Back To Us (Shore Secrets 3)

by Christi Barth

  “Ollie, you idiot! Get out of the way.” The deep, baritone voice issuing the command buzzed with almost as much annoyance as Ivy felt.

  A pair of highly polished dress shoes entered her limited field of vision, replacing the scuffed loafers belonging to the cameraman. Hoping this indicated the camera was gone, Ivy lifted her head once more. Not only had the camera disappeared, but an incredibly handsome man now crouched in front of her.

  Although it was true almost every man looked good in a tux, this one in particular was downright yummy. Broad shoulders filled out his jacket. Impeccable tailoring emphasized the vee shape of his torso. His chin had a movie-star cleft deep enough to anchor a small boat. A streaky thicket of blond hair set off piercing blue eyes. Combined with his unusual-for-April-in-Chicago tan, it gave him a bit of a surfer look.

  “Are you okay? Here, let me help you up,” he said, without waiting for an answer. Strong arms lifted her off the floor, cradling her against a very firm chest. Her long dress, albeit possibly streaked and torn, cascaded down to his knees. It was like a scene out of a movie: the formalwear, the romantic pose, the Prince Charming look-alike carrying her. Or, to be perfectly honest, one of several favorite fantasies she mentally thumbed through instead of counting sheep. Ivy’s heart did a quick flip flop. These things never, ever happened to her. This moment was well worth a few scrapes and bruises.

  “Not that I’m complaining, but where are we going?” she asked.

  “To find you a chair. We need to assess your injuries before you try to stand.”

  What a strangely technical thing for him to say. Not at all the warm, charming words she’d hoped to come out of his lips. “Are you a paramedic?”

  “Nope. But I am certified in advanced first aid. I just don’t want you to sue me.”

  “What?” Ivy craned her neck around to meet his eyes. “You’re being nice to me to sidestep litigation?” And with that, her personal ocean of humiliation snaked out a riptide, sucking her even deeper. Prince Charm-less was more like it. “Put me down right now,” she demanded.

  “As soon as I find a damn chair!” He turned left into the Great Hall. Early afternoon sunlight beamed in through the wide windows, casting a golden haze across the top of the enormous room.

  Ivy waved her hand at two hundred gilt Chivari chairs framing the round banquet tables in perfect arcs. “Take your pick.”

  He toed out the nearest chair, dumped her on it, then planted his hands on his hips. “Well? You hurt anywhere?”

  “Pretty much everywhere.” Like black ink from an enraged octopus, the sexy stranger oozed with annoyance and attitude. Ivy just couldn’t figure out why her tripping down the stairs had set him off. At the most he looked to be in his mid thirties. Far too young for a case of terminal crankiness.

  “I meant did you break anything?” The man knelt on the floor and looked at her with expectant eyes.

  “I only fell the last few...hey!” He’d pushed the hem of her dress to her knees and rotated her left ankle. She jerked in response and tried to pull her foot out of his grasp.

  “Like I said, I’m certified in first aid. Stop wriggling around and let me check you out.”

  His touch was surprisingly gentle, and the warmth of his hands soothing. Wonderfully big, deft hands. She wondered how many other of her body parts he planned to handle in a similar fashion. Whoops. Far too long since her last date if her body responded this quickly to someone so disagreeable. “Usually I get at least a cocktail before someone gropes under my skirt.”

  He ignored her quip. “Good movement on this side.” In short order he checked her other ankle, and performed an equally thorough examination of her knees and wrists. She hissed in a breath when he found the cut on her arm. “Doesn’t look too bad. More like a deep scrape.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not the one wearing it.” Irritated equally by his demeanor and the stinging pain in her arm, she shook him off. “Who are you?”

  “Here we go.” He let out a long sigh and pushed to his feet. “Bennett Westcott, True Life Productions.” After a quick rummage in his lapel pocket he produced a business card. “Obviously you’re a bit shaken up, but overall I’d say you are fine. However, if you feel it necessary to contact a lawyer regarding this incident, I understand.”

  Confused, Ivy took the card, glanced at the bold red and black lettering. “Did I miss something? I fell down a couple of stairs. Unless you totaled my car in the parking lot or plan to kneecap me later, it’s safe to say litigation isn’t even a remote possibility.”

  “Look, I’m trying to step up and do the right thing by not denying responsibility for your fall.”

  A few wisps of hair brushed her cheek when she slowly shook her head. “Still not a clue where you’re coming from.”

  “You must’ve tripped over our tripod bag. Ollie kicked it in front of the stairs right before you landed.”

  Aha! Now it made sense. In this crazy world where people sued over coffee being too hot, she understood at least a little of his paranoia. “Bennett, I slipped on an ice cube. The caterers dropped a bag of ice earlier, and missed a few when they cleaned up. Your duffel bag didn’t help me stick my landing, but it didn’t cause the problem, either.”

  The scowl dropped off his face and everything in his body relaxed. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. Ollie!” he bellowed. “Get your butt in here and apologize.”

  A thin, wiry man who barely looked strong enough to support the video camera propped on his shoulder shuffled slowly through the entryway. His eyes were downcast, his entire demeanor that of a beaten puppy. “I’m really sorry,” he mumbled.

  “We’re in the clear. She’s not going to sue,” her rescuer announced, relief pinging in every word. His speech pattern also changed. The witness-on-trial formality of his speech pattern relaxed into a normal, conversational tone.

  “I promise. Truly, I don’t blame you at all. Do you need me to sign an affidavit to that effect?” Ivy asked, at this point only half joking.

  Ollie swung the camera to the floor and rushed forward to pump Ivy’s hand. “Thank you so much. It was an accident, you know. I kicked the bag behind me without looking, and when I turned around you were on the floor, so I started filming. Reflex, you know?”

  “You can make it up to me by erasing that footage.” No response. Ivy watched Bennett and Ollie exchange a glance loaded with subtext. Too bad she couldn’t translate it. “The wedding hasn’t even started yet, so you won’t need to edit much,” she continued, letting a pleading tone slip into her voice. Their persistent silence was a bad sign. Petty though it might be, there was no way she’d allow her ungraceful tumble to be saved on some random cousin of the bride’s wedding video. “Come on, guys, this is ridiculous. I’m not even a guest at this wedding.”

  In a blur of unexpected speed, Ollie retrieved his camera from the floor and aimed it at her. The record light glowed red. “Can you say that again, and look straight into the camera for me?”

  “What? I will not,” she fumed. “Bennett, what’s with your friend?” Enough was enough! As the wedding coordinator, it was her job to handle crazy relatives. A deft mix of courtesy, charm and humor usually did the trick. But there were times a line had to be drawn, and this was it. No way could she do her job with this nut shoving a camera in her face every two minutes.

  To her surprise, Bennett gestured to Ollie to keep recording. “Are you confirming you did not receive an invitation to this wedding? And you got all dressed up and came anyway? That you are, in fact, a wedding crasher?”

  Ivy lifted a hand to her mouth to halt an onslaught of giggles. She couldn’t wait to tell her assistant, who would laugh her ass off at the accusation. “Oh, my God. Is that what you think?” No wonder the two acted so weird. And really, who could blame them? Catching an unwanted guest in the act could’ve guarant
eed their footage ending up on the local news. Plus, they’d be touted as heroes for “saving” the wedding. The truth would be a huge letdown.

  “Didn’t you admit as much?” Bennett countered.

  Ivy vigorously shook her head from side to side. “Hardly! I’m not a guest, but I’m certainly not crashing, either. My name is Ivy Rhodes. I’m doing day-of coordination for Tracy and Seth.”

  “You’re the wedding planner?” Ollie turned on his heel without another word and left the hall, head down and shoulders rounded in disappointment.

  Bennett’s reaction was the complete opposite. He pulled out another chair and straddled it, arms crossed over the back. “Sorry. The kid’s young, and is sure every gig we do has the potential for major drama. Instead of paying his dues, he plans to catapult to stardom on a clip of the bride falling off a chair during the Hora. Anyway, it’s a huge relief to know you’re one of us. No wonder you took the whole thing in stride. Now we can relax and get to know each other before all the craziness starts.” He flashed a killer grin. It revealed the matched set of dimples bracketing his lips.

  It was the kind of grin certain to charm a woman, and Ivy was no exception. Absolved of the threat of pending litigation, his personality had done a complete turnaround. Standoffish, irritable guy now exuded warmth and friendliness from his sky-blue eyes. If she read the signs correctly, he was trying to hit on her. Temptation and harmless flirtation beckoned.

  Then her mind caught up to her hormones and told her something was off. He spoke as if they were in this together, but she’d reviewed all the vendor contracts just this morning in preparation. She’d stake her entire paycheck for this event on not having one for a videographer. “Back up a minute. Now I need to turn the question back to you. Aren’t you a wedding guest?”

  “Nope. I told you, we’re with True Life Productions.” He reached forward and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His glancing touch sent a shiver down her spine. Ivy wanted to dismiss it as an unwelcome distraction. Oh, who was she kidding? There was nothing unwelcome about his fingers trailing softly from her ear down the side of her neck. Irritated at her body’s betrayal, she swatted his hand away.

  “But the bride and groom didn’t hire a videographer.” Ivy took a deep breath and smoothed her hair to make sure the triple layer of hairspray still held the majority of her French twist in place. “Look, I didn’t plan this whole wedding. Day-of coordination means I only show up to run the rehearsal and actual wedding day. But Tracy and I met last month to discuss all the details. We went over every vendor contract. You must have your dates or venue wrong,” she insisted.

  “Chicago. Great Hall of Café Brauer. Sunset. Third weekend in April.” Bennett ticked the points off on his fingers. “It all adds up to me. Why do you care, anyway? Got something against videographers? Cause if that’s it, you can relax. I’m also the director, and as a rule, we’re much more suave and exciting.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  Ivy bit back a smile at his antics and mustered a stern glare. “I care because this wedding cost a fortune, and I’m sure your services run into the thousands.” Then she remembered a seminar on con artists from her last association meeting, and another possible angle flashed through her mind. “Are you the ambulance chasers of the wedding world? Do you follow catering trucks around to find the hot weddings? Is this a scam, where you show up and tape everything, and then strong arm the bride and groom into paying?”

  “Oh, they aren’t paying for us. We’re paying them.”

  Utter confusion swamped her. They were talking in circles. The clink of glassware filtered in from the hallway. It was a timely reminder the caterers had yet to place the wineglasses and water goblets on the tables. Once they finished, she would set the place cards in their Star of David-shaped holders and hand-written menus. In other words, lots to do and the clock was ticking. A glance at her watch confirmed less than two hours before the wedding march began. Her to-the-minute itinerary didn’t include a time slot to solve the mystery of the uninvited, albeit borderline irresistible video guy! “Bennett—”

  “Call me Ben.” He rose from the chair, and Ivy was forced to tip her head back a little to maintain eye contact. Easily several inches over six feet, most of it was in his legs. The satin stripe on his tuxedo pants only emphasized his height. “I can see what happened. Tracy didn’t tell you she won the contest. Probably thought you’d flip out or something. Most wedding coordinators aren’t wild about us interfering with the big day.”

  “What contest?”

  “Our show holds a contest every year. Whoever wins not only gets featured on the show, but we pay for their honeymoon. The only catch is that if they do win, we have to tag along and film the whole thing.”

  “What show?” Suspicion reared inside her. Reality wedding shows were a dime a dozen, and Ivy loathed most of them. Her profession tended to be portrayed in an unflattering light.

  He ran a hand back and forth along the ladder-back chair. Carefully pushed it back into place at the table, tucking it neatly under the bright yellow tablecloth. “WWS. You know, Wild Wedding Smackdown.” Ben, anticipating her reaction, at least had the grace to wince.

  It took a concerted effort not to let her jaw drop to the floor. Without a doubt his show was the worst of the lot. It featured two couples, each trying to upstage the other with lavish ceremonies and over-the-top receptions. The brides invariably sniped at each other on Twitter, made horrible catty remarks in behind-the-scenes video diaries, or stole a great band right out from under the other’s nose. Really, it was like watching high school students fight to have the best prom.

  “Please tell me you’re joking.” Her head reeled. How could one of her weddings be featured on that classless catfight? The millions of people who watched wouldn’t know she was hired at the last minute to only do day-of coordination. They might even assume she pushed the bride and groom into participating. This broadcast could ruin her reputation in Chicago, the reputation she’d carefully honed and polished over the past six years. It was a nightmare, pure and simple.

  “Wish I was.” He looked over both shoulders, then whispered in her ear. “Just between you and me, I hate it too.”

  “Oh, well, that fixes everything!” Sarcasm weighed down her words.

  “I mean it.” Ben came around to crouch in front of her and took her hands. The surprisingly intimate gesture from a man she’d just met startled her. Of course, between carrying her and checking for injuries, he’d already run his hands over most of her body. Still, this moment felt different somehow. Very personal, very connected.

  “Ivy, I can tell you’re upset. You turned white as a ghost the minute I said WWS. Trust me, I’ve worked on the show long enough to know it’s a piece of crap. I’ve been trying to get off of it since day one. As a matter of fact, I just got promoted at True Life. Tonight’s my last gig.”

  His thumb brushed in a soothing pattern over her knuckles. It took a huge effort to split her focus between his words and the tingles he sent zinging up her arm. “Well, goody for you. So glad you’re moving up in the world while I’m about to crash and burn.”

  “It won’t be that bad.”

  She rolled her eyes. The blatant understatement didn’t deserve a response.

  “I know you hate the show, and I hate the show, but millions of people out there love it.”

  “Millions of people watch NASCAR just for the crashes,” she shot back. Who knew it was possible to be this depressed while a tall blond hunk caressed her?

  “Listen to me. Don’t look at the glass as half empty. Everyone knows it’s impossible to control a bride. They won’t blame you for the bad stuff, but you’ll get credit for all the good stuff.”

  The only good side that immediately sprang to mind was meeting Ben. Unfortunately, it was a purely personal perk, and in no way could help save her career. And for all she
knew, he might disappear the moment she calmed down. Meanwhile, in a matter of weeks her face would be in high definition on television screens handing out the tacky favors; water bottles plastered with a picture of the happy couple chugging beer at the bar where they met. The smothering weight of despair began to settle over her when his voice caught her attention.

  “Think of it as advertising, unparalleled nationwide exposure. It may be hard to believe, but we get a ton of calls after each episode.”

  “Oh, I believe it!”

  Ben squeezed her hands. “Not complaints. People want to hire the vendors we feature, like the planner and the florist.”

  The thick fog of panic clouding her brain receded a little. “Really?”

  “Yes. Trust me, tonight could wind up to be the biggest opportunity you ever get.” His blue eyes, mere inches away from hers, radiated sincerity. She wanted to believe him, because frankly the alternative was unthinkable and ulcer inducing. And really, since Tracy and Seth signed a contract, what choice did she have?

  Ivy closed her eyes, took a second to regroup. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “Sounds interesting. Always a good sign when a beautiful woman propositions me.” Ben doled out a slow, suggestive smile while at the same time his lids drooped to create the effect of bedroom eyes. It was undoubtedly a practiced look, and potent enough to bring any unsuspecting woman to her knees. Ivy saw the smile for what it was: a sucking vortex of charisma and sex appeal. One she would resist. Or at least would resist until he agreed to her terms.

  “I won’t hold up a giant sign saying ‘Wild Wedding Smackdown Sucks!’ during the ceremony if you agree to erase the footage of my fall. Honestly, Tracy and Seth have enough planned for tonight to give you lots of crazy outtakes. You don’t need me.”