her in surprise, she shook her head firmly. “I’d rather they not know about this. Any of them.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I feel like I need to...absorb it before I get either of them involved,” she told him. “Plus, if Liv finds out, she’ll go chasing Bertie with her granddaddy’s shotgun. I can’t be responsible for her getting arrested after the babies.”

He tipped his chin toward the windows. “Then let me walk you up.” When her lips parted, hesitant, he spread his hands. “I’m already here. I’ll just walk with you, see you inside.”

Her mouth firmed. “But I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that,” he noted.

As he started walking, her steps fell into sync with his. It wasn’t that she was afraid to be alone with him. There were few people she felt safer around than Byron Strong—though she didn’t know why. But here he was again, witnessing another life fiasco.

His timing was horrendous. He’d borne witness to every low or ugly impasse of the last year.

Why is it always him?

Still, she gave in. She wasn’t steady. And she wasn’t all right. It would be an hour, maybe two, before she could process anything. In the meantime, he was right. She might as well have company. And though she was desperate for the chilled wine in her refrigerator, she hated drinking alone... “Go around back. I have a key to the garden door.”

The walk did her good, as did the shrill blast of icy air that knifed around the side of the tavern. Byron stepped in front of her, a solid wall that blocked the worst of the gale. She trudged along in his silent shadow. She needed that, too. Silence.

She rubbed her lips together. They felt bruised. Yes, she needed the moscato. To numb them. To mask the bitter taste of Bertie’s mouth. She’d need more than one glass if she was going to sleep tonight.

When she fumbled with her keys, Byron smoothly took them from her hand and unlocked the private entrance. He ushered her inside. She led the way up the spiral stairs to the landing. Here she took the keys firmly in hand and thrust them into the lock. Her lips peeled back from her teeth as the pain in her hand shouted in red-hot abandon. Ouch. The deadbolt clicked. She pushed the door open, eyeing her current living quarters.

It was a small space. It had seemed a bit claustrophobic in the wake of the French Colonial that Richard’s grandmother had gifted to the two of them upon their engagement. However, the apartment above the tavern had become that place she ran to for reprieve, for consolation and escape.

She needed the trio now. She needed them like moscato.

“Is there a glass of that wine for me?” he asked as she took a step over the jamb.

She stopped. His hand pressed against the frame of the door. He’d erected a smile. “You drink moscato?” she asked.

“Is it pink?” he asked with a slight wince.

Her smile grew genuinely. Impossible, she thought, bewildered. “No.”

“Good.” He grinned. “If the guys caught me drinking the pink stuff, I’m not sure I’d ever live it down.”

She hid a laugh behind her lips. She sighed over it, over him. Then, without a word, she moved back against the open door. He gave a nod and brushed by her into her space. She took a moment, closing her eyes and letting his sweet, earthy scent of aged ambergris wash over her. It was the essence of calm, of strength.

Nodding to herself, she closed the door and made her way into the kitchen to pour two large glasses of wine.

* * *

“I NEVER THOUGHT I’d be back here again.”

Byron refilled the glasses on the coffee table. He sat back on Roxie’s purple velvet-upholstered couch. Or settee. It was way too fancy to be lumped as a couch. “Where’s here exactly?” He handed her one glass.

Roxie lifted it by the stem. With her feet bare and her legs folded next to her, she looked relaxed. Not defeated. The wine might have had something to do with that. It had brought her color back, made her eyes lazy. The lids were at half-mast as she laid her head against the headrest. She eyed the truffle in her hand. She’d already taken a bite and had been nursing the other half for some time. “Sitting here,” she explained, “eating bonbons, drinking myself into a stupor, rehashing a bad date.”