“Let me apologize again,” Cinnamon said, dropping thoughts of her parents and returning to the issue at hand. “It’s a beautiful gown and I shouldn’t have tried it on. I’ve never had a wedding gown on before and I wanted to…” She stopped speaking at the way he stared at her. His eyes were troubled and angry, but there was something else in them, something that was as confusing to Cinnamon as her reaction to him had been. She looked at the bag in her hands to keep from having to see those eyes. “I’m rambling,” she said. “You have better things to do than listen to me. I hope your sister’s wedding is as beautiful as the gown.”
She handed him the dress and went toward the door, suddenly wanting him out of her house. His presence was huge and overwhelming. Cinnamon had never met a man like him, one whose air was that of command, whose confidence and control were visibly physical and one whose touch melted her skin. He should be wearing a policeman’s uniform, or a drill sergeant’s. She hadn’t reacted to a man’s hands like that…ever.
Mac slammed the back door of the car with a force that was the opposite of the careful attention he’d used to place Allison’s dress on the back seat. Then yanking the driver’s door open, he got in and started the engine. Music from the CD blared to life. He cut the engine, silencing it, and slumped back against the leather upholstery.
What was wrong with him? He’d practically taken Zahara Lewis’s granddaughter’s head off over a dress. It was wrong of her to try it on. That, she had admitted. But why did he flare up like a sunspot erupting?
It had to be the gown. The wedding dress. The whole idea of weddings irritated him. Mac hated weddings. He hated everything associated with promising ’til death do us part.
No one could really make a promise like that. People changed from day to day. How could they promise to stay together for a lifetime? He knew from firsthand experience that people could, and would, change their minds.
And did.
Jerrilyn McGowan had proved it to him, and she’d done it the hard way. They’d met at a fund-raiser and fallen immediately in love. At least Mac had thought it was love. Within months they were engaged and she seemed excited about all the wedding plans. He’d been excited, too. Jerrilyn had appeared fine, happy even. Then the night before the wedding, everything changed. The story he got was that at her bachelorette party several jokes were made about one man for life. With the wine and the song and the many men passing by the party’s entrance, and poking their heads inside the hotel’s party room, doubts formed in her mind. The next day, with the church full of guests and Mac waiting, she decided she wasn’t ready for the one-man-for-life role.
She didn’t show up for the wedding.
Instead she ran away. Mac hadn’t seen her in two years. He knew she now lived in San Francisco where she moved after that fateful day. He was thankful for that. At least he didn’t have to wonder if he was going to run into her at some Washington party. But the experience had soured him on both weddings and long-term relationships.
If it weren’t for Allison, he’d never look at another wedding gown or a bride. But she’d asked for his help and he’d do anything for her.
Without looking back at Zahara Lewis’s house and its current resident, Mac put the car in gear and headed for his sister’s. Yet he could still see Cinnamon’s image in his mind. She was beautiful. The white lace made her brown skin glow. Her dark brown hair shone as it caressed her shoulders. He’d smelled the scent of her shampoo as his fingers fumbled with the beaded buttons of the dress. She had dark, intense eyes and luscious eyelashes. He’d tried not to look at her mouth, but his eyes were drawn there. She had perfect lips. As a newsman, Mac knew the sum total of a face and how far beauty could get someone. And Cinnamon’s face confirmed the rule.
Mac shook himself, trying to dislodge his thoughts. He wanted nothing to do with Cinnamon Scott, just as he wanted nothing to do with a wedding.
Allison knew he wanted as little involvement in the wedding as possible. She knew he hated the entire idea. This was probably why she kept asking him to do things. He let her manipulate him, but there was a line and he was nearing it.
When this affair was over, he wanted nothing to do with another marriage, but the fates weren’t listening to his wishes these days. He already had another invitation he couldn’t refuse.
Only two years separated his age from that of his younger sister. Consequently, they shared a lot of the same friends. In a town the size of Indian Falls, it was impossible not to. And of course, those friends would all remember Mac’s fiasco wedding—no, his non-wedding—to Jerrilyn McGowan.
The thought of that humiliating day two years ago still produced a metallic taste in his mouth. He’d stood in the anteroom waiting for the service to begin. It was like Jerrilyn to be late for everything, so their wedding day was no different in his mind. When an hour went by, he got nervous. She was never more than forty-five minutes late for anything. But it was their wedding and supposedly women needed more preparation that day than any other. Maybe her hair appointment ran late, or one of the bridesmaids didn’t arrive on time. Any number of things could cause her to be late. The true reason—which Mac had refused to acknowledge—until the last possible moment was that she’d purposely jilted him.
He could hear the unrest in the sanctuary and while Richard Briscoe, Mac’s best man and best friend, kept assuring him it was a woman thing, Mac somehow knew this was different.
Every few minutes Rick peered through the door and finally sighed with relief and turned to Mac.
“They’re here,” he said. “I just saw the bridesmaids.”
Mac sat down heavily on a chair. He’d been sweating. When Rick had said the bridesmaids were there, he’d breathed easier, but only for a moment. Jerrilyn’s father joined them in the anteroom. He could see by the man’s expression that something else was wrong.
Mac stood as he always did in the presence of Judge McGowan.
“Are we ready?” Mac asked.
His soon to be father-in-law didn’t speak. The expression on his face said everything. Judge McGowan held out an envelope to Mac. He stared at it, but didn’t take it. He knew. He’d known the moment he’d seen the judge’s expression that Jerrilyn was not coming. Yet, Mac refused to believe this could be happening. She was here. Rick had said so.
“She’s not coming, Mac,” the judge said. “She said it would be a mistake to marry you when she’s not in love with you.”
He’d said it, made it real. Mac was stunned, numbed to the bone, but he looked into the judge’s eyes. His future father-in-law looked ashamed, lost for words.
“I’ll make the announcement,” Rick said. “I think this is my job.”
“I’ll do it,” the minister said. “I have had some experience in this area.”
“No.” Mac stopped them. “It has to be me.” Mac knew he had to stand in front of a congregation of three hundred people and tell them he was being jilted. That the woman he had planned to share his life with would not be coming today or any day.
He took a step toward the door.
“Mac.” The judge stopped him. Mac turned and found the judge had extended his hand. He knew Judge McGowan had not approved of his daughter’s choice in a husband, but it seemed in the moment of their separation he’d found a new respect for Mac. Mac shook his hand. “I’m going with you,” the judge said.
By mutual agreement the four men left the room….
Mac shivered suddenly in the warm summer air as he came back to the present. The car windows were down. The air was fresh and clear. He took a deep breath.
He never wanted to stand in front of a crowd again as the groom or part of a wedding party. But as he’d said, the fates were not with him. Not only was he part of his sister’s wedding, he was her resident gopher for the hundreds of preparations that needed attention—like picking up her wedding gown and finding it on the wrong woman.
And Rick, his best man, was tying the knot later this summer. Mac was to stand up for him
.
He found Allison in the kitchen drinking a glass of iced tea when he arrived at the house. On the table in front of her was a series of papers, plans for the wedding, details to check on. Her cell phone lay next to the papers indicating she was only taking a break from the tasks at hand.
“The dress,” she said excitedly. “I’m so glad it’s here. I’ve had nightmares that something would happen to it before the ceremony.”
“That almost wasn’t a nightmare,” Mac said flatly.
“What do you mean?” Her eyes went to the white dress bag.
Mac hung the bag on the door that led to the center hall and unzipped it. Pulling it out, he held it up so Allison could see it. She rolled her wheelchair around and examined it. Mac then pushed it carefully back in the bag. He’d take it to her room in a moment.
“Don’t worry, I made her take it off.”
“Her?”
“Zahara Lewis’s granddaughter.”
“What? What does Zahara Lewis’s granddaughter have to do with my dress?”
Mac related the story of the mix-up. When he got to the shop to pick up his sister’s gown, he’d found the delivery tickets had been switched and the delivery guy was already gone.
Mac went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer. Twisting the top, he drank half the bottle in one long swallow. Leaning back against the counter, he looked at his sister. Usually her face was glowing with thoughts of her upcoming marriage. Now she looked confused.
Mac leaned against the refrigerator. “You should have seen her, Allison. Standing there, wearing your dress as if it was her own.” Pushing himself up, he paced back and forth in front of her. She was calm. Too calm, he thought. Allison should be raging, angry over the audacity of a strange woman wearing the most important dress of her life. Yet she didn’t seem to understand or grasp the meaning of his story.
Silence settled between them, but it was an uncomfortable silence. Allison looked intently at him.
“Why aren’t you angry?” he asked. “I wanted to strangle Cinnamon Scott when I discovered her with your dress on.”
“This isn’t really about her, is it?” Allison said. “This is about Jerrilyn.”
Mac stopped moving and his jaws clenched at the sound of his ex-fiancée’s name. After two years he still couldn’t control his reaction to the mention of her name. He stared at Allison, ready to say of course it was about Cinnamon Scott, but suddenly knew that wasn’t true. Cinnamon Scott had looked gorgeous in that gown.
“She was the wrong woman for you, Mac. You know that,” Allison continued. “In your heart, you know you and Jerrilyn would never have made it.”
Mac said nothing. His sister could always see the truth. He hadn’t loved Jerrilyn. She’d hurt his pride when she didn’t show up for their wedding, but she’d really done him a favor. Yet knowing that didn’t change his mind about weddings, women or relationships. He wanted no part of a serious relationship and the idea of a wedding made him sweat.
It didn’t matter how beautiful Cinnamon Scott had looked. She was off-limits as far as he was concerned. He only wanted to deal with women who understood that no relationship would go further than the bedroom. There was no morning after, no breakfast, no discussion of another date, no future. It was here, now and nothing more.
Mac had loved Zahara Lewis. He should be prepared to respect her granddaughter, but his conversations with Zahara rarely included her granddaughters. When Mac saw Cinnamon, the adult, not the twelve-year-old in the photograph gracing the piano, but a full-grown bride, the kick to his stomach was nearly physical. Mac usually turned away from brides and talk of weddings, refusing to relive the events of that day two years earlier. But when he’d seen Cinnamon, none of that came to mind. He’d only seen how lovely she looked. She might be moving to Indian Falls, but he was surely going to spend more of his time in Washington.
Already he knew she was dangerous to his senses. He didn’t want to think about the other places she could be dangerous. Or how he knew exactly which bedroom was hers.
Chapter 2
“Stop laughing.” Cinnamon swiped the air with her fork. Samara moved back in mock terror. “That is not funny.”
“You’re right,” Samara said. “It’s hilarious. I can just see you, your hands scrambling trying to undo all those buttons.”
Cinnamon could hardly keep a straight face at Samara’s unbridled laughter. The humor of the situation was apparent, now that MacKenzie Grier wasn’t standing in front of her, his glare as dark as midnight.
Cinnamon scanned the cafeteria. The place was crowded and busy at this hour. She heard several American accents and as many foreign languages. Samara worked at the National Archives in downtown Washington, D.C. It was one of a dozen classical style buildings that composed the nation’s capital. MacKenzie Grier had been the first thought on Cinnamon’s mind when she woke up that morning. Pushing him aside, she did what she usually did when she was perplexed over something. She called her sister, Samara. Now she sat across from her in the cafeteria of one of the tourist infested eateries that seemed to be crowded year round, instead of only during Cherry Blossom season.
“You tried on another woman’s wedding gown?” Samara’s eyebrows raised in horror.
“Samara, you don’t think you’re the only person who’s ever tried on one of the gowns in the store, do you?”
“Of course not, but the bride orders her gown. It’s generally brand-new, never having been worn by another person. It’s even bad luck—”
“Stop!” Cinnamon raised one hand. Her sister was superstitious and Cinnamon wasn’t ready for another of her lectures. “Don’t lecture me. I’ve had enough with MacKenzie Grier’s piercing eyes pinning me to the wall.”
“Ah, so he has piercing eyes.” Samara changed tactics. A sly smile slid across her face as she popped a piece of lettuce from her salad in her mouth. “What color are they?”
“Brown, but the odds of you not knowing that are at least a billion to one.”
“I know, I know,” she conceded. “What about his voice? How did he sound to you?” She refused to give up.
“When he wasn’t shouting at me, he had a normal voice. And why are you asking all these questions about him?” His voice wasn’t normal. Not the normal kind that you wouldn’t think of a second after you heard it. MacKenzie Grier had the kind of voice you listened to in the dark.
“Because you’re my sister. You got a raw deal in Boston, but I know you really haven’t given up on men.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong.” Cinnamon rolled her eyes.
“Cinnamon, face it. You’re in a male-dominated field. Even if you weren’t, you can’t avoid men. Pulling your hair in a bun and wearing no makeup won’t prevent the opposite sex from finding you attractive. They’ll see that gorgeous skin and long eyelashes and act like men.”
“I’d never wear my hair in a bun.”
“That’s beside the point. Just look around.” Samara spread her arms encompassing the room. “I’ll bet you couldn’t get up to get a straw without every man in the room dogging your every step.”
“So what was wrong with the men in Boston?”
“I’m still trying to figure that one out. I think they were afraid you’d show them up. And you never really met the right ones.”
“Well, reporting the weather every day at six and eleven was not my idea of a long-term career. And with those hours it was hard to meet normal people. People outside of the newsroom or the weather bureau. Although there was Wesley Garner, but he’s gone now.” She stopped and took a drink of her wine. “I’m looking forward to the weather service.”
“Don’t forget about Mac.”
“Mac?”
“Anyone named MacKenzie has got to be called Mac.”
“How did he get back into this conversation?”
“Wasn’t he the reason you came up here today?”
He was, Cinnamon thought, but Samara didn’t know that. “I came to have lunch wi
th you and to do some shopping.”
“And…” Samara waved her hand indicating there was more that Cinnamon hadn’t told her.
“And to tell you how angry I was at the way I was treated.”
“Now that you’re not angry anymore, what do you think of MacKenzie Grier? He’s surely a hunk around this town.”
“Oh my God!” Cinnamon nearly shouted.
“What?”
“I just realized who he is.”
“You didn’t know? All this time and you didn’t realize he’s the host of Keeping it Honest?” Samara started to laugh again.
Cinnamon thought a moment. His wasn’t a show she watched regularly. The political scene wasn’t her beat and when she wasn’t at the station, she rarely watched television. Thinking about him, she remembered Mac’s eyes. They were brown, a smooth milk chocolate color. They were expressive and mysterious. She remembered wondering about the multiple emotions she’d seen displayed there.
“Cinnamon, where are you?”
“I’m here.” She had been distracted, but thought she’d keep her musings to herself.
“So, what’s the answer to my question?” Samara asked.
Of course, Samara wasn’t going to let her off the hook.
“I’m taking the fifth.”
“Coward,” she muttered.
“I’m not a coward, but I am observant.” Cinnamon gazed around the room, but she continually came back to one man who averted his eyes each time she looked at him. Samara had said it was impossible for a male not to find her attractive. The male staring at them did not have his eyes on her. He was looking at her sister.
“What does that mean?”
“It means a certain young man hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we sat down.”
“Who?” she asked, turning around to look at the room. She saw him and turned her head. “Oh, him.”
“Who is he?”
Samara made a face. “I’ve seen him around, but I haven’t the slightest idea who he is.”
“So, you’re taking the fifth, too.”
Wrong Dress, Right Guy Page 2
