Susan Crosby - The Groom's Revenge

“Um, you heard that, did you?”

She wiped a finger along the counter without leaving a mark No dust settled in this hardworking woman’s domain.

“Men tend to spend more than women do,” she said as if sharing a secret with him. “Sometimes they want something in addition to flowers, so I thought I’d start carrying some jewelry too. Maybe some perfume. Pottery might sell well. One-stop shopping for the man who wants to appear romantic but who actually waited until the last minute.”

Or a man who’s hiding a guilty conscience, Gray thought.

He wondered whether her redecorating was the result of coming out of mourning for her mother or financial need. In a shop this size, she must barely eke out a living, he decided, anger brewing at the unfairness. She shouldn’t have to live like this It was a wrong Gray intended to right—with her help—as well as fixing what had been wrong in his own life for twenty-five years.

“Your initial investment could be substantial, and slow tc bring returns,” he said, protective of her but not questioning why. He knew why.

Mollie eyed the empty hutch. “Too much, do you think?” she asked, looking around and sighing, something she’d beer doing a lot lately. “Things haven’t changed around here in a long, long time. I want to drum up some new business, but I can’t afford to take any losses.”

“You should discuss this with your business manager.”

“Um, I’ll do that.” She dragged her tongue along the inside of her cheek.

“You don’t have a business manager,” he said, awareness in his eyes.

She shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. No one will ever believe me, she thought. Gray McGuire, the high-tech wizard from the Silicon Valley was here. In her shop. He’d materialized from her dreams and was actually talking to her. He’d touched her. Touched her.

“Tax accountant?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m sort of a full-service shop owner.”

He was even more attractive in person than in any photo she’d seen. Clipped. Saved.

His blue eyes were startling against his California tan, his dark brown hair shiny and thick. She’d admired the sculpted muscles of his arms when he’d lifted the hutch top onto the credenza as if it weighed no more than a wicker basket. The turquoise polo shirt and khaki pants he wore fit his body perfectly, showing off a well-toned physique, one that didn’t look like he spent his days behind a desk.

He was here. In her shop. Gray McGuire.

“I apologize,” he said, moving around the shop, looking at the merchandise. “You weren’t asking my advice.”

“I always listen to advice.” Standing in front of the counter, her hands clasped, she was content to watch him, afraid if she did something wrong, he would disappear in a puff of smoke.

He must think her crazy the way she was talking to him as if she’d known him forever. But, in truth, she felt she had. Although he lived in California, his photograph had been in the StarTribune following a gala charity event attended by the city’s most prominent family—the Fortunes—a month ago, and he often graced the pages of Time, Newsweek and the like.

Her obsession had begun harmlessly enough. She had made a completely innocent comment to her new acquaintances Amanda and Chloe Fortune upon seeing his picture in the newspaper—a comment along the lines of Mollie wishing that someone like Gray McGuire would sweep her off her feet. Amanda had promptly ripped out the picture and told Mollie to sleep on it, and maybe he would be hers.

Mollie had laughed at the joke, but kept the photo. After months of mourning her mother’s death, she’d found a new focus, something to think about other than relentless grief and loneliness. And after too many nights of dreamless sleep, she started dreaming again. So Mollie had read everything she could get her hands on about Gray McGuire, fixating on him because it made her feel alive again.

It didn’t even make sense that she was fascinated by a man who was the CEO of a software design and manufacturing company, McGuire Enterprises. A man who’d designed a computer operating system at age twenty. A man who spoke to Congress on computer security issues. He’d lunched with the president yesterday!

And if he’d caught a glimpse of that newspaper picture of him she’d taped under her counter, he would have hightailed it out of there faster than she could say, “You’re the man of my dreams. Literally.” She’d even been talking to his picture when he’d arrived.

She continued to wait as he set some wind chimes moving, then listened to the tinkling sounds. He dipped a finger into the recirculating pond that kept the moisture content of the room high, the bubbles more soothing than music. He sniffed a few of the potted plants, studied the markers, printed with the plant name and care instructions, that were jammed into each pot.

She didn’t want to hurry him, but she was more than a little curious about why he was there. Well, technically she was flabbergasted. But she was really, really curious. If this were a fairy tale, he’d be pulling a glass slipper out of his pocket about now and trying it on her foot—and it would fit.

“It’s a nice shop,” he said at last. “You’re also a wedding planner.”

“How do you know that?”

He pointed to the left. “There’s a sign in your window.” “Oh.” She smiled, feeling a little sheepish. She’d thought maybe he was her soul mate, after all—that he could read her mind.

“If you call yourself a consultant, not only would you be following the current market trend, you could probably charge a higher fee.”

“Why would I want to do that? My fees are reasonable. Anyway, I’m just getting started. You know the Fortune family, right? I’ve heard them speak of you.”

He returned to her side, his expression impassive. “You’re friends with the Fortunes?”

He stood so close she could touch him if she wanted. His clean, soapy scent made her nose twitch. “My good friend Kelly married Mac Fortune, and I pulled the event together for them. Then I was invited to do Mac’s sister Chloe’s wedding to Mason Chandler in a few months. One of those fairy-tale-princess weddings, with all the trimmings.”

“The kind of wedding you’d like for yourself?”

She shrugged. “It’s fun to plan.”

“But?”

“It wouldn’t be in my budget.”

Matter-of-fact words, Gray noted. “Your parents wouldn’t help?” he asked, surprised at her candor. People didn’t usually open up so easily to him. It was the magic of this shop, he decided. And this fairy-sprite woman.

“My father’s been gone since before I was born. My mother passed away late last year.”

She crouched in front of a flowering plant, seeming to inspect it for insects or dead leaves or something. He zeroed in on the scarf she’d tucked into her pocket, then was distracted by the distinctly feminine curve of her rear.

He lifted his gaze in a flash when her words registered. Been gone? What did that mean? Did she think her father was dead? “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Now,” she glanced up at him. “What can I do for you, Mr. McGuire?”

“First, you can call me Gray. I’m a little surprised you know me.”

She fussed with another plant. “The Fortunes have spoken of you.”

“But you recognized my face.”

“I told you. I saw you on the news yesterday.”

“Hey, Mol! Sorry I’m late.”

A young man swooped into the shop, Minnesota Twins cap on his head, baseball glove tucked under his arm. He was sixteen or seventeen, Gray decided, and into body building.

“What a game! Man, we destroyed ’em.” His gaze landed on Gray. “Hey, you’re that guy—”