
Wooing the Wedding Planner
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Amber Leigh Williams
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Chapter One
MONDAYS SUCKED ENOUGH without the grim implications of Valentineâs Day.
Byron Strong thought seriously about calling in sick. Then he remembered what had happened the last time heâd done just that. Not a half hour after heâd 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 heâd splurged onâmoney very well spent. Meticulously, he did all the things any other sane man in his shoes wouldâve liked to skip today of all daysâshaved, 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 hadnât 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 Fairhopeâs appeal.
Fairhope was nothing short of spectacular in the springâlike 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 restâthe wiseâremained behind cool glass and central air. Winter weather didnât 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. âDude. You know what day it is. Right?â Wariness coated every inch of his espresso-toned face.
âIâm a human popsicle,â Byron muttered. Desperate to get to the coffee, he ducked under Grimâs arm. âOut of my way.â
Grim stayed on his bumper. âYou want to go home?â he asked in his deep Kentucky baritone. âGo if you wanna.â
Byron tried not to dive for the pot. It was a near thing. He poured a mug to the lip, drank it straight. Refilled. âIâve got a meeting with Mr. Stepinsky at nine. Your appointment with the Levinsens isnât until eleven. You didnât have to come in early.â
âBut itâs Valentineâs Day,â 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. âDamn. Sorry, man. I didnât get you anything.â
Grim tilted his head slightly, measuring Byronâs face. âSo...youâre okay?â
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. âAs far as Iâm concerned, itâs just another Monday.â He sipped his coffee and clapped Grim on the arm. âRelax. Youâve got the Carltons today at two?â
âTwo thirty,â Grim corrected.
âYouâll be lucky to get out of here before your hot date tonight.â
âAh,â Grim said, reaching up to scratch the underside of his chin. âAbout that. I was thinking we could do a guysâ night. Just us.â
The mug stopped halfway to Byronâs mouth. He narrowed his eyes on Grimâs innocent expression. âThis is your first date night with âCilla in weeks and you want to spend it with me?â He frowned. âIs this some half-cocked scheme the two of you cooked up?â
âThereâs no scheme,â Grim said with derision that didnât quite ring true. âMaybe âCillaâs sick of me. Maybe Iâm sick of her. The further along she gets, the crankier she is.â
âItâs a mother-effing pity party with âCillaâs prints all over it,â Byron said, pointing at Grim. âAnd denying it further will only insult my intelligence.â
Grimâs eyes rolled briefly before he sighed, his shoulders settling into a yielding line. âI told the woman it was a bad plan. You can spot a lie miles offshore. She doesnât listen.â
The sound of the phone in his office drew his attention. Byron snatched a croissant. âDo me a favor. Letâs not talk about this anymore.â
âItâs probably your mother,â Grim warned.
Dear God, he hoped not. They couldnât 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, âThis is Byron Strong.â
âByron. Itâs your mother.â
Byron closed his eyes. He reached for his temples, where a headache was already starting to gnaw. âHi, Ma. Happy Valentineâs.â
âThatâs exactly why Iâm callingââ
âSo you got the flowers,â Byron interrupted smoothly. âI told Adrian orchids.â
âYes,â Vera stated. âTheyâre beautiful. You did good.â
âMy mitĂ©ra deserves nothing less.â He tapped his knuckles on his desk calendar. âHey, listen, Iâd love to chat, but Iâve got an early meeting. Can I call you back?â
âNo, you may not,â Vera said, undeterred. âI called to invite you to dinner this evening.â
Byron rolled his head against the chair. âMa...â
âNo, no. Itâs all planned. Weâre doing chickens. Your father wants to try his hand at roasting them.â
âThatâs...tempting.â 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. âYeah. Iâm gonna pass.â
âAnd why is that?â Vera asked, tone sharpening to cleave.
âBecause Iâve already fielded one pity party this morning,â he explained, frowning at the door to Grimâs office across the hall. âDonât you think I know what youâre doing?â
âI just want to make sure youâre okay.â
Byronâs gaze fell on the framed black-and-white photo on his desk. It was the five of themâByron; his father, Constantine; his mother, Vera; and his sisters, Priscilla and Vivienneâstanding 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. âItâs been six years.â
âSix years today,â she reminded him.
âIâm aware,â he told her.
âSo you wonât change your mind about dinner?â
Byronâs mouth moved into something like a smile. âI 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.â
Vera gave a quiet laugh. âWell. I suppose we could do that. But only if you promiseââ
âI wonât spend the night at home in my bathrobe,â Byron said quickly. âGerald hosted a poker night at his place over the weekend and I lost, which means Iâll be picking up his wifeâs shift at the tavern, since sheâs still on maternity leave.â
âAnd after that?â
âI just got the new season of Game of Thrones on DVD,â Byron assured her. âWith that and a six-pack of Stella in the fridge, Valentineâs Day couldnât end any better.â
âHmm.â
Byron went another route, a sincere one. âHey, Ma? I love ya.â
Vera sighed. âI love you, too. Youâre my only son.â
âI know,â Byron replied. âAnd I mean itâhappy Valentineâs Day.â
âCall me later.â
âWill do. Bye.â Byron hung up the phone. He eyed his coffee. Cold now. With a frown, he turned toward his computer monitor to switch it on. âHey, Kath,â he called. âCan you bring me another cup of coffee, please?â
No sooner had the computer hummed to life than the sunny voice of Constantine Strong filled the room. âNo need, darlinâ. I got what our boy needs right here.â
âJiminy Christmas,â Byron muttered, exasperated.
âChristmas was a month and a half ago,â 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. âWake up, son. Itâs nearly Mardi Gras.â
âWhatâs that youâve got there?â Byron asked suspiciously as his father set one of the go cups he carried onto the desk.
âOh, just a little rocket fuel for my space pirate.â 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 yearâs cheese basket to shame. âIâm fine, damn it.â
The mantis eyed Byron through rose-tinted lenses. There werenât too many lines in Constantineâs 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 sharkâs tooth dangled. He looked absurd, off-the-wall and somehow together and completely at easeâone with the earth. An aging hippie who refused to be anything but himself. âGo on,â he said finally, gesturing to the go cup. âYou know you want it.â
Byron reached for it. Hot. Mm, yeah. Just the way he liked it... âOnly if we play a round of âGuess Whoâs Not Coming to Dinner.ââ
Constantineâs face fell. âHow did you know?â
âYour offerings are well-placed but transparent,â Byron told him.
âYour mother called.â Constantine checked his wristwatch. âShouldâve known. She starts earlier than Christ and sheâs always twelve steps ahead of me.â
âYou both should really start texting,â Byron suggested as he logged in to the office system. âItâll save time and confusion. Plus, you two would tear up some sexting. Not that youâre hearing it from me.â He took a sip from the go cup and his brows came together as he swallowed. He eyed the logo on the front. âWhat theââ
âAh.â Constantine quickly lifted the cup from his knee and switched it for Byronâs. âI believe thatâs mine.â
âSprinkles and whipped cream?â Byron asked. âYouâre approaching sixty.â
âWhat do I always say to you kids about aging?â Constantine asked, his eyes sage behind wire frames. ââWe donât grow older, we grow riper.ââ
âThat 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 Iâll agree with you.â
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 Byronâs face. For a moment, the two men just looked at one another. Byron heard the silent message his father transmuted with a softened grinâyouâre 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. âThatâs the stuff,â he muttered appreciatively.
âTold you,â Constantine said, crossing his ankle over his knee. Now he looked like a dandied-up cricket ready to break into a toe-tapping reel. âIâve always got what my boy needs. And speaking of...â He pulled something from the breast pocket of his jacket and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it Byronâs way.
Byron swiped the key ring out of the air. âWhatâs this?â 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. âPop. What is this?â
âI ran by the retirement village yesterday morning to see our girl,â Constantine informed him.
Byron beamed at the mention of his great-aunt, Athena. âHowâs she doing?â
âYapped my ear off for three hours straight, so Iâd say sheâs doing pretty fine,â Constantine considered. âHad lots to say about you. And the house.â
âThe house,â Byron breathed, tightening his grip on the keys.
âItâs what you want, isnât it?â Constantine asked with a knowing smile. âAt least it seems thatâs what you told her not too long ago. Sheâs got it set in her head that the place is yours. She even says thereâs no use waiting for the will...what with the rest of your life ahead of you. Unless, of course, youâve changed your mind...â
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 Athenaâs 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 Byronâs 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 sheâd left behind for him.
Byron and his sisters had chased ghosts and dreams in that house. Heâd pushed Priscilla out of the Japanese magnolia in the backyard, resulting in a broken arm for her and a month at the mercy of Ariâs hard-labor tutelage for him. Heâd 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, Athenaâby that point in assisted livingâoffered 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 hadnât 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 andâfor Byronâextreme sentimental value. Who wouldnât bribe the Almighty Himself to live there?
He closed his fist around the keys. âWhen?â he asked.
Constantine lifted his shoulders. âWhy not tomorrow?â
Byronâs brows drew together. âDidnât Ma crack down on you for verbal contracts?â
âThis is different,â Constantine said. He was serious. Byron rarely saw his father so serious. He had to swallow a few times to digest it. âItâs family. Athena. You. The house. Itâs all in the family. Iâm sure Athena would gift it to you outrightââ
âNo, Iâm buying it outright,â Byron argued.
âEven if the loan goes toward your inheritance anyway?â Constantine asked.
âI want my name on it. I also want the appraisal estimate. Nothing lowball.â
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 Byronâs long-held interest, the Victorian perhaps called for a more casual approach.
âTake some of your things over tonight and see how you adjust,â Constantine was saying. âIf you donât have any second thoughts over the next forty-eight hours, Iâll bring the papers Wednesday.â 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. âIâll drink to that.â
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. âGood. Youâre already in.â She spotted Constantine, stopped midspeech and smiled. âOh. Sorry, Mr. Strong. I didnât see you arrive.â
âI snuck in,â Constantine said with a wink. âHowâre you, Kathleen?â
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 heâd 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. Weâre 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 heâd 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. Byronâs parents had been married for thirty-five years and were still madly in loveâso 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 blasĂ©.
The belief had held for Priscilla, as well. Sheâd 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, Vivienneâs wedding to her boyfriend of four years, Sidney, was only a few short weeks away.
That âmate once for lifeâ business was all too real. And that was the trouble.
Byron lifted his chin, catching Kathâs gaze. âWhat can we do for you?â
The twinkle Constantine had brought to the womanâs eyes faded out. âThe Xerox machine is on the fritz.â
Byron pushed up from his chair. âAgain?â
She held up her hands. âIâve tried the manual. Iâve tried customer service. I even channeled PelĂ© and gave the dang thing a few kicks like you did last week. Until the maintenance guy gets here later in the week, Iâll have to run to the library to see if theyâll let me use theirs.â
Byron shook his head. âItâs too cold out. You stay in. Iâll go to the library.â
âBut you have a meeting,â she reminded him.
âIâll have plenty of time to get back and prep.â Pointing at the manila folder sheâd folded against her chest, he asked, âIs this what we need copied?â
Kath relinquished the papers. âTheyâre for today and tomorrowâs appointments. I usually make three copies of everything. One for records, one for the client and one spare.â
âIâll take care of it,â Byron said.
Kath eyed Constantine over Byronâs shoulder. âYou and the missus sure raised this one right.â
âAh, Iâm a bad influence,â Constantine said with a smirk. âThis oneâs the work of his mother.â
âWhatever the case, heâs gentleman to the bone,â Kath noted. âThe world could use several more just like him.â
Byron tossed a heated glance into Grimâs office when he heard his business partner snigger. âThank you, Kath.â
âThank you, sir,â 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 Grimâs office and asked after Priscilla and the baby before joining Byron at the door while saying, âViviâs flight was delayed again.â
âShe still hasnât flown out?â Byron asked, pushing the door open into the cold. Byron didnât particularly care for his sister being on another continent, not to mention a third-world country. The flying didnât soothe him either. She and her fiancĂ©, 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. âSheâs going to miss her own wedding.â
âSheâll be here. Donât you worry.â Constantine clapped an arm around Byronâs shoulders. âRemember, you need us, weâre here.â
âYeah, I got that,â Byron said, amused.
âGo see Athena.â
âFirst chance I get,â Byron promised. He wrapped an arm around his father. âCome here, you old geezer.â
âAh.â Constantine squeezed him into a bear hug, rubbing circles over Byronâs back just as he had when he was a child. He gave him a few thumps for good measure. âFruit of my loins.â
âPop, word of advice,â Byron quipped. âDonât talk about your loins when youâre hugging people. Unless itâs Ma. In which case please ensure the rest of us arenât anywhere within hearing distance.â
A laugh rolled through Constantineâs torso. He grabbed Byronâs face and kissed him square on the mouth. âI love ya.â
Byron rubbed his lips together. âSave some for her, huh?â
Constantine opened the driverâs door of the Prius and folded his long frame behind the wheel, defying everything Byron knew about logic. He winked. âValentineâs Day, leap year, Lincolnâs birthday...â He cranked the Prius to life. âDoesnât matter what day it is. My girl gets the lionâs share.â
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 childrenâs park, taking a shortcut between the buildings that walled off Fairhopeâs 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. âOh, God,â she uttered, the round box in her hands empty.
Byron reached out to grasp Roxie Honeycuttâs arm. She looked dangerously close to falling to her knees. âHey, hey. Itâs all right. Theyâre just flowers.â
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. âI meant thereâs probably more where those came from, right?â He tried smiling to draw her out of her blank stare. The woman heâd known for a little over a year was normally expressive. Bubbly, even. Sure, sheâd been a thinner, quieter, more subdued version of Roxie over the last ten months thanks in large part to her husbandâs 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 wifeâs sisters deserved to be kicked brusquely to the curb.
Roxie licked her lips. âIâm...so dead.â
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. âLetâs call Adrian,â he said instantly. The florist was a mutual friend. She and Roxie often collaborated on events. âSheâll get what you need.â
Roxie blinked. âAdrian? Sheâs doing flowers for a wedding in Mobile.â
âShit. Sorry.â 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 didnât set him ill at ease. Not at all. It...brought him to attention. Close attention.
Kath wouldâve said it was the âgentlemanâ in him responding to the lady in her.
âIâm sure thereâs a solution,â 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. âFirst...why donât I help you get these where they need to go?â
She nodded. âThat would be wonderful.â Her gaze locked onto his again. Her mouth moved at the corners. âThank you, Byron.â
The first time heâd seen her smile, heâd stopped breathing. Actually stopped breathing. The zing of her exuberant blue eyes, her blinding white teethâstraight as Grecian pillarsâhad hit him square in the chest. Her beauty was impeccable. He remembered thinking that she was the most unspoiled thing heâd 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 Roxieâs eyes, he remembered just how blue those spikes were.
He bent to retrieve her packages. âWhereâre you headed?â
âJust around the corner,â she told him, placing the empty box in the trunk as he gathered the others. âTo the library.â
âFancy that,â he said. âMe, too.â
The small smile grew by a fraction. âThat is fancy.â
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 Roxieâs pale cheeks were tinged pink. He mightâve thought it was the wind had her smile not grown into a full-fledged grin. âWhat?â he asked.
She shook her head. âItâs nothing.â
He nudged her arm with his. âCome on.â
She licked her lips. Then she said, âYou just always show up on my epic fail days.â
He frowned. âThat canât be true.â
âIt is,â she insisted. Her stare flickered over his middle. âYou remember last March.â
He studied one of her gloved handsâthe one that had wound up in his solar plexus that day in March. It had been an accident, of course. Heâd stepped into the blow unwittingly and sheâd 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. âThat?â He shrugged, dismissing the incident completely. âThat was nothing.â
âI hit you.â
âYou were having a bad day.â
âWhen I break a nail, thatâs a bad day,â she pointed out. âThat one could only be deemed hellacious in the extreme.â
âI wouldnât lose sleep over it,â he advised. The light changed and they began to cross. âItâs been a year.â
âEleven months, almost,â she said thoughtfully.
He knew she was thinking about her divorce and not their exchange that day. He changed the subject in a hurry. âWhatâs happening at the library?â
âThereâs a vow-renewal ceremony. Fifty years.â
Byron whistled. âImpressive. Whoâre the lovebirds? Anybody I know?â
âSal and Wanda Simkin. Theyâre both retirees. They moved down south recently to be closer to their daughter and her family. Theyâre 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.â
âThereâs a happy accident for you,â he mused as they crossed again, eastbound. The library was just ahead. When she pursed her lips, he asked, âWhat? You donât believe in accidents?â
She thought over it. âI donât know. A year ago, I would have said no, I donât believe in accidents, happy or otherwise.â
âSo you think it was whatâkismet?â Byron asked, shifting the bulk in his arms from one side to the other.
âIâm not sure where I stand on all that anymore.â At his curious gaze, she added, âFate. Kismet. I used to be a big believer in serendipity. In signs. Now...?â She shook her head. Sniffing in the cold, she continued, âAnyway, 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.â
He nodded understanding. âWith the rose petals.â
âThat are halfway to Canada by now,â Roxie noted as another gale blazed a trail through the tree-lined grove across the street where the college campus and amphitheater were located.
âIt wonât be hard to find more,â he told her. âIt is Valentineâs Day.â
âYes. It is.â
Ah, he thought, gauging the slight hint of her displeasure. A kindred spirit. âAfter 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 donât tell Adrian.â
âMy assistant will be here in a half hour or so. Iâll have him stop by Flora and see if Penny can scrounge together some more petals.â She stopped when Byron nudged the door open and stepped back to let her pass. Blinking at him, she gave a surprised smile. âOh. Thank you.â
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?
âOh, my God!â Roxie exclaimed, bringing him to a halt behind her as she whirled around to face him in the lobby.
âJesus,â he muttered, bobbling the boxes at the renewed pallor on her face. âWhat?â
âYour scarf! Itâsââ
âHalfway to Canada?â
âItâs my fault,â she said ruefully. âWe might still be able to find itââ
âRox.â Byron leaned toward her, lowering his voice as he cocked a brow. âItâs a scarf.â
âYes, but itâs yours,â she lamented. âIâll get you a new one. I promise.â
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. âIâll do you one better. Iâm picking up Oliviaâs tavern shift tonight. You could come by, buy me a beer, brighten my day.â
âOh.â She stared at him, stunned. âIâd love to.â She rubbed the cashmere gloves together. âBut I actually have a date.â
Byron didnât know why his spirits tanked at the news. Of course she had a date. It was frigging Valentineâs. And she was Roxie Honeycutt. âYeah? Whoâs the lucky guy?â
âBertie Fledgewick,â she said. âMy sister Julianna knows his family. She set me up. You know how it is.â
The only person either of his sisters had ever set him up with was Adrian. Adrian was now married to his friend James Bracken. âThis isnât your first date since...?â
She lowered her eyes to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees and cocked her hand on her hip. âThe second. Bertie took me out for martinis two weeks ago. Tonightâs a little more formal. Dinner at Alabama Point.â
âSounds classy. Youâre still living in the apartment beside your shop, right? Above the tavern?â
âIn Oliviaâs old bachelorette digsââ she nodded ââfor the time being.â
âBring him by when he drops you off,â Byron invited. âDrinks are on me.â
She licked her lips to smooth a canny smile. âYou want to buy our drinks or size him up?â
âI donât know if you know this, but Iâm excellent at multitasking.â
She laughed. It was like tinny bells on Christmas. It brought mirth and a pleasant flush to her faceâa face he thought still a touch too thin after last year. It couldnât 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. âI needed that.â
Bertie, you lucky bastard. He picked up the boxes again. âAnytime. Tell me where these are going.â








































