Wooing the Wedding Planner

by Amber Leigh Williams

  Roxie frowned at the name printed on glossy cardstock. What her mother thought of as a lifeline felt more like a fuse. What kind of saving grace was it if it was handed to her by the catalyst of her destruction?

  Where was Sophocles? He could sign the whole family up as tragic muses.

  Waving at the smoke from Cassandra’s Lucky Strike, Roxie tucked the card into the pocket of her cardigan. “Come back to the shop,” she said solemnly, “and let’s get this over with.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THAT EVENING, BYRON walked around to the back door of the Victorian. He lifted his hand to the knob to enter then hesitated. Loosening a sigh, he let it fall. Making an effort to relax his stance, he rolled his shoulders and rotated his head on his neck to align it. He cleared his throat and shifted his feet apart on the welcome mat before rapping a knock on the glass.

  There was a clatter on the other side, a muted exclamation. Byron squinted, trying to see through the lacy curtain Roxie had fixed into place for privacy. A load of good it’s done her, he thought. He’d contemplated investing in a gym membership for the next twelve months just so he wouldn’t have to breeze in and out of her soft lilac cloud every day. She’d lived in the house that should’ve been his for merely a week and already the walls breathed with the scent...

  He wasn’t here for a workout, though. He’d done little but shed his coat and tie, and roll up the cuffs of his business shirt since returning from work. Priscilla had called him on the way home, nagging him to bring along some sort of offering. A bottle of wine, she’d suggested, or chocolate.

  He could’ve picked up a bottle of moscato. Alternately, he’d helped Roxie clean up the last of her truffles on Valentine’s Day—it would have been easy to replenish them. In the end, though, he’d shown up empty-handed. He would ask Roxie to help his family and, yes, he might grovel. But he wouldn’t butter her up with gifts.

  And the idea of giving a woman something as suggestive as wine and chocolates had nearly made him break into hives.

  Strong, it really has been a long time since you treated a woman, huh? Not that he was treating Roxie. “Hell,” he muttered, rapping again on the pane. “Would you open the door, duchess?” Put me out of my misery.

  He heard the lock click. The door shied from the jamb. Byron pressed his hand against the wood, pushing it further in. Instantly, a bevy of nongardeny smells assaulted his nose. “Rox?” he asked, peering into the kitchen.

  “I’m here, I’m here!” she said from the stove.

  Byron stood for a moment, taking in the scene. She had an irritating habit of being perfect all the time, so he noticed her messy ponytail straight off. There was a large copper pot on the range in front of her. She was stirring it with a wooden spoon and muttering a colorful soliloquy. She’d kicked off her shoes but was still wearing the mint-colored day dress he’d seen her leave the house in for work that morning. It was what was tied over the dress that gave him pause.

  Roxie glanced back, face flushed, eyes a bit wild. They flicked over him in an irritated manner. “What?” she asked when he just raised a brow at her.

  He cleared his throat again. “You’re wearing an apron.”

  She looked down at the black hostess-style apron. There was a red bow on the front that made it look more like something from a French maid costume. “Yeah, so?” she challenged.

  Clearing his throat for what he realized was the third time, he trained his gaze instead on her legs. Bad idea, he thought. He’d always liked her gams. Her toenails were painted Lick Me pink and he actually thought about licking them. “Ahhh...” What had he come here for? “I need to ask you something?”

  “Can it wait?” Pushing at the lock falling from her scrubbed-up queue, she said, “Kind of in the middle of something.”

  “What are you doing, exactly?” he asked, hesitant. His hand was still on the door and he was considering using it as an escape route.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” The words were clipped. Where usually her movements were graceful and practical, they were chopped and tetchy. They broadened as she continued. “You’re a smart man, Byron. Make an educated guess.”

  “Okay.” There was some sort of sauce bubbling close to the lip of the copper pot. So close that it was splashing specks of red on the rest of the stove as it rolled into a boil. By the color and smell, he guessed tomato but didn’t step closer to investigate. He was distracted by what he saw in the sink. A chicken. A whole chicken, its white flanks wet with perspiration as it defrosted. On the prep counter, there were mangled tomato parts and sprigs of basil and thyme. A mushroom cap had rolled onto the floor. There were several knives displayed helter-skelter on the countertop amid the veggies and a small bushel of shining Gala apples.

  Knowing he risked coming up on the bad end of one of those knives, Byron shrugged and asked again, “Roxie, what are you doing?”

  “I’m cooking, damn it!” she answered, picking up a spice jar and shaking it brusquely over the pot.

  “No, really,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. If he laughed, he would definitely meet a bloody end.

  Roxie set the jar down. Seeming to cave in on herself, she lowered her head into her hands. “Oh, God. Oh, God. This is a disaster. I am a disaster.”

  “Hey, take it easy.” It wasn’t until he’d closed the door and started to cross the tiles to the stove that he realized he was staying. He reached for the wooden spoon still gripped in her fist, only then noticing the bandages on her fingers. “Jesus,” he muttered, folding his fingers around her wrist and lifting hers to the light. “I never figured you for a cutter.”

  “It was the knives,” Roxie said. “The girls gave me some recipes to try because I want to cook more at home.” She tossed the spoon onto the counter. “Today was one of those days I could’ve used a personal victory. Congratulations. You’ve caught me in yet another splendid epic fail.”

  He frowned at her and the mess. Making a decision, he expulsed a breath. “Fix yourself a tall glass of wine and cop a squat somewhere that hasn’t been hit by the small foodie tornado. I’ll try and clean this up.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “You want my apron?”

  He made the mistake of scanning it from top to bottom. It hit her midthigh and he contemplated what she’d look like in it. Just it. “Keep it.” Throw it out. Burn the devil. As she turned away to reach into the cupboard, he bent his head to sniff the substance in the pot. It didn’t smell like an epic fail. “Marinara?”

  “Gerald’s recipe,” she confirmed, pulling moscato from the fridge. “Spaghetti.”

  “Uh-huh. And why are you making enough for Patton’s army?’

  “Because that’s how much the recipe said to cook.” She produced a card from a pocket hidden beneath the bow and offered it to him.

  It was sauce smudged. Byron was able to read enough of the ingredients to guess where her problem was. “This is bulk. You make it, you store it.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

  “A pound and a half of tomatoes didn’t tip you off?” He dipped the wooden spoon into the vat and lifted it to his mouth.

  “Oh no, don’t!” she shrieked as he tasted it. “Oh, my God, I just poisoned you. I’m a murderess!”

  Byron licked his lips, swallowed, tilted his head. “Not the worst poison I’ve ever tasted.”

  She paused as he went back for another spoonful. “Really?” she asked, almost whispering in surprise.

  “Mm,” he said. “Mushrooms. I taste the mushrooms. And something smoky. It’s good.”

  “It is?” Hope was born somewhere underneath a blanket of larkspur.

  “I’d eat it,” he said. “But we’ve established that I eat honey buns and Cocoa Puffs, so I wouldn’t apply to the Olive Garden just yet.” Using a fork, he nabbed one of the green beans f
loating with diced onions around a small pan. “Hmm. What’d you put in these?”

  “Comin’.”

  He nearly dropped the fork. “Do what?”

  “Comin’?” When he eyed her, askance, she lifted a bottle of seasoning for him to see.

  The effort not to laugh at her again nearly drove him to his knees. “Cumin, you mean?”

  Roxie turned the label toward her and read it once more. “Cumin.” She pressed her lips together and avoided his stare altogether. “Don’t say a word,” she warned.

  “Wasn’t gonna,” he said carefully. “What’s with the bird?”

  “I was going to make Adrian’s chicken. She said it was easy. But the thing’s frozen solid.”

  “When you buy your chickens from the freezer section, they have a tendency to remain solid.”

  “No kidding,” she said and drank. “I thought the defrosting process would be quick.”

  “Do me a favor. Don’t offer to do a turkey for Thanksgiving. Stick with dressing. Wait, no. Cranberries. Just cranberries.”

  “Fine,” she said wearily. “What do I do now about this mess?”

  Byron spotted the trash pail next to the counter with the cutting board, herbs and veggies. He slid it over with the toe of his shoe, lifted the chicken with a set of metal tongs and dropped it into the disposal with a satisfying plop. “Next?”

  She stared at the pail with a dejected look. Then she turned her head to the stove once more and said, “Spaghetti.” When she made a move for the range, he stopped her by tugging at the apron tie at the small of her back. “Sit down,” he said. When she frowned at him, he lifted his brows. “I got this.”

  He spent the next ten minutes cleaning the unused elements. He burned the side of his hand on the edge of the copper pot. He brushed her off when she came at him with the first-aid kit. Putting the sauce on simmer, he boiled water for pasta then worked on cleaning the prep counter, salvaging what he could of the leftover ingredients. As he started to wash the knives, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” She’d been leaning on the counter, watching him and sipping her wine, for several minutes.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said knowingly. “You’re not exactly yourself.”

  She counted the Galas he’d left on the counter. She picked one up, frowning over its smooth surface. “You mean for once I’m not pleasing? Nobody can be pleasin’ all the time. No matter how hard they try.” She took a bite out of the apple and chewed it slowly. “What do you think happened to the old Roxie?”

  Byron set a clean knife in the dish drain and started on the next. “I guess you’re right. Nobody gets mowed down by a Mack truck and walks away unbroken.”

  “I spoke to Cassandra today.” When he looked around, she nodded. “My mother arranged it. Cassandra conveyed to me matter-of-factly how her own marriage fell apart, how it drove her into Richard’s arms.”

  Tossing the towel onto the dish rack, Byron crossed back to the stove to check the pasta. “So what’s the verdict? Is all healed and forgiven, hallelujah, amen?”

  Roxie set the Gala back down and straightened, moving away from the glass that was now empty. “I want to be the bigger person. I want to move on like she says she’s done. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look her in the face again...and not see her beneath him.”

  “Then good riddance.”

  “She’s my sister,” Roxie said with a helpless lift of her arms.

  “You deserve better,” he told her, turning to her on an indignant burst. “Just because her relationship went to shit didn’t mean she had to come after yours to make herself feel better.”

  “She said it was an accident.”

  “Isn’t it always?” he noted, sardonic. “You’re right. You can’t be pleasin’ all the time and when it comes to Cassandra you don’t have to be ever again. That’s your right, duchess.”

  After a moment’s stillness, Roxie grabbed the neck of the bottle and poured herself another glass of wine. “Is the world so black-and-white?”

  “It is to me,” he said, switching the heat off the pasta. It always had been. “Christ. Marriage might not be a simple affair but fidelity is. End of story.” He transferred the pot to the sink, where he drained the pasta in the colander, shaking and rinsing. He heard a thunk behind him and looked around to see her at the cutting board, handling one of the last knives she’d left alone in the butcher block. “Nuh-uh,” he said, moving to her back and making a grab for the knife handle. “Give me that.”

  “I need it,” she argued, pulling it out of his reach. “I have to peel and slice the apples for pie.”

  “Look at your hand.” He closed his hand over hers and pried the handle from her fingers with the other. “Not just no, but hell no.”

  “Give it to me!”

  “Step aside, Rox,” he said firmly.

  “No, I’m doing this! I want to do it.”

  “Fine, but you’re going to learn to do it right first.”

  “Byron. I’ve got it. Okay?”

  “The only thing you’ve got is bad technique. And here’s your first problem—you’re using a steak knife.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” she asked as he tossed the knife back into the sink with a clatter.

  “Not sharp enough.” He took one of the clean knives out of the dish drainer and returned to her. “The duller the blade, the more dangerous it is because of the resistance you get when cutting. What you need is a good paring knife.”

  She eyed the blade he held up. “And the difference is...?”

  “It’s shorter, gives you more control. It might be sharper, but with the shorter blade there’s less room for incident.” He held it high, out of her reach when she fumbled for it again. “If you know what you’re doing.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Paring knife. Check. Now gimme.”

  “Take a seat. School’s in session.”

  “I need to do this myself,” she insisted, trying for a reasonable tone. “That’s what this whole thing is about. Learning to cook for myself.”

  “Explain something to me, duchess,” he said. “I get that you’re no cook, but veggie and fruit slicing is rudimentary. How have you managed to go through life without a lesson? Did you have a nanny who did everything for you until you left home?”

  She reached for the knife again. “Just give me the thing.”

  His brow lowered. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “She was an au pair.”

  “Did you have a pony, too, Bonnie Blue?”

  “No, I didn’t.” She lowered her head slightly. “I was allergic.” When he only stared, she gave in. “All right. Teach me.” His eyes narrowed and she clapped her hand over her heart. “I promise not to hack off one of my fingers.”

  “I’m more worried about my own.” He stepped in behind her, up close. He fitted the Gala against her cupped palm, then handed her the knife. “Show me how you’d hold this.”

  She showed him. He made a discouraging noise in the back of his throat. Reaching around her, he repositioned her fingers to strengthen her grip. “Tight. Confident. But not overconfident.” Because his nose was all but in her hair and it threatened to shepherd him into a lilac-induced stupor, he moved so that his cheek was next to hers. Angling her wrist, he directed her into cutting the peel in a fine strip, circling the Gala so that it shed its outer layer in one curly ribbon. Her hands, wrists, arms looked pale under his, and delicate, too, especially with her manicured fingers wrapped in bandages and a vintage diamond ring with small marquise-cut emeralds twining the silver band like leaves on a vine.

  “Is this right?” she asked after he’d let go, allowing her to finish.

  “Hmm,” he said. He’d shifted his hands to her waist without realizing. Instead of removing the
m promptly, he contemplated nosing around her throat until he found the pulse point where she dabbed her perfume.

  She stilled, as if attuned to his thought process. The peel fell to the cutting board. Slowly, she turned her face up to his.

  It would’ve been wise to turn away but her eyes passed from one of his to the other, looking. Looking deep and searching.

  What are you looking for, duchess? he wondered.

  Maybe if he showed her...would she keep guessing?

  It wasn’t impulse this time. His hand moved up to grab the ponytail on the back of her head in a gentle hold and he kissed her like that was the solution.

  * * *

  THE PARING KNIFE clattered to the cutting board. The apple, bald, rolled off the edge of the counter. Roxie’s head dipped back as Byron’s hold slipped from the mess of her hair and cupped the nape of her neck. Her hands flailed in reaction as his mouth took hers. Otherwise, she stood stock-still, absorbing the impact. Oh.

  Oh. Oh. Oh.

  It wasn’t a question this time. It wasn’t an experiment, like the last kiss. It wasn’t curiosity or even an idle whim.

  Byron was kissing her. Kissing her. And he meant it. She knew it when his head tilted slightly, just enough to kick the kiss up a notch from something stolen to something designed to tease yummy noises out of her. Her heart beat like a bodhran, up-tempo and all over the place.

  Yes, he meant it.

  Oh. That need. The drilling, pulsating need to be touched fired inside of her as it had before. It blazed high and hot, striking her off guard. She reached back to fit her palm over the back of his neck, breaking the kiss long enough to shift around so her body confronted his. Lost, she kept her eyes closed.

  His mouth found hers again. She felt a tug at the tie on her back as his hand slid home beneath it. One of the yummy noises she’d been trying to lock down found a hatch. It sounded needy, plaintive in the air. His lips lifted from hers and he nudged the end of his nose against hers, raising his chin by a fraction. Her mouth parted in response and he went back to kissing her silly, his tongue sliding past her lips to graze the tip of hers.