Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  Wannabe clients called in droves; the more aggressive lining up around the block, hoping to snag the hottest planner in Chicagoland for their wedding. Milo even fielded calls from out-of-state; brides who offered to fly her to Miami, Dallas and Los Angeles, respectively to work her magic on their big day. Ben and Ollie captured it all on film. The network was ecstatic.

  “It’s sweet you took the time to watch,” said Ivy, right arm flying up and down with each long stitch. “You had such a busy week with so many of your family flying in from New Mexico.”

  “It kicked off my bachelorette party. We all had chocolate martinis and watched my awesome wedding planner in action.” Sarah lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I hate to admit it, but I laughed. The girls and I all laughed when that skydiver landed in the pond.”

  Hell, who could blame her? It had taken all of Ben’s years of experience not to lose it himself when that guy cannonballed into the water. If he hadn’t been holding a camera, no, getting paid to hold a camera still, he’d have laughed his ass off.

  Sarah double checked the bobby pins holding her elaborate up-do, pressing each one a millimeter deeper into the mound of sausage curls. “We thought the wedding was ruined. But you saved it.”

  “All it takes for a perfect wedding is the bride and groom declaring their love. Everything else is icing on the cake.” Ivy recited her mantra fervently. Ben had heard her use it at every wedding, many rehearsals, and every single potential client appointment. Yet each time, she managed to infuse the words with an almost worshipful ring of truth. Ben couldn’t say the same words with a straight face if offered a million dollars.

  After a deep breath, Sarah rolled on in a rush. “Still, I laughed at that poor girl, and smugly thought how lucky I was that nothing like that would possibly happen at my wedding. I hired you to plan my wedding two days after I got engaged because I didn’t want to risk anything going wrong. Didn’t want to be stressed out by a year of decision making. Didn’t want to call fourteen different bakeries to set up tastings, or spend my weekends putting favors together. And you’ve been terrific. While watching Wild Wedding Smackdown, I never imagined I’d have a disaster at my own wedding. Yet here you are, coming to my rescue. Nobody will ever know what a near miss I had.”

  Ben wiggled his fingers in the soft folds of her dress. With his arm outstretched so he could still film, the ache in his bicep was almost as painful as his overworked calves. He’d take Ivy up on her sexy massage talk—except tonight, he actually wanted the massage more than the sex. Not that it mattered. He’d pulled out every well-honed trick in the book, and still couldn’t get back into Ivy’s bed. Every date ended the same way—him going back to the Cavendish. He either swam off his frustration or headed straight for a cold shower. Had the messy end to their April weekend caused her to re-virginize? Take a vow of celibacy? Because that’s the kind of information that really ought to be shared, upfront. Of course, Julianna would leap at the chance to point out he had no one to blame but himself, if that were the case.

  “Nobody tonight needs to know about your near-catastrophe, Sarah. But in about three months, we kind of hope most of America will be watching Planning for Love. The secret’s going to come out.” Ben often reminded couples of the release forms they’d signed for the show. The network’s lawyers encouraged it.

  “Well, it’ll make for a funny story. You can try it out when you check in for your flight to Bermuda. Maybe the gate agent will feel for you and upgrade you to first class. Right now, though, you’re back in business and ready to samba.” Ivy stood, and waved her hand in an unspoken order for the bride to twirl.

  Sarah complied, spinning around three times, laughing giddily. The train had disappeared, transformed into a poufy, drapey sweep of satin. Ben swore it was the identical bustle she’d worn at the start of the cocktail hour. Ivy had just pulled off another amazing save. He’d be willing to bet there wasn’t a single messed-up situation she couldn’t handle without so much as batting a hazel eye. On top of that, she still looked camera ready, even after crawling on the floor under Sarah’s dress. Truth be told, she looked damn near edible. Ben clamped his other hand on the camera, realizing it wobbled because he literally shook with need. He had to get his mouth on Ivy tonight. All over her.

  “Go tell your handsome husband to get ready for the introductions.” Ivy checked her watch. “We’re a go for them in five minutes.” Sarah gave her a big hug, then swooshed out the door.

  “You’re Batman,” said Ben. “You’ve got this crazy, whiz-bang, souped-up tool kit and a costume that shows off that rocking body. You’re constantly helping the innocent out of jams. Seriously. Tell me one way you’re different than Batman.”

  “He wears a codpiece.”

  * * *

  “I’m John Ridley. I’ve known the groom my whole life. He helped me hide a garter snake in the teacher’s desk our first day of kindergarten. I’ve had his back ever since.”

  As a rule, Ben enjoyed wedding toasts. Fifty percent of the time, the toasts rocked. Amazing personal stories came out, stories of family and friendship, celebration and love. Under cover of midnight, when sleep eluded him, Ben could admit to himself that he’d been known to feel a dampness in his eyes more than once during a kick-ass toast. Twenty-eight percent of them were average. Go to enough weddings, and you heard the recycled jokes and best wishes any lazy sap could pull right off the Internet. He pegged today’s toast as average. The best man, more than slightly drunk, had already back slapped the groom three times during the speech, and leered at the bride’s sister once.

  The temptation to let Ollie do single camera coverage was strong. Mostly because Ben was standing by the door, and saw the mounds of shrimp left over from the cocktail hour. He could nip out, scarf down a handful of shrimp and be back before the guy made the never-funny joke about who had the upper hand in the shiny new marriage. But even though his job may have downgraded, his mile-wide streak of professionalism hadn’t slipped a single notch. He braced his back on the door frame and took a slow pan of the room, catching a decided lack of reaction to the ho-hum toast.

  “You all know Anthony’s a decorated veteran. He doesn’t brag about his medals. Guess being modest helped him snag the pretty girl in the big, white dress. But I think all of you deserve to know just how great a guy, how big a hero he is. Our boy was part of the very first unit in Afghanistan.”

  Whoa. This toast just catapulted from lackluster to lively. Juicy war stories weren’t usually on the menu. Ben zoomed in on the groom, caught the tic working in his jaw. His fist opened and closed on top of the table. The bride looked tense, but not surprised. Whatever the big story, she already knew it.

  John used a napkin to mop sweat from the top of his receding hairline, then raised his glass high in the air. “Anthony doesn’t like to talk about it, but he did more than his fair share of keeping the world safe for democracy. He—well, his unit—ambushed a terrorist training camp.”

  Holy shit. If John thought this topic made for an appropriate wedding toast, imagine what got said at the bachelor party! Ben tracked the direction of Ollie’s camera to discover Ivy in a nearby alcove. She practically vibrated her displeasure. He crossed past two columns to join her. Then he muted the record feed on his camera.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. This is a nightmare. Today is supposed to be about love and celebration, not blood and violence.” Her hands clenched in the folds of her dress, much as the groom’s still did on the table. “It breaks my heart to see him pollute their wedding day with such ugliness. Look at Anthony and Sarah. You can tell how upset they are.”

  They weren’t the only ones. No silverware scraping against china, no ice clinking in glasses. Two hundred people sat stock still, frozen in surprise by the unfolding story. Ben hated that months of Ivy’s careful planning and hard work could be undone, ruined by a single thoughtless, drunken man. “You’ve got to stop him.”

  Ivy bit her lip. �
�I can’t stop him, if the bride and groom won’t. I can’t make the call to muzzle his oldest friend.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. Ben guessed the debacle of the toast not only hurt her heart and her passion for producing a day of unparalleled happiness, but churned her up so much she might be physically sick. He wrapped his free arm around her waist, snugged her close and hoped it would comfort her.

  Ben turned his attention back to the increasingly awkward speech. John had wandered away from the head table as he paced back and forth on each sentence. “Once the RPG took out his Humvee, Anthony got pissed. All by himself, he took down twenty of those stinking Afghans. Just really let loose with the old machine gun. Take no prisoners, huh, buddy?”

  The groom had turned as pale as the bride’s dress. The bride’s face matched the blood-red roses in the centerpieces. Somebody was either going to stroke out, or get punched out. Worse yet, Ivy would no doubt beat herself up about not being able to fix a horrible situation, impossible to predict or prevent.

  In his previous life, Ben always obeyed the golden rule of journalism—don’t get involved. Record the facts, and don’t do anything to change them. Keeping himself apart from the subjects he taped had sometimes been hard, but he’d never been tempted to break the rule. Until tonight. This time, he couldn’t stand by and let events unspool around him. Not with Ivy quietly hyperventilating beside him. He felt the rapid rise and fall of her chest against his own ribs. Ben turned off his camera and set it on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Ivy dug her fingers into his arm.

  “You can’t shut him down. I get that. Since the bride and groom pay you, it’s a line you can’t cross. But I can. Professionally speaking, I don’t answer to anyone in this room. I’ll take the heat if they get mad.” Ben shook her off, then ran along the perimeter of the room to the DJ’s table. With a why-the-fuck-haven’t-you-done-anything look, he shouldered him out of the way and cut off the power to the microphone. Confused, John stopped mid-sentence. He tapped the top of the mic a few times. When nothing happened, he took a few steps toward the DJ, hand extended, gesturing for another microphone.

  Ivy snatched a champagne flute from a tray stand and rushed forward. She lifted John’s hand, clinked his glass, and the roomful of guests eagerly followed her lead, effectively ending the least romantic toast ever given in the history of weddings. Ben flicked the speakers back on.

  “For the love of all that’s holy, spin some music,” he ordered the DJ. A few seconds of near silence while people muttered a half-hearted “cheers”. Prince’s “Kiss” roared out of the speakers. Anthony pulled Sarah up, dipped her and kissed her while enthusiastic cheers and applause rang out. The wedding was back in its groove. Ivy escorted John back to his seat.

  Ben tossed the DJ a salute for his excellent music programming, then ambled back to his camera. Ivy caught up and slid her arm through his. Ollie came at him from the opposite direction.

  Looking straight at the camera, Ben bowed from the waist with a flourish. “Crisis averted.”

  “Nice going, boss,” said Ollie. “It was touch and go there for a few minutes. Can’t believe you stepped in and saved the day.”

  “That makes two of us.” If word of this got out to his friends in the news business, he’d be a laughingstock. Thankfully, Ben would put big money on the fact none of them watched reality wedding television. “Do you think I’ve earned a five-minute break to snag some leftover appetizers? I’m starving.”

  “Are you kidding? Right about now, I bet Anthony and Sarah would give you the filet off of their own dinner plates. They’d let you dive face first into the cake. You saved the wedding, Bennett. You flipped one little switch and saved the whole darn thing. You’re my hero.”

  “Well, I’m no Batman. No tool belt. But I could be a halfway decent Green Arrow. He didn’t have superpowers, but he knew how to get things done.” Ben looked down at Ivy. She seemed pretty darn grateful. Capitalizing on it might be his best chance to reclaim his spot in her bed. “We make a pretty good team. How about we celebrate a little later?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Love is an ideal thing, marriage a real thing.

  —Goethe

  Arms around his neck, Ivy burrowed her face against Ben’s pleated tux shirt. One minute she’d been complaining about her aching feet, and the next she was in his arms, like Snow White or Scarlett O’Hara. He’d carried her this way the day they met. Tonight, it gave her the same romantic thrill as the first time. Maybe more so, now that she and Ben had a connection. A connection he refused to name, but she still had a little time to get him over that hump.

  “Open your eyes, tired girl. The night’s not over yet.” Ben stopped walking and set her on her feet. “That is, if you’re up for a little romance. I figure you’re such an addict, you must be jonesing for a hit.”

  Did she hear correctly? The man who couldn’t utter the word romance without getting heartburn planned to actively engage in it? This could only mean one thing—her plan had finally worked. Ivy wanted to run in circles, pumping her fist in the air. But she tamped down the joy fluttering in her heart. Better to play it cool and be sure before performing a victory dance.

  “Guilty as charged,” she said. “Even though I just spent ten hours at a wedding, I can always do with a little extra.”

  Ben took her shoulders and turned her around. “Then your carriage awaits.”

  In front of them sat the red and green trolley the bridal party had used earlier in the day. A pat on her ass propelled her up the polished wooden steps. Ben prodded Ivy all the way to the back. They both sank onto the wide bench seat.

  Confusion muddied Ivy’s tired brain. “The trolley contract ended four hours ago. Why is it still here?”

  “Don’t worry, nobody deviated from the sacred contract. Billy,” Ben pointed at the driver, big enough to be a strip club bouncer, “agreed to come back after his last run and give us a moonlight tour.”

  Not a good idea. Ivy might be worn out, but her business sense never checked out completely. “Anthony and Sarah aren’t paying overtime for this,” she warned. “The trolley company’s very strict with their timekeeping. I won’t let my clients get charged extra because you had a yen to take a joyride.”

  Ben shrugged out of his jacket. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m paying for it. Working hours are over, Ms. Rhodes. You’ve clocked out. Now can I do something nice for you without the third degree?”

  Oh. Trolleys didn’t rent by the mile, or by the hour. Ben must’ve done some fancy talking to convince the driver to stick around at the end of the night. Trolleys also weren’t cheap. They were old-fashioned, romantic and extravagant. It was official. Ben was—finally—making a grand gesture. To think she’d almost ruined the moment by being practical!

  “I’m sorry. This is a delightful idea. I’ve never ridden on the trolley for fun—or with less than a dozen other people.”

  Ben pulled a cord to ring the loud bell, and they took off toward the lights of the Magnificent Mile. He folded his jacket into a tidy bundle. “Scooch over against the window.” Ivy turned sideways, and he stuck his jacket between her back and the paneling as a cushion. Then he lifted both of her legs across his lap.

  “Comfortable?” he asked.

  “Very.”

  “Brace yourself, because it’s about to get even better.” His thumbs pressed firmly into the arch of her right foot. Ivy bit back a groan.

  “There is nothing better, at the end of a wedding, than a foot rub.”

  “Nothing? You think the bride and groom are tucked up in their fancy honeymoon suite giving each other foot rubs?”

  “If he’s smart, absolutely.” Ivy curled and uncurled her toes with each of Ben’s long, sure strokes. “She’d love it, and thus feel compelled to express her gratitude. Trust me, everybody wins with a foot rub.”

  Lights in the trees twinkled as they passed. Music spilling from the clubs on Rush Street created a faint wash of background noise, the mute
d but still vibrant soundtrack to the city. Store windows lit up like a series of jewel boxes. A warm breeze flapped the plastic, roll-down windows. Ivy loved taking the time to appreciate the glamour of downtown the glowing buildings and the happy clumps of people partying away the night.

  Ben switched his ministrations to the other foot. “I don’t expect you to express any gratitude. I just want to pamper you a little. Make you feel as special as you make your clients feel.”

  The bungee cords strapping down her eager heart snapped. Love swelled it to twice its size, then burst it like an overfilled water balloon. The entire puddle of love flowed straight to Ben, with the inevitability of the mighty Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. Ivy couldn’t overlook it any longer. She loved Ben. It might not be safe, or smart, but she had no choice.

  “Good point. Gratitude would be the wrong reaction entirely. Lust, on the other hand, big, burgeoning lust would be a very appropriate reaction.” Ivy anchored her feet on the other side of his thighs and pulled herself close. “You fill me with lust, Mr. Westcott.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous buildup. We’d better provide some outlet for it.” When carrying her from the History Museum to the trolley, Ben had used such care, such tenderness. His foot rub, soothing. Well, her words must’ve snapped something in him, too, for that gentleness vanished. He pulled her to his chest, flattening her breasts against him. One hand dove down to cup her ass, and the other drove into her hair. Bobby pins tinkled to the floor as his mouth claimed hers.

  It was heat; circling, spiking flames that seared her with each swipe of his tongue. Her lips tingled beneath the onslaught. Her nipples tingled against his rock-hard pecs. Who was she kidding—everything tingled, inside and out. Over and over again she ran her fingers through his thick, silky hair. She wanted him to rub that mop of hair all over her body. Softness against her softness. Wanted to feel him unleash his desire. Wanted to lie naked with him, tasting and touching and becoming one.