Sandra Marton - The Groom Said Maybe!

He saw himself walking to where she sat, sliding into the empty seat beside her and telling her that he wouldn’t have her on a bet—or better still, he could tell her that she was right, just looking at her had made him want to take her to bed, and what did she intend to do about it?

But the rules of a civilized society prevailed.

He drew a deep breath, made his way to his seat, sat down and fixed his attention on whatever in hell was happening at the altar because he was, after all, a civilized man.

Damn right, he was.

By the time the recessional echoed through the church and the bride and groom made their way out the door, he had had forgotten all about the woman...

Sure he had.

Stephanie Willingham stood at the marble-topped vanity table in the country club ladies’ room and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She didn’t look like a woman who’d just made a damn fool of herself. That, at least, was something to be grateful for.

She took a deep breath, then let it out.

How much longer until she could make a polite exit?

Long enough, she thought, answering her own question. You couldn’t sit through a wedding ceremony, hide in the powder room during the cocktail hour, then bolt before the reception without raising a few eyebrows. And that was the last thing she wanted to do because raised eyebrows meant questions, and questions required answers, and she had none.

Absolutely none.

The way that man, the one in the church, had looked at her had been bad enough. Those cool blue eyes of his, stripping her naked....

Stephanie’s chin lifted. Despicable, was the only word for it.

But her reaction had been worse. Her realization that he was looking at her, that she knew exactly what was going on inside his head...that was one thing, but there was no way to explain or excuse what had happened when a rush of heat had raged through her blood.

Color flooded her cheeks at the memory.

“What is the matter with you, Stephanie?” she said to her mirrored image.

The man had been good-looking. Handsome, she supposed, in a hard sort of way—if you liked the type. Expensively put together, but almost aggressively masculine. The hair, drawn back in a ponytail. The leanly muscled body, so well-defined within the Western-cut suit. The boots. Boots, for goodness’ sake.

Clint Eastwood riding through Connecticut, she’d thought, and she should have laughed, but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d felt as if someone had lit a flame deep inside her, a flame that had threatened to consume her with its heat, and that was just plain nonsense.

She didn’t like men, didn’t want anything to do with them ever again. Why on earth she should have reacted to the man was beyond her, especially when the look on his face had made clear what he was thinking.

Exhaustion, that had to be the answer. Flying in from Atlanta late last night, getting up so early this morning—and she’d had a bad week to begin with. First the run-in with Clare, then the meeting with Judge Parker, and finally the disappointing consultation with her own attorney. And all the while, doing what she could not to show her panic because that would only spur Clare on.

Stephanie sighed. She should never have let Annie talk her into coming to this wedding. Weddings weren’t her thing to begin with. She had no illusions about them, she never had, not even before she’d married Avery, though heaven knew she wished only the best for Dawn and Nicholas. She’d certainly tried to get out of coming north, to attend this affair. As soon as the invitation had arrived, she’d phoned Annie, expressed her delight for the engaged couple, followed by her regrets, but Annie had cut her short.

“Don’t give me any of that Southern compone,” Annie had said firmly, and then her voice had softened. “You have to come to the wedding, Steffie,” she’d said. “After all, you introduced Dawn and Nicholas. The kids and I will be heartbroken if you don’t attend.”

Stephanie smiled, put her hands to her hair and smoothed back a couple of errant strands. It had been a generous thing to say, even if it was an overstatement. She hadn’t really introduced the bride and groom, she’d just happened to be driving through Connecticut on her way home after a week on Cape Cod—a week when she’d walked the lonely, out-of-season beach and tried to sort out her life. A drenching rain was falling as she’d crossed the state line from Massachusetts to Connecticut and, in the middle of it, she’d gotten a flat. She’d been standing on the side of the road, miserable and wet and cold, staring glumly at the tire, when Dawn pulled over to offer assistance. Nick had come by next. He’d shooed Dawn away from the tire and knelt down in the mud to do the job, but his eyes had been all for Dawn. As luck would have it, Annie had driven by just as Nick finished. She’d stopped, they’d all ended up introducing themselves and laughing in the downpour, and Annie had invited everyone for an impromptu cup of hot cocoa.

Stephanie’s smile faded. Avery would never have understood that a friendship could be forged out of such a tenuous series of coincidences, but then, he’d never understood anything about her, not from the day they’d married until the day he’d died....

“Mrs. Willingham?”

Stephanie blinked and stared into the mirror. Dawn Cooper—the former Dawn Cooper—radiant in her white lace and satin gown, smiled at her from the doorway.

“Dawn.” Stephanie swung toward the girl and embraced her. “Congratulations, darlin’. Or is it good luck?” She smiled. “I never can remember.”

“It’s luck, I think.” The door swung shut as Dawn moved toward the mirror. “I hope it is, anyway, because I think I’m going to need it.”

“You’ve already got all the luck you’ll need,” Stephanie said. “That handsome young man of yours looks as if he—Dawn? Are you all right?”

Dawn nodded. “Fine,” she said brightly. “It’s just, I don’t know...it’s just, I’ve been waiting and waiting for this day and now it’s here, and—and—” She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Willingham?”

“Stephanie, please. Otherwise, you’ll make me feel even older than I already am.”

“Stephanie. I know I shouldn’t ask, but—but... Did you feel, well, a little bit nervous on your wedding day?”

Stephanie stared at the girl. “Nervous?”

“Yes. You know. Sort of edgy.”

“Nervous,” Stephanie repeated, fixing a smile to her lips. “Well, I don’t—I can’t recall...”

“Not scared. I don’t mean it that way. I just mean... Worried.”

“Worried,” Stephanie said, working hard to maintain the smile.

“Uh-huh.” Dawn licked her lips. “That you might not always be as happy as you were that day, you know?”

Stephanie leaned back against the vanity table. “Well,” she said, “well...”

“Oh, wow!” Dawn’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mrs....oh, Stephanie. Gosh, I’m so sorry. That was such a dumb thing to ask you.”

“No. Not at all. I’m just trying to think of...” Of what lie will sound best. “Of what to tell you.”

She hadn’t been nervous the day she’d married Avery, or even scared. Terrified was more accurate, terrified and desperate and almost frantic with fear...but, of course, she could never tell that to this innocent child, never tell it to anyone, and the fact she was even thinking about the possibility only proved how frazzled her nerves really were.

Stephanie smiled brightly. “Because, you understand, it was such a long time ago. Seven years, you know? Seven—”

Dawn grasped Stephanie’s hands. “Forgive me, please. I’m so wrapped up in myself today that I forgot that Mr. Willingham‘s—that he’s—that you’re a widow. I didn’t mean to remind you of your loss.”