At least, that was her first intention.
Now Roark was overwhelmed with those sparks, amplified a hundred times more than necessary. And he was repressing them. It was going to make him sick soon. Her charge got up and headed out of the wedding to wander around the garden.
“Cupid, I hate you,” Christy snapped.
“Now that is not a very loving thing to say, Fairy Godmother,” Cupid said, materializing beside her. And he was rather handsome—no diaper and wings, like so many human depictions. Those were his minions. Cupid himself was tall, blond, and just as handsome as many of the other gods and goddesses on Mount Olympus.
“Your minions shot arrows at our new charges!” She gestured at Ava, who was hanging out around the barbecue pit, batting away minions as they approached and probably having too much fun punching the annoying little cherubs in the wings. Lilly stood across the way, blasting yellow magic dust everywhere while she sent more minions scurrying away as Bruce snapped pictures of the bride and groom.
Cupid laughed. “So? What would your little challenge be, if it was simply being left to your own devices? There is no difficulty in that at all.”
Christy seethed. “How you know about our private affairs is a bit more important to me.”
Cupid grinned. “Because I’m a god. You are merely a Fairy Godmother.”
Another whisper of smoke appeared on Christy’s other side. Her husband, Ewan Molar, stepped to Christy, his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
Cupid looked the man up and down.
“Cupid,” Ewan said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Tooth fetcher.”
Ewan started to step forward. Christy put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Do not engage him, honey. That is what he wants.”
Cupid grinned again. “This is going to be so much fun…” And with a wave of his hand, he disappeared, all of his minions vanishing with him.
“I abhor that being,” Christy said.
Ewan stroked her shoulder. “When this is done, you can retire. And we’ll be done dealing with Cupid.”
“Yes, when this is over, we retire.”
Ewan kissed her cheek. “I have to go. Work.”
Christy looked around for her charge. “Yes, I think I need to, too. Clean up the damage Cupid’s already caused.”
“Have fun. Love you, wife.” Ewan squeezed her hand, then disappeared to go collect the latest teeth in his sector.
“Love you too,” Christy said, making her way to find Roark and see how much damage had been done before she got the arrow out.
Chapter Two
It took a little while, but Roark had to walk off his raging hormones, away from everyone, before finally he started to feel more relaxed. He rejoined the party, watching all the people dancing away and others mingling around the edge of the wooden deck built just for weddings.
Working through the crowd of people he’d known—in a vague sense, anyway—he smiled and laughed at all the right moments, but his thoughts remained centered around Stephanie.
At some point, he made it to the bar, sipping on—hell, he wasn’t even sure what it was, exactly. But it wet his mouth and would hopefully help him relax and let go of his sudden obsession.
He didn’t understand the overwhelming desires for Stephanie. It just hit him like a bolt of lightning. Sure, he knew Stephanie was pretty—always had been. She smiled, even tended to be a bit touchy-feely—holding his hand, whatever—but it never meant anything.
It wasn’t supposed to. They were friends.
Yet Roark couldn’t explain it. It was like a light had been flipped on and now every little nuance mattered.
They mattered a great deal.
His friend, Bruce, joined him from the tables. A striking brunette bid Bruce a parting wave and headed in the other direction.
“Friend?” Roark asked as Bruce joined him.
“Potential client. Looking for a photographer,” Bruce said.
“Hot,” Roark replied.
“She’d melt the film, if I still used it…”
Roark smirked at the comment as he watched the crowd. Stephanie darted over to the DJ booth, spoke rapidly, her hands going like they did whenever she was in a hurry, then she was off again. Roark glanced at his watch. The reception should be fizzling out soon—he guessed Steph would be confirming with the DJ what music to play as William and Annie left.
“Where’s your date?” Bruce asked.
“Over there, somewhere.” Roark gestured to the tents on the side farthest from them.
“So what’s the deal?” Bruce asked. “You two have a side thing going?”
Roark squeezed his cup, wondering what Bruce’s motivations were. “No, we don’t.”
“Too bad. She’s cute. Ball of energy, that one. May have to see if she’s available.”
Roark made a fist with his free hand, but instead of punching his friend like he wanted to, he shoved it in his pocket and willed himself to calm down. “She doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Technically, I don’t work for her, so…”
“You’re the wedding photographer—you pretty much do.”
“Besides, I still wouldn’t date you,” Stephanie said, appearing out of nowhere—a magic quality she had. “You’re not my type.”
“What?” Bruce put his hands on his chest. “You don’t like cute and loveable?”
Stephanie laughed. “Wedding planners and photographers don’t do well together. I have had extensive study in this area.”
Roark grimaced, knowing she had dated photographers before and the extent of the crap she’d endured, as well. And mentioning her exes did not sit well with him tonight.
“Aww, come on. Not all photographers are the same.” Bruce flashed a smile at her.
Stephanie stepped a bit closer to Roark, and he couldn’t help standing up a bit straighter when she put her hand on his arm. “Well, what would you prefer?” she asked Bruce. “A single date, which is all you would ever get, or grow your business?”
“Hmm, tough call,” Bruce said with a grin, then picked up his camera and snapped a picture of Roark and Stephanie.
Stephanie slid her arm through Roark’s and he felt his body heating up again. How was she doing that? Just by touching him? They had always been able to…well…touch. It never meant anything before.
Why did it suddenly mean everything?
Stephanie must have been oblivious to him, and continued talking to Bruce. “You do good work, Matthews. However, you’re going to miss the bride and groom’s big exit.” She pointed toward the entrance, where people were already starting to line up to wish them off.
Bruce made the Homer Simpson face, accompanied by the “doh!” and took off, fumbling with the camera around his neck.
Stephanie smiled. “I wasn’t sure about your buddy, but he really has a good eye.” With her arm still through his, she patted his forearm. More zings of energy shot through him. Again with the deep sensation and mounting attraction. Just as strong as before.
“Earth to Roark,” Stephanie said, jerking him out of his wandering thoughts. “Think they’re playing our song.” She started to lead him to the mostly empty dance floor.
An older couple—the husband led his wife about the dance floor as if this were the 1940s instead of the twenty-first century. Small children tried to mimic the adults dancing—cheek-to-cheek, and swinging about. The scent of the flowers hung in the air, and Roark inhaled, focusing on just the smells.
And not on Stephanie.
Rose.
Hyacinth.
Lilly.
The little boy pulled the little girl’s ponytail.
And off they ran—the girl chasing him, on the attack.
This is working, Roark thought to himself, willing his senses not to focus on Stephanie being
so close to him. Don’t think about…
“Roark, are you all right?” Stephanie asked.
He gritted his teeth. Hearing her voice, feeling her near him, the touch of her skirt against his pants, and her smell—oh, how he could bathe in that amazing smell—a drug, slowly killing him. Had to be it. It was some kind of slow torture.
“Sure,” he said, though it sounded quite strangled.
“You seem distracted.”
Your damn perfume. Perfume he’d made. He could smell every note. Now he’d never be able to smell Softly again without thinking about her.
“I’m fine.” Like a deer in headlights, he met her gaze as she wrapped her arms around his neck. They weren’t horribly close together—just over a hand apart—but he could still sense the swirling of her skirt as they started to move to Faith Hill’s Breathe.
Her green eyes met his, her brow marred in worry. “You have seemed distracted all night.” And she stopped. “You’re seeing someone.”
Roark jerked at her words. “No, why do you ask?”
“You’re all stiff and jerky, like you get when you’re seeing someone.” She took his hands and waved them, trying to loosen up his tension. Not that it worked.
“It’s not that,” Roark tried to reassure her, smiling even.
“Don’t give me that fake smile crap, Turner. I can still whip you.”
He smirked, a genuine one. “You and what army?”
She raised her eyebrow. “I’ve never needed an army to kick your butt before.”
“The last time, you were five.”
“And I’m still…” The blasted buzzing again, and she touched her ear piece. “Yes. Yes. I’ll be right there.”
She glanced at Roark. “I…”
“I know. Go, do your job.” His smile broadened.
She put her hand on his arm one last time. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Really. I need to get going, anyway.”
She nodded as she let go. “All right. Well, call me if you need to talk.” And she disappeared into the night, back to do her job.
Roark walked to the edge of the dance floor.
And kept on walking, because he needed to get away from her. Clear his head.
Christy sighed as her charge entered his home. It was a nice, pleasant little brick house. Tall roofs, dormers, a big front porch. Very homey.
At least until she went inside.
“Oh Roark,” she muttered, realizing while the yard was quite well manicured, the inside was sparse. Not much in the way of decorating. Walls painted a pale gray and hardwood floors. No art or anything to make it homey-looking.
Yet it smelled clean and crisp. Like clothing off the line.
Unfortunately, though she’d gotten Cupid’s arrow out, she wasn’t able to stop the magic from thrumming through his system. Right now, she could see his aura, and how the magic bent his normal colors and patterns—flaming them bright red and orange, his passions taking over.
She’d already tried giving him the antidote at the wedding, but he barely touched his cocktail. Maybe if she waited she’d be able to slip it into his drink here. Get him off the crazy passion-driven trip he was on.
She had to do something, because Roark wouldn’t be able to find his HEA if he let Cupid’s magic lead him.
Chapter Three
It was late. It took forever for Stephanie to get the last of the arrangements finished up at the reception. Yet she needed to get out of there to go see how Roark was doing.
Something was wrong. She felt it when they were dancing.
Hell, she felt it when they were standing at the bar, talking to Bruce.
Mental note—make sure to have Bruce do more photo work. He turned out well. She never would have thought a book cover photographer would take such great shots.
Wait, she wasn’t supposed to know that, was she? Bruce had sworn her to secrecy. Roark and Jason would destroy him if they found out he made smutty covers for some romance publisher.
Though with the crap they give Roark about the perfume business, maybe she ought to let it slip?
Ahh, to play with the boys. Even the caterer—Jason—made a mean barbecue. For a private investigator, the guy sure could cook.
It made her wonder what other secrets Roark was hiding from her.
He had to be seeing someone… That was the only explanation she could come up with for his strange behavior tonight.
She rocked her head back and forth, loosening the muscles in her neck just before getting out of the car. Her heels clicked on Roark’s driveway as she walked up. There weren’t many lights on, but she knew he was home—she could see the television flickering in the front window.
And from the flicker level, he was watching something with lots of explosions.
She knocked twice, and when he didn’t come right to the door, she pulled out her key and slipped it in the lock. She always felt strange about going into Roark’s like this. It was something people who dated would do.
That was one thing she and Roark never did.
Had she thought about it? Sure, when she was in high school and he was on the wrestling team. Especially right after he’d finish a match, when he was all hot and sweaty—sexy as sin. She wanted to run up and kiss him then.
Of course, so did about half the girls in their school. In fact, she hadn’t thought about kissing him since that time, so many million—okay twelve—years ago.
Except today.
Why was kissing Roark so much on her mind today? She pushed the thought away and stepped through the door.
“Roark?” she said as she yanked her key out of the lock.
Sure enough, Roark was half-asleep on the couch. He jerked when she said his name, almost rolling himself onto the floor.
“Huh, what?” He righted himself and glanced at her, blinking twice. “You’re here… I…” He shook his head, scooped the designer beer bottle off the floor and took a swig of it.
“Yeah,” she said, coming in and sitting down next to him. “I always come over after work.” She kicked off her heels, and rubbed her foot.
He shook his head again and ran his fingers through his hair. “Dream. Must have been a dream.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
“You.”
Stephanie grinned. “Well, I hope it was a good dream.”
Roark scooted away from her, pulled a pillow from behind him and stuck it in his lap. “It…it was a stupid dream.” He blinked a couple of times, rubbed his eyes, then smiled. “So, how did it go?”
She relaxed, glad to see the Roark she knew looking back at her. Not the one who’d been so tense at the wedding. “It went well, I thought. Everyone loved the perfume you came up with, by the way. The bride wants to know if she can get a quart of the stuff.”
“A quart?”
“That’s what she said. I told her it would be pretty pricey, so she amended it to sixteen ounces. With the addendum that you save the recipe if she wants more of it later.”
Roark smirked. “I always save my formulas.”
She patted his leg. “I know you do.”
His muscles clenched under her and she pulled back, deciding she needed a drink. Whether he admitted it or not, a girl was on his mind. She’d seen this pattern in him before. Stephanie was a touchy-feely person—always had been. Most of the time it didn’t bother Roark. Didn’t mean anything. She was just that way.
But only when Roark had a girl on his mind did he start getting tense if she touched him.
“Got any normal beer?” she asked, heading to the kitchen.
She just crossed the threshold when he answered her. “Think there’s some Coors Light in the fridge.”
She opened it, and sure enough, the brown bottles with the silver labels shined in comparison to all the de
signer beers he bought for himself. She rolled her eyes at the takeout containers stuffed in the fridge as she grabbed a bottle.
“You know, you should probably have your buddy give you some cooking pointers. It can’t be good for anyone to eat that much takeout,” she said, coming back in the living room.
“I should,” he replied.
Sitting next to him, she took a sip of her beer and let out a sigh.
“So, spill. We’re here. In private. Tell me what’s up with you.” She tucked her leg underneath her and pulled her skirt to keep from revealing anything as she turned to face him.
He still clutched the pillow. “Steph, what do you think of me?”
She blinked. “Huh?”
“What do you think of me?”
“You’re my best friend. I think all kinds of awesomeness about you.” She glanced around the house, taking in the details she’d seen a million times like it was the first time. The unadorned walls, the basic furniture—items that really weren’t horribly homey—but in her mind, even in their simplicity and basic function, it all screamed Roark. “I think you need to hire a decorator, but other than that, I think you’re a great guy.” She smiled as she met his gaze again.
And the smile fell off her face.
Because something deep and strong brewed in his eyes, and it gave her a shiver.
“No! Nononononono!” Christy said, surging forward. “Don’t you dare, Roark Turner! Don’t you dare spill your feelings to her right now!” She screamed at her charge. If he professed some weird love for her right now, that girl would bolt out the door, throw the key in the bushes, and never talk to him again.
Christy had to make this quick—something to jar him before he made a horrible mess of things.
Searching the room, she looked for something—anything.
Perfect.
She waved her wand and blue magic dust came out the tip.
Chapter Four
Roark opened his mouth to speak when his beer bottle tipped over, spilling the rest of his Dos Equis lager.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, snagging the bottle off the floor. The pillow he’d stuck against his lap to hide the horrible hard-on he had when Stephanie came in fell into the beer.
Guys and Godmothers Page 2
