He was relieved Hannah didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects, but the sense of anxiety that had kept his eyes wide-open still lingered. The monster under the bed ready to jump out at any minute, even during the day with the sun shining.
“I’ve already ordered breakfast,” he reminded her now as he sank into a chair and was met with her pouty face.
Stick with the routine, he reminded himself.
When he first read through Louisa’s list of approved foods, dominated by fruits and vegetables, he’d wondered if his mother-in-law wasn’t setting him up for a fall. Really, what kid wanted oatmeal for breakfast? But the pancake incident and last night’s nightmare made him realize he didn’t need to blame Louisa for his failures.
He could fail spectacularly all on his own.
“But I want—”
A quick knock on the door interrupted the brewing tantrum, and Jamison wasn’t sure when he’d felt more relieved. “See, there’s room service now with breakfast.”
“Pancakes!” Hannah finished in a voice loud enough to have him cringing as he opened the door. And then cringing again at who was on the other side.
“Morning!” Looking bright, chipper and far too tempting for so early in the morning, Rory McClaren met his frown with a beaming smile.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that made her look even younger than he guessed she was and brought to mind old sitcoms set back in the ’60s. So did the halter-style dress with its soft floral print and full skirt. His mind still foggy from a sleepless night and too many hours spent thinking of her, Jamison could only stare.
After Hannah’s nightmare, Rory looked like something out of a dream. As the rich, strong scent of caffeine hit him, he belatedly noticed the silver serving cart in front of her.
“What are you doing here?” Still on some kind of sleep-deprived delay, the question didn’t form until Rory had already wheeled the cart between the floral-print couch and coffee table in the living area and into the dining room.
She shot a questioning glance over her bare shoulder. “You did order room service, didn’t you?”
Her blue gaze was filled with wide-eyed innocence, but Jamison wasn’t buying it. Realizing he was still holding the door open, he let go and followed her inside. “Yes, but I didn’t expect the wedding coordinator to deliver it.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Small hotel. Everyone pitches in.” Smiling at his daughter, she asked, “Are you ready for breakfast this morning, Miss Hannah?”
Despite her earlier fascination with the woman, Hannah retreated back into shyness. She drew her bare feet up onto the seat and wrapped her arms around her ladybug-covered legs, looking impossibly tiny in the adult-size chair. “I want pancakes,” she repeated, her voice more of a whisper this time.
Instead of a wave of embarrassment crashing over him, Jamison couldn’t help feeling a little smug as Rory’s cheery expression faltered a bit.
“Um—” she glanced at the ticket tucked beneath one of the covered trays “—it looks like the chef made you oatmeal this morning.” She lifted her gaze to Jamison for confirmation.
He nodded. “Oatmeal’s good for you. Healthy.”
At least that was what his in-laws thought. It wasn’t something his mother would have fixed when he was a kid. Not that his mother fixed much of anything in the way of meals—breakfast or otherwise. Jamison had mostly been on his own and, in all honesty, more than content with sugary cereal eaten straight from the box, parked in front of morning cartoons.
“Good for you. Right...” Rory drew out the word as she pulled the cover off the bowl of plain, beige cereal. No fun shapes, bright colors or magically delicious marshmallows there. “What do you say we make this oatmeal even yummier, Hannah?”
Somehow, Jamison should have known a bowl of mush wouldn’t be enough to throw her off her game.
“How?” A wealth of doubt filled that one word, and just like that Jamison’s amusement vanished.
Yesterday, Hannah had been ready to believe Rory was a fairy godmother who walked on flower petals. And okay, so he didn’t buy into Rory McClaren’s brand of happily-ever-after, but his daughter was still a little girl. Did he want her doubting something as simple as breakfast couldn’t somehow get better?
“I’m guessing Rory has an idea about that,” he murmured.
He caught her look of surprise before pleasure brought a pink glow to her cheeks. “That’s right. Thanks to your daddy, who also ordered some fruit, we are going to turn this into happy oatmeal.”
“Happy?”
“Yep. This oatmeal’s a little sad and plain right now,” she said as reached for the platter of fruit beautifully arranged in the middle of the tray. “But with a little bit of color...” Her hands, as delicate and graceful as the rest of her, sliced up the fruit as she spoke. A moment later, she’d outlined a blueberry smiley face in the bowl of oatmeal, complete with banana-slice eyes, a strawberry nose and an orange-wedge smile.
Scrambling up onto her knees, Hannah peered into the bowl Rory set in front of her and let out a soft giggle. “Look, Daddy, the oatmeal’s smiling at me.”
And his daughter was smiling at him. Jamison would have liked the credit, but Rory McClaren had the magic touch. A woman who thought rainbow was a color and turned plain beige oatmeal into a bright, happy-faced breakfast.
“I like smiley-face yummy oatmeal.” Grabbing the spoon, Hannah leaned over the bowl, ready to dig in, her blond hair falling into her face.
“Oops, hold on a second, Hannah.”
Skirting around the whitewashed oak table, Rory reached up and pulled the peach-colored band from her ponytail. Jamison’s mouth went dry as she gave her head a quick shake and sent her dark hair tumbling over her bare shoulders.
His tongue practically stuck to the roof of his mouth; he fought to swallow, assailed by the image of that silken hair spread out against a pillow or tumbling over his shoulders as Rory leaned down to kiss him...
“Thank you, Miss Rory.” Her riot of curls contained, Hannah beamed up at the beautiful brunette.
Cupping her chin in one hand, Rory bent down until they were eye to eye. “You are welcome, Miss Hannah.”
Hannah giggled at the formality before digging into her breakfast. She bounced up and down in the chair in time with chowing down on a bite of banana, drawing an indulgent smile from Rory.
“And what about you, Mr. Porter?” she asked as she walked back over to the serving tray and waved a hand. “I don’t see another bowl of oatmeal for you.”
“Coffee,” he said abruptly, still trying to get the erotic images out of his mind.
Mistaking the reason for his short response, her earnest gaze met his. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with the ponytail. My only excuse is to say it’s an occupational hazard.”
“So, wedding coordinator, room service attendant and hairstylist?”
“Oh, I’m not a professional stylist by any means. But in my short time as wedding coordinator, I’ve learned to be a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to last-minute emergencies. Whether it’s figuring out how to turn three bridesmaids’ bouquets into four because the bride made up with her best friend at the last second or pulling out a hot-glue gun for a quick repair to a torn hemline, I feel like I’ve already been there, done that. And now it’s like I can’t help fixing things... Not that Hannah’s broken or you need help and—I have got to learn to keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself!”
Rory wasn’t the only one with that second problem, but it wasn’t his daughter’s hair Jamison longed to get his hands on. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly, even though it wasn’t. Her actions were innocent. His intentions...not so much. “About the ponytail thing, I mean. Anyone can see I can’t get it right. And I do mean anyone, since even Hannah tells me her hair looks funny when I’m done with it.”
“I’m sure you’re doi
ng fine.”
“Are you?” The sympathy in her eyes told him he and Hannah had been a topic of conversation once they left the bridal shop. “Because I’m not sure of a damn thing.”
He half expected some meaningless platitude, but instead she reached for the carafe on the serving tray and poured a cup of steaming coffee. “Rough night?” she asked as she handed him the mug.
His fingers overlapped hers, the warmth seeping through coming more from her soft skin than from the hard ceramic. For a brief second, they both froze, connected by the fragrant cup of coffee. And he found himself desperate for someone to confide in.
“Nightmare,” he admitted as Rory released the mug and took a quick step back. She set about tidying the serving tray, her lashes lowered as she avoided his gaze.
“You or Hannah?”
Jamison gave a quick laugh. “Hannah,” he said as if he hadn’t had more than his share of bad dreams over the past months. Not about Monica, like the dreams that had Hannah crying out for a mother who would never again kiss away her tears, but ones about the accident.
He’d seen pictures of what remained of the run-down sedan Monica had been driving—a mangled wreck of metal Hannah had somehow survived. As if those images weren’t bad enough, his subconscious tormented him even further. In his nightmares, the car burst into flames, plunged into a river or fell from a cliff while he could do nothing but watch.
In reality, Jamison hadn’t seen the accident, but he’d heard it.
Worse, he’d caused it.
Chapter Four
“Oh, Ms. McClaren, I have to tell you we just got back from the wedding-cake tasting, and every one of them was to die for. I think all those tiny little bites added up to an entire cake by the time we made up our minds.”
Rory smiled as the beaming, sugar-filled bride-to-be rushed to her side in the middle of Hillcrest House’s elegant, dark-walnut-paneled lobby. She had offered to take Jamison and Hannah on a tour of the grounds, but so far they hadn’t made it out of the hotel. She’d been stopped a handful of times either by guests or employees with questions about upcoming events.
Susannah Erickson was the latest interruption. “I’m glad you enjoyed the tasting. I learned within my first few days here not to accompany brides to the bakery. Too much temptation.”
And why, oh, why did she have to say temptation? Just speaking the word out loud had her thinking about that morning, and not about food. The image of Jamison opening the door, dressed but fresh from the shower, was seared in Rory’s mind. The scent of soap and shampoo had clung to his skin, and his damp hair had been rumpled from a quick toweling. Add to that the dark stubble he’d yet to shave away, and all she’d been able to think about was the seductive rasp of that rough skin against her own...
Almost against her will, Rory sought Jamison out. He stood off to the right with Hannah at his side, but Rory had already known that. She’d felt hyperaware of his proximity since he’d opened the door. Telling herself in the intimate setting of the Bluebell suite, of course she would notice the overwhelming presence of a masculine, six-foot-something man.
But even now, surrounded by guests and employees in the spacious lobby, she was still conscious of him. Of the way his gray gaze focused on her. Of the way the air crackled with electricity when their eyes met. Of the restless energy that seemed to pulse inside every inch of his broad-shouldered frame.
As Rory spoke with the bride-to-be about menu options and table settings, her words trembled and tripped on her tongue as though she were the one experiencing a high-octane sugar rush. Fortunately, her client didn’t seem to pick up on her nerves and promised to call back and book Hillcrest for her wedding as soon as she had a chance to talk with her fiancé.
After saying her farewells to Susannah, Rory braced herself to face Jamison again. He had taken the opportunity to shave and comb his hair during the time it took for her to return the breakfast dishes and serving cart to the kitchen. Too bad she didn’t find that strong, smooth jawline and the hint of an expensive, spicy aftershave any less attractive.
But the clean-cut version was a good reminder of who the man was. In the suite this morning, he’d been a harried father who’d needed her. A man dealing with the heartache of raising a child on his own. A man her heart urged her to help...
This, though, was Jamison Porter, Esquire. A businessman in control of himself and immune to his surroundings as his thumbs flew over his phone. Including, she feared, the daughter twisting restlessly at his side.
Rory knew what it was like to be pushed aside, forgotten, ignored...
She’d been a few years older than Hannah when tragedy struck her family. As an adult, she understood that her parents loved her every bit as much as they loved her brother, Chance, but in the weeks following his accident she’d felt like a ghost wandering the hospital halls—unseen, unheard.
Shaking off the memories, she scolded herself for projecting her own past onto the father and daughter in front of her. Focus, Rory. Jamison Porter is part of a wedding party and dealing with him part of your job.
Pasting a professional smile onto her face, she apologized as she joined them. “Sorry about all the interruptions.”
“If there’s one thing I understand, it’s work.” He thrust the phone into the pocket of his slacks, but Rory couldn’t tell if he was reluctant or relieved to break the connection. “I’m good at what I do.”
Rory frowned. The words didn’t sound like bragging as much as they sounded like...an apology? She wasn’t sure she had that right until his gaze dropped to the top of his daughter’s head and his throat worked in a rough swallow.
Suddenly the puzzle pieces fell into place. Successful businessman, not-so-successful family man. His fingers tapped on the outside of his muscular thigh, and Rory could sense his need to reach for his phone again—tangible proof of the predictable, logical world he’d left behind.
“Jamison—”
“I want cake for breakfast,” Hannah cut in, her tone grumpy enough for Rory to know the little girl hadn’t totally gotten over having to eat oatmeal that morning.
“Only brides get cake for breakfast,” her father answered quickly.
“I wanna be a bride.”
His daughter’s comeback was even faster than his and left Jamison groaning in response. Rory couldn’t help but laugh. “Relax, Dad, that’s one worry you can put off for a few years.” Gazing down at Hannah, she asked, “Do you want to go see where Miss Lindsay is going to get married? You can practice being her flower girl.”
Hannah was quiet for a second before her eyes lit up. “Do flower girls get cake?”
“They do—but not for breakfast.”
After heaving a sigh at the unfairness of that, Hannah nodded. “Okay.”
“All right then. Let’s go!”
“Wait, Miss Rory,” the girl demanded. “You hafta hold my hand.”
Hannah held out her left hand, her right already wrapped around her father’s. Rory hesitated even though she knew she was being ridiculous. In her short time at Hillcrest, she’d held more than her share of little and big girls’ hands leading up to a wedding. This was nothing different. But with Jamison on the other side, his daughter joining the two of them together, Rory felt a connection that went far beyond a professional capacity.
Something about the corporate lawyer, something in the shadows lingering in his silver eyes, grabbed hold of her. She’d been telling the truth when she said she’d become a jack-of-all-trades with a quick fix for prewedding emergencies. But she had to be careful. She’d be foolish to think she could step in and fix Jamison and his adorable daughter. Foolish to invest too much of herself when their time in Clearville was temporary. Foolish to think he’d want her to.
Though Rory didn’t want to be so in tune with the man just a child’s length away, she sensed the deep breath he exhaled as they steppe
d out into the cool morning air. Hannah bounced between them down the wraparound porch’s front steps, but it was Jamison who seemed to have released a negative energy bottled up far too long.
As they walked down the gravel path leading from the house, Rory couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder. Even though she’d been back for almost three months, the sight of the Victorian mansion never failed to steal her breath.
She loved the history and old-fashioned elegance of the place. The way it brought to mind a simpler time. With its high peaks, glorious turrets and carved columns and balustrades, an air of romance surrounded the house and property.
Not that romance was anything Rory should be thinking of—at least not as her gaze met Jamison’s.
“Um, did you know Hillcrest House was built in the late 1800s? The original owner made his fortune decades earlier down in San Francisco during the gold rush. Not that he ever found gold, but he was one of the enterprising men who figured out the more practical side of gold fever. The thousands of men dreaming of striking it rich were going to need tools and equipment, and he was one of the first on the scene to set up shop.”
“Let me guess...at ridiculously inflated rates?” Jamison asked, the corner of his mouth lifted in a cynical smile that still managed to trip up Rory’s heartbeat.
“Oh, but he wasn’t just selling metal pans and shovels and pails... He was selling the miners the tools they needed to follow their dreams.” Catching the look of utter disbelief on Jamison’s face, Rory let out the laughter she’d been holding back. “Yeah, okay, even I can’t pull that one off. He robbed the poor suckers blind, selling on credit and then cashing in on their claims when they couldn’t pay him back.”
“So much for the romance of a time gone by.”
Rory started, feeling as if Jamison had read her thoughts moments earlier. “Well, uh, if it’s any consolation, karma did bite back, and he ended up losing his fortune—and Hillcrest House—when the stock market crashed.”
“Hmm, sounds like cosmic justice but, again, not very romantic.”
The Best Man Takes a Bride Page 4
