Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  Ben snorted out his obvious distaste at the idea. “My clubbing days are behind me. Besides, Ollie hasn’t yet learned that the best place to pick up beautiful women is at a wedding. It just so happens that the prettiest one in the whole place is standing right in front of me.” He kicked her shoes out of the way and moved in front of her, his hard body lined up flush against hers. “According to my information, we have two songs left until we can call it a night. Dance with me.”

  It was a command, not a request. Still, Ivy knew she had to offer at least token resistance. She excelled at brushing off polite and/or drunken requests to drink, to dance, to sit. Men really did view every woman at a wedding as an all-you-can-grab buffet. Everyone from the caterers to gangly teenagers acting on a dare to the ubiquitous groomsmen saw her as fair game. Even, in one extremely awkward situation, the newly divorced father of the bride who’d offered a hefty tip with a wink and a corresponding pinch on her ass. Ivy took random hook-up attempts in stride as just another odd quirk of her job. Sort of like having to wear cocktail dresses and ball gowns to work.

  But this time, with Ben’s rangy build pressed against her from shoulder to ankle, for the first time, the polite, automatic rebuff didn’t feel like the right choice. Despite her staunch professional ethics, which she’d always used as the foundation for turning away male attention (after all, you wouldn’t ask a surgeon to dance right after he took out your father’s gall bladder, would you?), Ivy did want to dance with Ben. “We’re both still on the clock,” she protested weakly.

  “The guests are a floor below us. Nobody’s been up here since the ceremony ended five hours ago.” His right eyebrow streaked up. “Just a dance, Ms. Rhodes. I promise to leave what I’m sure is your squeaky-clean reputation intact. For now.”

  On the dance floor below, the music changed to something slow and romantic. After ten years in the business, Ivy knew almost every song in the standard DJ wedding rotation by heart. And this one was a classic, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember the name. Or make out the words. A saxophone’s sultry wail acted like a magnet. Ivy lifted her head to meet Ben’s eyes, turned almost black in the shadows. The thrumming beat hovered, vibrating between their bodies.

  Ben didn’t wait for her to make up her mind. He grabbed one hand, and moved her other to rest on his shoulder. His strong hand rested in the small of her back. Its weight, its heat commanded the entirety of her attention. Her whole being focused on the five or so inches of skin beneath his palm. A minute change of pressure urged her closer still. They began to sway to the rhythm. The movement brushed the stiff lapels of his tuxedo against her breasts. The satin of her dress wasn’t nearly thick enough to prevent her from feeling it—and thereby switching from exhausted and dreamy to wide awake and very turned on in the blink of an eye.

  Clothes on, hands not near any overtly erogenous zones, Ben somehow managed to tingle her from the inside out. Oh, this guy was dangerous. Walking-a-tightrope-drunk dangerous. Bomb-squad-technician-with-epilepsy dangerous. Discussing-religion-with-the-in-laws dangerous.

  “We fit well together. Makes it easy to…dance,” said Ben, a suggestive huskiness in his voice. Was it a line or was he serious? Ivy studied his face, but he stared back, unflinching and unreadable.

  “I love to dance.” Lame, horrible response. Ivy pictured herself taking a pop quiz in Flirting 101 and getting back a paper topped with a gigantic red F. Belle talked to the Beast while dancing. Cinderella entranced a prince in a single dance. Why couldn’t she pull it together and flirt with the very handsome man whose pecs rippled beneath her touch?

  “You’re very good at this. Dancing, I mean. Smooth, not jerky.” As opposed to her conversation style, which had all the smoothness of a fifteen-year-old grinding gears in driver’s ed. Ivy never let lust cloud her brain. Romance was what normally spiraled her into speechlessness. Some candles, a bouquet of divine-smelling flowers, and a man could have her in one fell swoop. Ben, with his oddly grating manner, didn’t cause any spikes on her romance-ometer. His hotness, on the other hand, speared off the charts.

  “This?” He moved them a few steps away from the low stone wall, deeper into the darkness. “I mastered the eighth grade shuffle sway in…well…eighth grade.”

  Emboldened by she didn’t know what, Ivy moved her hand up to curve around his neck. Her fingers raked through the thick, soft hair she’d itched to touch all day. Its longer than average shagginess gave her more to play with. The sun-streaked color brought to mind a lion’s mane, especially since this dance felt almost as dangerous as tripping the light fantastic with a wild beast. Ben was slick and moved fast. No question that, out of the two of them, he was the ringmaster. However, she didn’t intend to blindly follow his lead like a trained bear.

  Ivy tugged out of his grasp to join her hands at the nape of his neck. Everything lined up so that every interesting part of him rubbed against the corresponding part on her. “Now it’s the eighth-grade version. The only thing missing is the pervasive smell of old socks that always lingered in our gym.” Great. Sweaty socks? That was how she stepped up her game? She closed her eyes in mortification. She really needed to stop talking. About five sentences ago.

  Ben nuzzled the side of her neck. “You smell like springtime and sunshine.”

  Oh, he was good. If she hadn’t been working, that remark would’ve puddled Ivy at his feet. Made her whip out a marker and write Take Me Now on her forehead. But professionalism (or the tattered shreds of it she stubbornly clung to) prevailed. Her tired legs rallied enough to keep her vertical. “It’s Clinique Happy.”

  “Hmm. Must be working. I sure feel happy right now.” He centered both hands in the small of her back, letting their weight nudge her even closer.

  Ivy scribbled a mental Post-it. Tomorrow she’d hit the Macy’s in Water Tower Place and stock up on a few bottles. And the bodywash and lotion in the same scent. Who knew this perfume had such a strong effect on men? Well, she’d bathe in the stuff from now on.

  “What about you?” asked Ben. “Having a good time, or are you too worn out to follow your own perfume’s advice?”

  What to say? Admit he’d charmed his way past her defenses? Gush about the intrinsic romance of their moonlight dance? Confess her fingers literally itched to rip open his shirt and feel his skin? No. A combination of nagging professionalism and her nagging conscience (which sounded eerily similar to her best friend, Daphne) prevented her from taking the next step. Stick to cool politeness.

  “I’ll give credit where credit is due. Dancing with you is a very nice way to end the evening.”

  If his hands drifted even half an inch lower, they’d cross the line from seductive to groping. Ben didn’t give off a lecherous vibe. Interested, sure, but not grabby. What a shame. The last time Ivy had even the chance of a man’s hands anywhere near her ass was exactly one hundred eighteen days ago. Her disastrous New Year’s Eve date. Which, to put a point on it, did not include any actual touching. Hard to get so much as a kiss and a squeeze out of a man who walked out on her halfway through dinner, leaving her with undrunk champagne and an unpaid bill.

  Ivy had sulked and licked her wounds through January and half of February. But the pervasive spirit of love swirling around Valentine’s Day buoyed her spirits. Unfortunately, readiness to date again rarely coincided with the availability and attention of a decent guy. In a nutshell, Ivy had developed a powerful itch over the last few months. One that Ben Westcott appeared more than capable of scratching. She could only hope for a geologically unlikely earthquake to shift his hands.

  “Tell me, Ms. Rhodes, what’s your favorite drink?” Ben pressed her head into the hollow below his collarbone, gently trailing his fingertips back and forth across the nape of her neck.

  The answer required no thought whatsoever. Good thing, since her thoughts were centered on the flutters of sensation he raised, like dandelion seeds floating outward on a warm breeze. Bubbly and romantic, she named the first cocktail she’d legally
ordered eight years ago and could never resist. “Kir royale.”

  “No surprise there. It’s classy, old school and sweet. Just like you. See, you can tell a lot about a person by their drink.”

  “Really? What’s yours?” she countered.

  “Scotch. Johnnie Walker Green. I got hooked on their Pure Malt when I worked in London for a while. When they finally started selling it here as the Green label, I knew I could safely return to the States.”

  Ivy pondered for a minute. “I’m not sure it gives me any great insight. Maybe that you like to travel?”

  “You get a point for trying. What sets this scotch apart is the flavor. As a blend, it’s the sum of all its parts. The taste is creamy and complex, just like a woman.”

  Her heart thudded a triple time beat. Ben oozed sensuality, his words spinning a web of desire. “Guess I should be careful before I ask about your favorite food. Our conversation might need to come with an R rating.”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter,” he teased. “I asked what you like to drink because I’d like to buy you one. The wedding will be wrapped up in less than half an hour. I’m staying at the Cavendish Grand. Pretty sure I saw a bar right off the lobby swanky enough to mix up a kir royale for you.”

  “It’s late.” Even as she said it, the music switched to the last song of the night. Ordinarily she hated the ubiquitous Donna Summer song. Her first year as a wedding planner, she’d heard “Last Dance” close out twenty weddings before she stopped counting. Familiarity certainly breeds contempt when it came to repetition of a cheesy song that truly wasn’t so great to begin with. On the bright side, the despised song did signal the end of her long day. Ivy thought of it as her own personal recess bell. But tonight she clung a little tighter to Ben, for once not wanting the song to end.

  “True. I don’t buy it as an excuse, though. You need time to unwind after an event. Now, you can either go home and watch bad television, surf the web, or come sip champagne across from a man who thinks you’re beautiful.”

  “So you’re saving me from my weakness for infomercials? The invitation is strictly out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “Quite the opposite. The invitation is strictly selfish. I want to taste you, Ivy.” The scrape of his feet against the stones came to a halt. A gentle nudge with his forehead tipped her head back. Their eyes locked. “Why don’t we get a jump on the inevitable? Because I don’t want to wait another moment.”

  Ivy had a split second to decide. Stick to her guns—and her professional ethics—and slip out of his arms? Or stay and lock lips with a super sexy man in the moonlight? Really, it was easiest to not decide at all. Her eyelids drifted shut as she waited for Ben to make his move. And waited. Nothing happened. She peeked out from beneath her lashes to see the merest hint of a smirk lifting the edges of Ben’s mouth. Her eyes flew open the rest of the way.

  “What? What happened to the tasting and the moment?”

  “The moment’s not right until you decide to commit to it. I promised earlier I wouldn’t steal any more kisses from you. Kissing is interactive. A two-way street. You’ve got to choose to slide behind the wheel and turn the key.”

  Why did men turn everything in life into a car metaphor? Well, she could play along. Despite showing every sign of being something of a player, Ben had shown her, with that one little pause, that he also had bucket loads of integrity. No sane, single woman could turn down an honest to goodness gentleman. They were a rare breed, and she didn’t intend to waste this particular chance sighting. Time to seize the day…or at least what was left of the night.

  “Oh, my motor’s fully revved. You’d better buckle your seatbelt, Mr. Westcott.”

  Ivy tightened her grip around his neck and went up on her tiptoes to reach his mouth. The mouth she’d stared at off and on all day, remembering the firm albeit brief feel of his lips against hers. He wasn’t the only one who wanted a taste. She puckered up and planted a soft kiss. And then Ben quite expertly elbowed his way back into the driver’s seat.

  His lips slanted hard across hers, instantly ratcheting the level of heat up from tender to full on sizzle. This was no getting-to-know-you smooch. Ben claimed her mouth with possessive pressure. His teeth nibbled open her lips, allowing his tongue to sweep inside. Her moan of pleasure was all the urging he needed to slide his hands down to not only cup her ass, but lift her off the ground.

  Ivy’s world spun. Under the spell of the spring night, she’d yearned for nothing more than a touch, a quiet kiss. She’d wanted a sip of water to slake her lustful thirst. Instead, Ben’s kisses drowned her in a downpour of passion and heat. The arch of her foot curved around his calf, looking for something to ground her. Each stroke of his tongue ignited an array of sparks behind her closed eyes. He tore his mouth away but hovered his lips a breath away from hers. Eyes heavy lidded, he moved not at all, aside from the pounding of his heart thumping through his tuxedo shirt. Suddenly, she realized what he waited to hear.

  “Okay, Ben. You’ve convinced me to have a drink with you.”

  A hum of approval sounded low in his throat. He buried his face in the curve of her neck. And then from somewhere behind them, a short high gasp, and the unmistakable crash of glass breaking on the stone floor. Ben’s grip bobbled, but he didn’t drop her.

  “Get your hands off my friend’s ass right now, or I’ll call in someone a lot bigger than me to make you.”

  Mortified, Ivy wriggled down until her feet touched the ground. Bad enough if they’d been caught literally necking by a client or another vendor. That alone would have been reminder enough why she never randomly hooked up with men, and especially not on the job. At least then she could’ve walked away with bruised dignity, but able to bury the memory in a very deep hole. But now, discovered like this, Ivy knew she was in for a solid week of lectures, followed by months of teasing. She peeked around Ben’s wide chest to meet the worried gaze of her best friend.

  “You can hold off on the imaginary security, Daphne. I’m fine.”

  Ben rebuttoned the tux jacket she didn’t even remember undoing, then turned around. “I assure you, my hands had nothing but good intentions toward your friend’s ass.” He strode to the doorway, skirting around the shattered remains of a vase, and held out his hand. “Bennett Westcott, True Life Productions.”

  Daphne wiped her hands on the lavender apron covering her end-of-the-night uniform of jeans and a tee. “Daphne Lovell. Sorry about the mess.”

  “Daphne’s my best friend and business partner at Aisle Bound. She’s an amazing florist.” Ivy talked as fast as possible while slipping back into her shoes. The more she talked, the less chance Daphne would be able to ask what the hell was going on. “She did today’s flowers. I completely forgot you were coming back to get all the vases tonight.”

  Daphne brought her hands together over her heart in feigned shock. “You forgot? You forgot a logistical detail about an event?” Her blue eyes narrowed, swept from the top of Ben’s sun-streaked mop of hair, all the way down his more than six feet of handsomeness. “Normally I’d assume the only explanation is a sudden onset brain tumor. But looking at what distracted you, I guess I can understand.”

  “You can?” Ivy was floored. Where were the recriminations? The scolding at her stupidity and risking the company’s reputation?

  “God, Ivy, look at him! Who wouldn’t want a nibble? He’s hot, built, and apparently you’ve already hooked him. I say go for it.”

  “Ladies, I’m standing right here. Could you maybe not talk about me like I’m sex on a stick?”

  “Nope. Now you’ve permanently implanted that imagery in my brain. But I will leave the two of you alone. Have a good time. Oh, and I’ll send someone up here to clean up the vase, so you might want to relocate your frolicking.” Daphne backed away, putting her hand to her ear in a call-me gesture.

  A heavy silence thickened the air. The music downstairs had ended. Ivy wasn’t sure what to do with Daphne’s surprising nod of approval.
Daphne’s appearance had splashed cold water all over the magical moment. All the reasons why not to go along with Ben flooded back in a rush. And then he took her hand, planting a kiss in her palm and closing her fingers over it like a promise.

  Ben locked inky blue eyes with her, deep dimples ratcheting his smile from sexy to irresistible. “So, how about that drink?”

  Chapter Four

  Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures.

  —Samuel Johnson

  “I feel like I’m starring in a madcap thirties movie. Rushing into a hotel in the wee hours of the morning dressed in formalwear. If only you wore a top hat,” Ivy mused as she and Ben crowded together into the revolving door.

  “Decadent, isn’t it? Until you remember that we’ve been in these clothes since noon, and worked our butts off all day. Kind of takes the shine off the image.” Ben pushed them through into the refined grey and black elegance of the Cavendish Grand lobby. A soaring atrium rose three stories, with one entire wall of windows overlooking the hustle and bustle of Michigan Avenue. The walls were covered in dove grey satin echoed in the chairs and sofas grouped around a cascade of water streaming from the ceiling into a mound of shiny black river stones. Sheets of glass formed the check-in desk, supported by columns of dark granite.

  “Miss Rhodes, welcome to the Cavendish. I wasn’t aware any members of your bridal party were staying with us this evening.” Cool as the cucumber slices Ivy used to de-puff her eyes, the starched British accent caused her to snatch her hands off Ben’s arm as though it were suddenly aflame. Yep, she’d been caught. At this rate, she might as well take out an ad in the Chicago Tribune announcing her intention to let Ben keep kissing her.

  “Don’t worry, Gib. Your crack staff hasn’t let you down. Mr. Westcott is one of us. Well, if you only count his actual work as a videographer, and overlook his slimy employer.” No use beating around the bush. Gib would ferret out Ben’s job whether she mentioned it or not. Better to bring it up now and control the spin. She put a hand on each man’s arm. “Gibson Moore is the manager of this lovely facility and one of my dearest friends. Gib, meet Bennett Westcott, who as of about fifteen minutes ago, can proudly state that he no longer works for Wild Wedding Smackdown.”