by L. L. Muir
Pem agreed and handed the phone back to London. A second later, she heard St. John answer his phone.
“I’m sorry, London,” Mal said. “This is all up to you now. I can do nothing at all from here.”
“No problem. What do you need?”
“The fire department didn’t make you move that giant tent, right?”
“Right.”
“I need you to turn that tent into a small ballroom. It will need more flowers than we have in it. Take the florals off the carriages if you need to. Leave one carriage dressed up for the bride and groom. Have the drivers in costume stand at the sides of the entrance. Get the outdoor heaters hauled over from the carriage tent and place them to one side, so the people in line don’t freeze.
“Tell the caterer to get set up next to the hot chocolate station. With all the hot hors d'oeuvres planned for both the tent and the lodge, they should have plenty to serve. The boys put the extra linens in the back of your van. That delivery box is about four by four. Turn it upside down and use it as a table top. Find something for the guests to sign. A notebook. Anything. Or have someone run to Park City. A leather-bound journal from one of the outlet stores.
“Tell the photographer to take extra pictures of the guests. A picture of Pemberly with the firemen, maybe. We’ll cover the cost. Tell Pemberly to shake hands fast, to keep the line moving so no one is outside too long. We’ll light candles in the windows here. The lodge can at least be a backdrop.”
“Got it. The lodge already looks great, by the way.”
“Book, food, warmth, and Pemberly. Anything else?”
“If there is, we’ll take care of it. You two just keep warm. Any way you can. And save me a piece of that cake.”
Mal walked over to St. John and asked to speak to his sister, then asked her what she thought of the plan. Pemberly was happy with it, reminding Mal that the important part, the wedding, was already over. The party was just a bonus.
Mal handed the phone back to Big Brother and wandered around the room, filling her apron pocket with candles for the windows. She heard him end the call, so she turned back to say something, but couldn’t remember what. The last thing she remembered was the feel of the heavy candles in her pocket pulling her to the floor.
Then nothing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mal felt the smooth slide of warm water over her arms and wondered if she was drowning. The blackness receded into a lighter shade of black, like she was rising to the surface, but her face wasn’t wet. She opened her eyes.
“Mallory,” a man breathed in relief. “Are you all right, darling?”
007 was back. Or rather, he was still there. They were both still there, in Harmony Lodge. And she was on the floor. She tried to sit up, but he held her down with one hand on her shoulder.
“There is no rush. I suggest you lie still a bit longer.”
The smooth slide of warm water turned out to be the satin lining of his suit jacket which had been laid across her upper body. Her shoes were gone and there was a sharp edge behind her heels. A wedding present.
“You raised my feet,” she said. The sweetest thing a guy had ever done for her.
“More blood to the brain, you see.” He lifted her legs and slid the present to the side. “But before you try to sit, let’s talk about this faint of yours.”
“I’ve never fainted in my life.”
“Not a claim you can boast any longer, I’m afraid. What have you eaten today?”
She had to think a minute. “I had milk this morning. A donut when I got to the shop. Then lunch was delivered around 11:30.”
“And did you eat this lunch?”
She remembered opening her container. Then a vase broke and she cleaned it up, then searched for a replacement. She couldn’t remember seeing that container again. A lovely burrito, gone to waste.
“I was distracted,” she confessed. “May I get up now?”
“Yes, you may.” He offered a hand and pulled her to a seated position. After she took a few slow breaths, he pulled her to her feet, then turned her around and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. They headed for the kitchen. “Unless you’d like to take a bite out of the wedding cake, we’ll see if we can find you some food.”
They passed the buffet table. Flowers and candles sat waiting for guests who would never come. She realized she was walking over the spot where the vase had broken earlier and hoped she’d gotten all the fragments, since she was now in stocking feet. Sweaty stocking feet, to be exact. And he’d taken her shoes off!
She was mortified.
The kitchen was darker than the ballroom. The windows, facing northeast, had little light coming through. It was probably around five o’clock and the sun was setting. There was enough light to see shadows, however, and she recognized the supply box. She tried to pull her arm free, but he wasn’t letting go.
“There should be a butane lighter in that box.” She pointed.
“I’ll get it. You must sit.” He led her to the corner where three chairs stood against the wall.
She dug in her pockets, but the candles were gone.
“I’ll get some candles. Don’t move.”
Then she remembered. “I’ve got to get candles in all the windows.”
He had already left the room. His voice boomed in the hallway. “I mean it. Don’t move.”
There was something about his tone that made her forget about candles, something that said he wasn’t going to be happy if she followed him back out of the kitchen. But there was plenty of time. She could wait another 30 minutes to get them lit. And sitting down felt wonderful.
Her stomach didn’t growl so much as it whimpered, and she was glad 007 hadn’t been there to hear it. Taking the time to eat would have been the smart thing to do, but being smart and being efficient sometimes couldn’t happen at the same time. And he didn’t need more proof she’d made a poor choice.
“I heard that, from all the way in the ballroom.” He walked out of the shadowy hallway with three fat candles.
“You did not.”
“All right. The hallway, then.” He set the candles on the counter, then turned to the supply box. “I am happy to see you capable of obedience.”
Mal gave a short laugh, but thought biting her tongue would be the smart thing to do at the moment. “Oh, be careful. There are probably knives in the box. Do you want me to find it?”
“I want you to sit still and be waited on. That’s what I want.” He straightened, with one hand in the air. “Ah hah.”
He flicked the lighter, got a flame, and lit the candles. And as little fire added more light on his face, she almost wished he hadn’t found the lighter after all. He was just too handsome for words. His features were too chiseled. His chest too broad. His eyes too…too. If she had to face him over candlelight, she wouldn’t be able to hide her drooling. She wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face at all.
She looked around the room for some kind of bag big enough to fit over her head. Maybe there were scissors in that box so she could cut some eye holes in it.
St. John moved away from her—thank heavens for small favors—and started pulling lids off large pink boxes. He popped something in his mouth. She looked away so she didn’t memorize the way he chewed.
He was suddenly standing in front of her, in the dark. He reached forward and felt her face, then found her mouth. “Open,” he said, then popped something in her mouth. “A pastry with some sort of cheese. To tide you over until I can find the plates.”
She wondered if it tasted wonderful in real life, or if it was because she was starving. She tried not to believe it was because he’d fed it to her.
“Chocolates,” he announced. In another box, tiny fruit tarts. In the fridge, he found a variety of cold shrimp appetizers and stuffed mushrooms. “All food groups covered,” he brought a heaping plate and a candle to sit on the middle chair. Then he fetched a glass of water and came back to sit on the only chair left. Since she hadn’t bee
n able to find a sack for her head without getting up to look, she decided to focus her attention on the food, which was also making her a little drooly.
The second cheese puff, which she fed herself, was in fact not as good as the first. She glanced up to find 007 staring at her, mouth ajar. She put one hand up as a shield, to make sure she wasn’t playing Chew and Show. She swallowed. “What?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a bit peckish myself. Mind if I join you?”
“Your food,” she reminded him, then took a drink.
“Feeling better yet?”
“Much.” She resisted asking him to feed her another cheese puff, to test a theory.
“Try this.” His fingers held a plump chocolate a few inches away from her mouth. She took it carefully, but wrapped her lips around it so she didn’t look like a horse taking an apple. Unfortunately, her lips brushed his fingers, and he inhaled sharply.
“Good?” he growled.
“Mm hmn.”
She didn’t mean to lean forward. It was just an automatic reaction to him leaning forward. It would have been rude not to. And when their lips met, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the taste of the chocolate cherry cordial in her mouth improved in a heartbeat. And it wasn’t just the taste of things being affected by the man. Everything around her was morphing into a warped fairy tale where the princess was a frog, kissing a prince, but remaining a frog.
She was damn sure the guy wouldn’t have any interest in her at all if they weren’t the only two people in the world, at the moment at least. He was freaking James Bond and she was a flower shop girl. An American shop girl with green grunge under her fingernails, sweaty socks, and an apron pocket full of tiny pieces of flower stems that may or may not have been from that day’s work. The only thing he had in his pockets was money and maybe the keys to an expensive car.
A little voice in her head reminded her that he’d kissed her back in her office the first day they’d met, but she pushed that episode aside. She still hadn’t been able to figure that one out. That was the day she’d called him an ass hat, after all.
Maybe he was just a little turned on by rudeness.
But she wasn’t being rude now.
He pulled back and looked into her eyes. With his face lit from beneath, he looked like a demon come to tempt her.
He frowned. “You’re thinking nonsense again. Shall I apologize? I won’t mean it, of course, but I will if you wish.”
“No. That’s okay. I’m good.” She picked something off the plate and stuffed it into her mouth so he wouldn’t just take up where they left off, no matter how badly she wanted to.
Ew! It was shrimp. She hated shrimp.
He handed her a napkin and she realized her disgust must have shown on her face. She spit the decimated appetizer into it and wiped her mouth.
“Not a fan?” He took the napkin from her and tossed it in a large garbage can under the counter.
She shook her head, determined not to throw up. She didn’t want him to remember her as the girl who fainted and threw up for no good reason. “No. I can’t stand seafood.” She shrugged. “Utah is land-locked. I never acquired a taste for it.”
“Perhaps you’ve never had good seafood. Perhaps I can tempt you into trying sushi sometime.”
“Not a chance.”
He smiled, though he looked a little wounded. But it wasn’t like he’d asked her out or something. And when they left the lodge in the morning, she’d never see him again. He’d be back in England by Monday or Tuesday. Just when did he think they’d have time for sushi?
And he had to stop kissing her. She was the kind of chick whose lips were tied directly to her heart, so when he left town, she was already going to suffer. She would never be able to handle a full-blown broken heart.
What she needed was something—besides shrimp—to put between them.
“I’m going to light some candles.” She stood up and searched for the lighter. “I feel fine now.”
He stood too. “I take it you do not want company.”
She smiled politely. “I need a few minutes to myself, to process, you know?”
“I understand. Call out if you need me.”
“I will.” She picked up one of the candles and took it with her.
The hallway was completely black now, and the ballroom was getting down to flower-cooler temperature. She went to the closet where she’d stored her personal stuff and got her coat. Having something to do made her feel much better. Putting distance between herself and St. John helped her feel normal again. She wouldn’t be surprised if she blushed every second they were in the same room. And her heart needed to rest after more than an hour of racing.
She put only three big candles in her apron and took them upstairs. Three would have to do. St. John would think she was an idiot if she fell down the stairs because she’d tried to take too many.
There were three large rooms over the south half of the lodge. Each had a giant arched window in which she placed a single candle. The small flame seemed pretty pathetic for such a huge space, but that was as good as it would get. If she had a team, she’d have a dozen vases and candles of different sizes. The water and the glass would have made the windows visible for a mile.
In the last window, she paused to watch the party starting in the parking lot. The stream of car lights winked through the trees as guests started arriving. The generator kept the strings of white lights on, both inside and outside the tent. Men directed traffic with flashlights—compliments of the lodge. Four outdoor heaters looked like a line of tiny space ships hovering over red-hot heating elements. A combination of fog and breath lent it all a mystical element. It was going to be a memorable night.
And this would be the last.
The thought was bittersweet, but the bitterness was due to the fact that London would be devastated. What would her friend do now that Ivy and Stone would be no more? And what would Mal do herself?
January and the wrecking ball weren’t far away.
She wondered if London had found two seconds to sit down. Had she already realized what this disaster meant to their business? Had she been too busy to remember about the disaster clause? Surely, once things settled down, London would come to the same conclusion. Maybe she would come to terms with it before Mal ever got the chance to talk about it. Hell, maybe she realized it before Mal had. Maybe she, too, was trying to get up the courage to say it out loud.
“Ivy and Stone is finished,” she whispered. Her breath made a circle of fog on the glass.
“No!” cried a little voice in her heart.
Yes, she wrote on the little cloud, and tears started streaming down her face. Images flashed in her mind. The first open house they’d held. The tiny crowd that showed up. Mostly employees or family of employees.
The line was twice the size the next year, for their anniversary. Then came the Holiday Open Houses. The lines were all the way to the street. Even when the economy tanked, Ivy and Stone customers came to support them, to make sure their favorite flower shop stayed in business when so many others were closing their doors. It seemed a shame to close now that the economy was bouncing back.
Their full-time employees. What were they going to do?
Maybe they’d find other shops to work at. But it wasn’t so easy for owners. Every florist had a right way to do things. Adjusting, working for someone else, would be torture.
Mal searched the parking lot for London’s head of messy blond hair poking out of a clip. And there she was, laughing with guests in line.
“Oh, London.” Mal sobbed as quietly as possible.
A shape moved behind her reflection and dark arms wrapped around her. St. John’s chin came to rest on her shoulder.
“Mallory. Please,” he whispered. “Let me help you. What is it you’re keeping from me?”
He released her only long enough for her to turn in his arms, then he pulled her close. He drew that damned handkerchief
out of his pocket and blotted her tears, his brows puckered with worry.
“Of course it may be none of my business, but I hope you will tell me in any case.”
She nodded. He was going to find out anyway. Whoever counted his money for him would notice an extra fifteen grand in his account.
She sighed. “I’m just tired.”
He looked doubtful.
“But I do have something to tell you, just in case you didn’t read your contract very well.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “A disaster clause.”
“What about it?”
She swallowed hard and forced her emotions into her stomach to swim around with traces of shrimp her body would eventually refuse to digest.
“In case of disaster, no fault of either party, we split the cost of the flowers. Your refund will be around fifteen thousand.”
He frowned. “It will not.”
She forced herself to smile. “Give or take.”
He moved back a little and held her upper arms. “I’ll not take it, Miss Mayhue. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not ridiculous. Peace of mind, for a bride and her family, is priceless.”
He just looked at her, speechless.
“And you will take it, Mr. St. John. I refuse to be dishonest. The money is not mine.”
“And your little flower shop? What will this do to your business?” He gave her a little shake, a warning to be truthful.
She forced a laugh. “We have survived disasters before, I promise.”
“Gah!” He released her, like it was a punishment, which it felt like. “I want to hear the truth.”
She sighed. “The truth is the shop is going to be demolished at the end of January. London and I are going to do something else with our lives, something less stressful.”
He narrowed his eyes. In the candlelight, it looked possibly more dramatic than he intended. “Pemberly said something about Ivy and Stone changing locations, so don’t lie to me.”
Mal shrugged. “We’ve decided not to go through with it.”
“Oh? Recently? Within the last two hours, perhaps?”
