Читать книгу Wooing The Wedding Planner - Amber Williams Leigh - Страница 9
ОглавлениеMONDAYS SUCKED ENOUGH without the grim implications of Valentine’s Day.
Byron Strong thought seriously about calling in sick. Then he remembered what had happened the last time he’d done just that. Not a half hour after he’d vetoed the workday, he found his father, mother and two sisters on the threshold offering him a bevy of pity food and head patting.
Byron cringed. No. Not the head patting. The idea chased him from the seductive warmth of flannel sheets and into the shower, where he confronted the scalding spray, head up and shoulders back.
His ritual morning routine helped dull his unmotivated subconscious. He made himself a double espresso with the top-rated espresso machine he’d splurged on—money very well spent. Meticulously, he did all the things any other sane man in his shoes would’ve liked to skip today of all days—shaved, brushed, flossed... He checked the weather before choosing khaki slacks, a black tie and a black sports coat. He stuffed his dress shoes in his briefcase before donning his favorite Nike running shoes and an overcoat and hoofing it to work.
If the hot shower hadn’t shocked him awake, the chill whistling through the streets of Fairhope, Alabama, did. It was a brisk five-block walk to the office, mostly uphill. In the spring, it seemed everyone who lived close to downtown strolled to work in the mornings. In winter, usually only those who needed the exercise or a swift wake-up call ventured out without transport. Byron had memorized the cheery bright storefronts, quaint shops, charming courtyards, alleyways and French Creole architecture that were all trademark to Fairhope’s appeal.
Fairhope was nothing short of spectacular in the spring—like something from a book or a dream. By June, the weather was hot enough to melt plastic. By August, only the brave walked the scalding pavement. The rest—the wise—remained behind cool glass and central air. Winter weather didn’t show up until late November. Maybe. It rarely snowed, and when it did it came down more wet than fluffy, coating everything in ice.
The few months of cold made the residents of the bay-front village wish for their blistering summers that melted plastic and tarmac and made even the hummingbird mosquitoes fight for shade. Ducking his head, Byron kept his face out of the wind and prayed the office coffeepot had already punched in.
Grimsby, Strong & Associates was on Fels Avenue. Byron entered through the back door of the small accounting firm, which was his baby. He lifted the cross-body strap of his briefcase over his head.
The scent of coffee hit him. He almost groaned in relief and made a beeline for it.
Tobias Grimsby, his brother-in-law, planted his six-feet-seven-inch frame in the kitchen doorway and brought Byron up short. “Dude. You know what day it is. Right?” Wariness coated every inch of his espresso-toned face.
“I’m a human popsicle,” Byron muttered. Desperate to get to the coffee, he ducked under Grim’s arm. “Out of my way.”
Grim stayed on his bumper. “You want to go home?” he asked in his deep Kentucky baritone. “Go if you wanna.”
Byron tried not to dive for the pot. It was a near thing. He poured a mug to the lip, drank it straight. Refilled. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Stepinsky at nine. Your appointment with the Levinsens isn’t until eleven. You didn’t have to come in early.”
“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” Grim proclaimed with all the gravity of a general briefing his troops on a mortal campaign.
Byron offered Grim as deadpan a look as he could manage. “Damn. Sorry, man. I didn’t get you anything.”
Grim tilted his head slightly, measuring Byron’s face. “So...you’re okay?”
Byron jerked a shoulder and eyed the box of croissants their secretary, Kath, had picked up from the bakery. Yeah; he could do fifty extra sit-ups if it meant chowing down on one of those bad boys. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another Monday.” He sipped his coffee and clapped Grim on the arm. “Relax. You’ve got the Carltons today at two?”
“Two thirty,” Grim corrected.
“You’ll be lucky to get out of here before your hot date tonight.”
“Ah,” Grim said, reaching up to scratch the underside of his chin. “About that. I was thinking we could do a guys’ night. Just us.”
The mug stopped halfway to Byron’s mouth. He narrowed his eyes on Grim’s innocent expression. “This is your first date night with ’Cilla in weeks and you want to spend it with me?” He frowned. “Is this some half-cocked scheme the two of you cooked up?”
“There’s no scheme,” Grim said with derision that didn’t quite ring true. “Maybe ’Cilla’s sick of me. Maybe I’m sick of her. The further along she gets, the crankier she is.”
“It’s a mother-effing pity party with ’Cilla’s prints all over it,” Byron said, pointing at Grim. “And denying it further will only insult my intelligence.”
Grim’s eyes rolled briefly before he sighed, his shoulders settling into a yielding line. “I told the woman it was a bad plan. You can spot a lie miles offshore. She doesn’t listen.”
The sound of the phone in his office drew his attention. Byron snatched a croissant. “Do me a favor. Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
“It’s probably your mother,” Grim warned.
Dear God, he hoped not. They couldn’t be starting this early. Not all of them. Byron walked through the first door on the right. He set his briefcase behind the desk and settled into the rolling chair before reaching for the phone. Bringing it to his ear, he answered, “This is Byron Strong.”
“Byron. It’s your mother.”
Byron closed his eyes. He reached for his temples, where a headache was already starting to gnaw. “Hi, Ma. Happy Valentine’s.”
“That’s exactly why I’m calling—”
“So you got the flowers,” Byron interrupted smoothly. “I told Adrian orchids.”
“Yes,” Vera stated. “They’re beautiful. You did good.”
“My mitéra deserves nothing less.” He tapped his knuckles on his desk calendar. “Hey, listen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got an early meeting. Can I call you back?”
“No, you may not,” Vera said, undeterred. “I called to invite you to dinner this evening.”
Byron rolled his head against the chair. “Ma...”
“No, no. It’s all planned. We’re doing chickens. Your father wants to try his hand at roasting them.”
“That’s...tempting.” Byron fought a grimace as he recalled the last time his well-meaning yet culinarily deficient father had tried to roast something. His stomach roiled. “Yeah. I’m gonna pass.”
“And why is that?” Vera asked, tone sharpening to cleave.
“Because I’ve already fielded one pity party this morning,” he explained, frowning at the door to Grim’s office across the hall. “Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Byron’s gaze fell on the framed black-and-white photo on his desk. It was the five of them—Byron; his father, Constantine; his mother, Vera; and his sisters, Priscilla and Vivienne—standing on the beach in Gulf Shores. On Christmas Day, they always drove to the coast to sit shoulder to shoulder in the sand, drink eggnog out of flasks, wrap themselves in woolen blankets and watch the waves charge and thunder into shore. He scanned one smiling face and then another before closing his eyes again and pinching the skin between them. Nosy. But well-meaning. Every single one of them. He lowered his voice as he spoke again. “It’s been six years.”
“Six years today,” she reminded him.
“I’m aware,” he told her.
“So you won’t change your mind about dinner?”
Byron’s mouth moved into something like a smile. “I want you and Pop to go out. Find a Greek place. Drink a bottle of ouzo. Make out in front of somebody other than me.”
Vera gave a quiet laugh. “Well. I suppose we could do that. But only if you promise—”
“I won’t spend the night at home in my bathrobe,” Byron said quickly. “Gerald hosted a poker night at his place over the weekend and I lost, which means I’ll be picking up his wife’s shift at the tavern, since she’s still on maternity leave.”
“And after that?”
“I just got the new season of Game of Thrones on DVD,” Byron assured her. “With that and a six-pack of Stella in the fridge, Valentine’s Day couldn’t end any better.”
“Hmm.”
Byron went another route, a sincere one. “Hey, Ma? I love ya.”
Vera sighed. “I love you, too. You’re my only son.”
“I know,” Byron replied. “And I mean it—happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Call me later.”
“Will do. Bye.” Byron hung up the phone. He eyed his coffee. Cold now. With a frown, he turned toward his computer monitor to switch it on. “Hey, Kath,” he called. “Can you bring me another cup of coffee, please?”
No sooner had the computer hummed to life than the sunny voice of Constantine Strong filled the room. “No need, darlin’. I got what our boy needs right here.”
“Jiminy Christmas,” Byron muttered, exasperated.
“Christmas was a month and a half ago,” Constantine stated as he folded his tall, skinny frame into one of the guest chairs on the other side of the desk. With his too-long legs spread wide in a comfortable slouch, the effect was very praying mantis. “Wake up, son. It’s nearly Mardi Gras.”
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Byron asked suspiciously as his father set one of the go cups he carried onto the desk.
“Oh, just a little rocket fuel for my space pirate.” Constantine grinned, a reminiscent gleam in his eye that took Byron back to his childhood obsession with the final frontier.
He eyed the cup. Great. Now they were going after his weakness for controlled substances. This put last year’s cheese basket to shame. “I’m fine, damn it.”
The mantis eyed Byron through rose-tinted lenses. There weren’t too many lines in Constantine’s face, although his long hair, pulled back into his typical man bun, had gone gray a decade before. He sported snug mustard-hued pants, a red shirt and a navy blue peacoat, and had a silver loop on his left lobe, where a black shark’s tooth dangled. He looked absurd, off-the-wall and somehow together and completely at ease—one with the earth. An aging hippie who refused to be anything but himself. “Go on,” he said finally, gesturing to the go cup. “You know you want it.”
Byron reached for it. Hot. Mm, yeah. Just the way he liked it... “Only if we play a round of ‘Guess Who’s Not Coming to Dinner.’”
Constantine’s face fell. “How did you know?”
“Your offerings are well-placed but transparent,” Byron told him.
“Your mother called.” Constantine checked his wristwatch. “Should’ve known. She starts earlier than Christ and she’s always twelve steps ahead of me.”
“You both should really start texting,” Byron suggested as he logged in to the office system. “It’ll save time and confusion. Plus, you two would tear up some sexting. Not that you’re hearing it from me.” He took a sip from the go cup and his brows came together as he swallowed. He eyed the logo on the front. “What the—”
“Ah.” Constantine quickly lifted the cup from his knee and switched it for Byron’s. “I believe that’s mine.”
“Sprinkles and whipped cream?” Byron asked. “You’re approaching sixty.”
“What do I always say to you kids about aging?” Constantine asked, his eyes sage behind wire frames. “‘We don’t grow older, we grow riper.’”
“That was Picasso, not you, pappou. And if by riper you mean the charred remains of those chickens you were going to roast me and Ma tonight, for once I’ll agree with you.”
Constantine barked a laugh. He slapped his knee and leaned forward, his natural geniality flowing warmly into the room. It sieved its merry way through the defensive pall Byron had donned automatically that morning. A true smile spread across Byron’s face. For a moment, the two men just looked at one another. Byron heard the silent message his father transmuted with a softened grin—you’re okay. Gratitude filled Byron until he nearly swelled at the seams. He lifted the coffee and took a long sip. The dark roast slid down his throat, enlivening. “That’s the stuff,” he muttered appreciatively.
“Told you,” Constantine said, crossing his ankle over his knee. Now he looked like a dandied-up cricket ready to break into a toe-tapping reel. “I’ve always got what my boy needs. And speaking of...” He pulled something from the breast pocket of his jacket and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it Byron’s way.
Byron swiped the key ring out of the air. “What’s this?” he asked, studying the two silver keys dangling from the hoop. He frowned at the address written on both in permanent ink.
77 Serendipity.
His heart skipped a beat and hit the next hard. “Pop. What is this?”
“I ran by the retirement village yesterday morning to see our girl,” Constantine informed him.
Byron beamed at the mention of his great-aunt, Athena. “How’s she doing?”
“Yapped my ear off for three hours straight, so I’d say she’s doing pretty fine,” Constantine considered. “Had lots to say about you. And the house.”
“The house,” Byron breathed, tightening his grip on the keys.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Constantine asked with a knowing smile. “At least it seems that’s what you told her not too long ago. She’s got it set in her head that the place is yours. She even says there’s no use waiting for the will...what with the rest of your life ahead of you. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind...”
Changed his mind? Was his father crazy? Byron had been in love a few times in his life. But his first love had been and always would be his great-aunt Athena’s old Victorian house. The secret cupboards. The creaky walnut floors. The odd pitch of the upper-floor ceilings. The gingerbread trim. The old-timey wood-burning stove that had been replaced by a newer model fifteen years ago, but still retained the original stone surround. One of Byron’s first memories was of lying on the second-floor landing, watching the light wash through the stained-glass window his great-uncle Ari had bought in Greece to remind his wife of the homeland she’d left behind for him.
Byron and his sisters had chased ghosts and dreams in that house. He’d pushed Priscilla out of the Japanese magnolia in the backyard, resulting in a broken arm for her and a month at the mercy of Ari’s hard-labor tutelage for him. He’d replaced the treads on the stairs, put up crown molding, and helped Ari build a detached two-car garage with a comfortable space above it where Athena could host her sewing circle.
When Ari passed, Byron had nixed plans for summer courses in order to help Athena adjust, living in the garage apartment for a time. When he decided to live on the Eastern Shore for good, Athena—by that point in assisted living—offered him the use of the loft again, since the house was under long-term lease to an elderly couple, the Goodchilds. The Goodchilds seemed to like having a built-in handyman and yard boy. They let him keep his Camaro in the garage next to their El Camino and invited him to use the basement as a place for his exercise equipment.
Byron knew the Goodchilds hadn’t renewed their lease on the Victorian. Mrs. Goodchild could no longer manage the stairs. However, he had assumed that interest in the house would be sky-high. It was a prize. Sure, it had its quirks. All old houses did. However, the Victorian had historic, architectural and—for Byron—extreme sentimental value. Who wouldn’t bribe the Almighty Himself to live there?
He closed his fist around the keys. “When?” he asked.
Constantine lifted his shoulders. “Why not tomorrow?”
Byron’s brows drew together. “Didn’t Ma crack down on you for verbal contracts?”
“This is different,” Constantine said. He was serious. Byron rarely saw his father so serious. He had to swallow a few times to digest it. “It’s family. Athena. You. The house. It’s all in the family. I’m sure Athena would gift it to you outright—”
“No, I’m buying it outright,” Byron argued.
“Even if the loan goes toward your inheritance anyway?” Constantine asked.
“I want my name on it. I also want the appraisal estimate. Nothing lowball.”
Constantine knew better than to argue the point. As the family real estate business was shared between him and Vera, he usually found houses to renovate and flip into lease homes, while Vera handled the actual leasing and brokerage part of the equation.
Constantine did have a point, however. With its claim to family heritage and Byron’s long-held interest, the Victorian perhaps called for a more casual approach.
“Take some of your things over tonight and see how you adjust,” Constantine was saying. “If you don’t have any second thoughts over the next forty-eight hours, I’ll bring the papers Wednesday.” He lifted the go cup to punctuate the question.
Byron felt another smile, big and true, on his lips, and he liked it there. He raised his own cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
A knock on the door prevented him from raising the coffee to his mouth. Kath peered inside the office, her silver hair gathered on top of her head in a twist that pulled the corners of her eyes into a slant. “Good. You’re already in.” She spotted Constantine, stopped midspeech and smiled. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Strong. I didn’t see you arrive.”
“I snuck in,” Constantine said with a wink. “How’re you, Kathleen?”
Byron sipped his coffee as his father worked the charm on the older woman, bringing a pretty blush to her cheeks. Both his parents were compulsive flirts. They were also two of the happiest compulsive flirts he’d ever seen.
Strongs are like Magellanic, gentoo and royal penguins all wrapped up in one very Greek, very reformed package, Constantine had told his three children all their lives. We’re crazy enough to mate once, for life, and the male and female are equals.
You know way too much about penguins, Dad, a surly teenage Byron had once remarked. At the time he’d thought it was a strikingly conventional belief for a man who was in no way conventional.
Yet the belief held weight not even the staunchest cynic could deny. Byron’s parents had been married for thirty-five years and were still madly in love—so much so that open affection refused to die off between them. Byron had seen enough parental PDA over the years to make a Friday-night dinner with his mother and father go from gag-worthy to blasé.
The belief had held for Priscilla, as well. She’d married Grim right out of college. The two had been married for a decade and were impatiently awaiting the birth of their first child. In addition, Vivienne’s wedding to her boyfriend of four years, Sidney, was only a few short weeks away.
That “mate once for life” business was all too real. And that was the trouble.
Byron lifted his chin, catching Kath’s gaze. “What can we do for you?”
The twinkle Constantine had brought to the woman’s eyes faded out. “The Xerox machine is on the fritz.”
Byron pushed up from his chair. “Again?”
She held up her hands. “I’ve tried the manual. I’ve tried customer service. I even channeled Pelé and gave the dang thing a few kicks like you did last week. Until the maintenance guy gets here later in the week, I’ll have to run to the library to see if they’ll let me use theirs.”
Byron shook his head. “It’s too cold out. You stay in. I’ll go to the library.”
“But you have a meeting,” she reminded him.
“I’ll have plenty of time to get back and prep.” Pointing at the manila folder she’d folded against her chest, he asked, “Is this what we need copied?”
Kath relinquished the papers. “They’re for today and tomorrow’s appointments. I usually make three copies of everything. One for records, one for the client and one spare.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Byron said.
Kath eyed Constantine over Byron’s shoulder. “You and the missus sure raised this one right.”
“Ah, I’m a bad influence,” Constantine said with a smirk. “This one’s the work of his mother.”
“Whatever the case, he’s gentleman to the bone,” Kath noted. “The world could use several more just like him.”
Byron tossed a heated glance into Grim’s office when he heard his business partner snigger. “Thank you, Kath.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said as she returned to the lobby.
As Byron stuffed the folder into his satchel and pulled on his coat and scarf, his father buttoned his peacoat. He peered into Grim’s office and asked after Priscilla and the baby before joining Byron at the door while saying, “Vivi’s flight was delayed again.”
“She still hasn’t flown out?” Byron asked, pushing the door open into the cold. Byron didn’t particularly care for his sister being on another continent, not to mention a third-world country. The flying didn’t soothe him either. She and her fiancé, Sidney, treasured their humanitarian calling. Their work was important, but Byron would feel a lot less edgy when his baby sister was back on home soil. “She’s going to miss her own wedding.”
“She’ll be here. Don’t you worry.” Constantine clapped an arm around Byron’s shoulders. “Remember, you need us, we’re here.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Byron said, amused.
“Go see Athena.”
“First chance I get,” Byron promised. He wrapped an arm around his father. “Come here, you old geezer.”
“Ah.” Constantine squeezed him into a bear hug, rubbing circles over Byron’s back just as he had when he was a child. He gave him a few thumps for good measure. “Fruit of my loins.”
“Pop, word of advice,” Byron quipped. “Don’t talk about your loins when you’re hugging people. Unless it’s Ma. In which case please ensure the rest of us aren’t anywhere within hearing distance.”
A laugh rolled through Constantine’s torso. He grabbed Byron’s face and kissed him square on the mouth. “I love ya.”
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.”
“Yes. It is.”
Ah, he thought, gauging the slight hint of her displeasure. A kindred spirit. “After I use the Xerox machine here, I might have time to stop by the market, pick some up for you. Or I could try another florist. As long as you don’t tell Adrian.”
“My assistant will be here in a half hour or so. I’ll have him stop by Flora and see if Penny can scrounge together some more petals.” She stopped when Byron nudged the door open and stepped back to let her pass. Blinking at him, she gave a surprised smile. “Oh. Thank you.”
Byron frowned as she brushed by him into the warmth of the hushed building. How little courtesy had she been shown through the last year that the simple opening of a door struck her off guard? Inhaling, he followed her subtle, sensory cloud of lilac that was florid and pristine.
Lilies. Larkspur. Lilacs. Could he be any lamer?
“Oh, my God!” Roxie exclaimed, bringing him to a halt behind her as she whirled around to face him in the lobby.
“Jesus,” he muttered, bobbling the boxes at the renewed pallor on her face. “What?”
“Your scarf! It’s—”
“Halfway to Canada?”
“It’s my fault,” she said ruefully. “We might still be able to find it—”
“Rox.” Byron leaned toward her, lowering his voice as he cocked a brow. “It’s a scarf.”
“Yes, but it’s yours,” she lamented. “I’ll get you a new one. I promise.”
Byron nodded briefly to the woman sitting behind the information desk before setting the packages on the ledge. He relieved Roxie of hers to give her arms a break. “I’ll do you one better. I’m picking up Olivia’s tavern shift tonight. You could come by, buy me a beer, brighten my day.”
“Oh.” She stared at him, stunned. “I’d love to.” She rubbed the cashmere gloves together. “But I actually have a date.”
Byron didn’t know why his spirits tanked at the news. Of course she had a date. It was frigging Valentine’s. And she was Roxie Honeycutt. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Bertie Fledgewick,” she said. “My sister Julianna knows his family. She set me up. You know how it is.”
The only person either of his sisters had ever set him up with was Adrian. Adrian was now married to his friend James Bracken. “This isn’t your first date since...?”
She lowered her eyes to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees and cocked her hand on her hip. “The second. Bertie took me out for martinis two weeks ago. Tonight’s a little more formal. Dinner at Alabama Point.”
“Sounds classy. You’re still living in the apartment beside your shop, right? Above the tavern?”
“In Olivia’s old bachelorette digs—” she nodded “—for the time being.”
“Bring him by when he drops you off,” Byron invited. “Drinks are on me.”
She licked her lips to smooth a canny smile. “You want to buy our drinks or size him up?”
“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m excellent at multitasking.”
She laughed. It was like tinny bells on Christmas. It brought mirth and a pleasant flush to her face—a face he thought still a touch too thin after last year. It couldn’t be her first good laugh since the divorce, could it?
She pressed her knuckle against the space beneath her nose as the laughter began to fizzle. She shook her head, eyes still sparkling. “I needed that.”
Bertie, you lucky bastard. He picked up the boxes again. “Anytime. Tell me where these are going.”
