Книга - Wooing The Wedding Planner

Wooing The Wedding Planner
Amber Leigh Williams


No more wedding marches for her!Wedding planner Roxie Honeycutt can make happy-ever-after come true for anyone except herself. Freshly divorced and done with love, she’s okay with watching clients walk down the aisle. What’s not okay? Sharing a charming Victorian house with accountant Byron Strong. He’s frustratingly sexy and determined to keep her confused.Roxie thought Byron’s expertise was numbers, yet somehow he sees her for who she really is. Somehow he understands the hurt she hides behind a trademark smile. Suddenly romance is tempting again, even if it means risking another heartbreak.







No more wedding marches for her!

Wedding planner Roxie Honeycutt can make happy-ever-after come true for anyone except herself. Freshly divorced and done with love, she’s okay with watching clients walk down the aisle. What’s not okay? Sharing a charming Victorian house with accountant Byron Strong. He’s frustratingly sexy and seemingly determined to keep her confused.

Roxy thought Byron’s expertise was numbers, yet somehow he sees her for who she really is. Somehow he understands the hurt she hides behind a trademark smile. Suddenly romance is tempting again, even if it means risking another heartbreak.


What was wrong with the old Roxie?

His words had stuck with her. And his kiss.

It was difficult to forget a kiss like that, especially coming from someone...well, someone like Byron. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit trying not to think about the kiss—about how sweet it was. She’d forgotten kisses could be so sweet. She’d tried extra hard to forget how his lips had lingered. And how in lingering he’d awakened starbursts inside of her. Small starbursts of eternity.

Roxie frowned deeply now. Being touched... It had been so long since she had really been touched. The hollowness in her had turned into a resounding ache, and for a few moments, she’d thought about bringing Byron’s mouth back down to hers. For a few moments, she’d craved more than his companionship. She’d craved the contact. The promise of heat that came with it.

But had she wanted it—had she wanted him—for the single reason that heat could erode loneliness? There was trust there. There was affection. For those small starbursts of eternity, there had been longing and the promise of flame. It had been too long since she’d felt the sheer, electrical pulse of new chemistry.

Why did it seem like so long since she’d felt the flame? The passion?


Dear Reader (#ulink_a0060f6c-8aa8-5f91-b858-d8cb440fcac4),

Welcome to Roxie’s story! Or is it Byron’s story? In the grand scheme of things, it’s really both. This in fact was my plan, or scheme, all along, you see—to get these two kids together. They both may hate me for how it all came about—the deep-rutted forays they had to scale to get to the first page of Wooing the Wedding Planner. Can you lose sleep over the fate of people who live solely in your imagination? Why, yes. I’m convinced that all my characters hate me at some point, which is why I push, cajole...sometimes drag them to that place they reach at the end of their journey, as we see it—the completion of their story and the happy ending they deserve.

We all have people in our lives who have been through their fair share of tribulations and deserve nothing less than a happy-ever-after. Or perhaps just peace. For me and everyone who knows and loves them, in fiction and reality, Roxie and Byron are two such people. And it’s my profound pleasure to say that they do find happiness and peace in the end...after, of course, plenty of pushing and cajoling from their sadistic plotter—that’s me!

Wherever it does find you—on a subway bench, riffling through pages in a bookshop, on your lunch break or simply tucked up in bed after a long day—I hope you enjoy Roxie and Byron’s journey. Look for more books in my series with Superromance coming soon!

Love,

Amber Leigh


Wooing the Wedding Planner

Amber Leigh Williams






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


AMBER LEIGH WILLIAMS lives on the US Gulf Coast. A Southern girl at heart, she lives for beach days, the smell of real books and spending time with her husband, Jacob, and their two young children. When she’s not keeping up with rambunctious little ones—and two large dogs—she can usually be found reading a good romance or cooking up something new in her kitchen. Amber is represented by the D4EO Literary Agency. Learn more at www.amberleighwilliams.com (http://www.amberleighwilliams.com).


To my tribe—those who fall asleep reading and those who dream in pages. Wishing you a sea of endless books to sail and soothe you through this life.

And to those who waited for Byron’s story. Cheers!


Contents

Cover (#u135ace71-96de-51d6-84be-6330dbe86d0a)

Back Cover Text (#u848ac569-f643-5aef-a6a6-04f5b6f20b23)

Introduction (#u68e2ca4e-a35b-53e5-a55a-f7630ab76f9a)

Dear Reader (#ulink_6f7b8b29-6d65-5849-adac-2c0e0d43cdee)

Title Page (#u41eaa481-ec02-5e31-9115-7c5bef1e6e5a)

About the Author (#u1053c0e0-20de-5836-ae52-149f4e1738e7)

Dedication (#u3883dbd8-84dc-5555-a8bb-5161053ec55d)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_72741258-9d49-5a63-b97b-0651b06e7028)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_16c3495d-0480-5c25-b2fc-dccc62359131)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7e1aba70-e52a-5966-96a7-035f8cf8604e)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_aa045878-3b50-589c-9152-27740f2045c5)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_28cc37f1-b47d-5d28-b4a8-f6c08bd188dd)

MONDAYS SUCKED ENOUGH without the grim implications of Valentine’s Day.

Byron Strong thought seriously about calling in sick. Then he remembered what had happened the last time he’d done just that. Not a half hour after he’d vetoed the workday, he found his father, mother and two sisters on the threshold offering him a bevy of pity food and head patting.

Byron cringed. No. Not the head patting. The idea chased him from the seductive warmth of flannel sheets and into the shower, where he confronted the scalding spray, head up and shoulders back.

His ritual morning routine helped dull his unmotivated subconscious. He made himself a double espresso with the top-rated espresso machine he’d splurged on—money very well spent. Meticulously, he did all the things any other sane man in his shoes would’ve liked to skip today of all days—shaved, brushed, flossed... He checked the weather before choosing khaki slacks, a black tie and a black sports coat. He stuffed his dress shoes in his briefcase before donning his favorite Nike running shoes and an overcoat and hoofing it to work.

If the hot shower hadn’t shocked him awake, the chill whistling through the streets of Fairhope, Alabama, did. It was a brisk five-block walk to the office, mostly uphill. In the spring, it seemed everyone who lived close to downtown strolled to work in the mornings. In winter, usually only those who needed the exercise or a swift wake-up call ventured out without transport. Byron had memorized the cheery bright storefronts, quaint shops, charming courtyards, alleyways and French Creole architecture that were all trademark to Fairhope’s appeal.

Fairhope was nothing short of spectacular in the spring—like something from a book or a dream. By June, the weather was hot enough to melt plastic. By August, only the brave walked the scalding pavement. The rest—the wise—remained behind cool glass and central air. Winter weather didn’t show up until late November. Maybe. It rarely snowed, and when it did it came down more wet than fluffy, coating everything in ice.

The few months of cold made the residents of the bay-front village wish for their blistering summers that melted plastic and tarmac and made even the hummingbird mosquitoes fight for shade. Ducking his head, Byron kept his face out of the wind and prayed the office coffeepot had already punched in.

Grimsby, Strong & Associates was on Fels Avenue. Byron entered through the back door of the small accounting firm, which was his baby. He lifted the cross-body strap of his briefcase over his head.

The scent of coffee hit him. He almost groaned in relief and made a beeline for it.

Tobias Grimsby, his brother-in-law, planted his six-feet-seven-inch frame in the kitchen doorway and brought Byron up short. “Dude. You know what day it is. Right?” Wariness coated every inch of his espresso-toned face.

“I’m a human popsicle,” Byron muttered. Desperate to get to the coffee, he ducked under Grim’s arm. “Out of my way.”

Grim stayed on his bumper. “You want to go home?” he asked in his deep Kentucky baritone. “Go if you wanna.”

Byron tried not to dive for the pot. It was a near thing. He poured a mug to the lip, drank it straight. Refilled. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Stepinsky at nine. Your appointment with the Levinsens isn’t until eleven. You didn’t have to come in early.”

“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” Grim proclaimed with all the gravity of a general briefing his troops on a mortal campaign.

Byron offered Grim as deadpan a look as he could manage. “Damn. Sorry, man. I didn’t get you anything.”

Grim tilted his head slightly, measuring Byron’s face. “So...you’re okay?”

Byron jerked a shoulder and eyed the box of croissants their secretary, Kath, had picked up from the bakery. Yeah; he could do fifty extra sit-ups if it meant chowing down on one of those bad boys. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another Monday.” He sipped his coffee and clapped Grim on the arm. “Relax. You’ve got the Carltons today at two?”

“Two thirty,” Grim corrected.

“You’ll be lucky to get out of here before your hot date tonight.”

“Ah,” Grim said, reaching up to scratch the underside of his chin. “About that. I was thinking we could do a guys’ night. Just us.”

The mug stopped halfway to Byron’s mouth. He narrowed his eyes on Grim’s innocent expression. “This is your first date night with ’Cilla in weeks and you want to spend it with me?” He frowned. “Is this some half-cocked scheme the two of you cooked up?”

“There’s no scheme,” Grim said with derision that didn’t quite ring true. “Maybe ’Cilla’s sick of me. Maybe I’m sick of her. The further along she gets, the crankier she is.”

“It’s a mother-effing pity party with ’Cilla’s prints all over it,” Byron said, pointing at Grim. “And denying it further will only insult my intelligence.”

Grim’s eyes rolled briefly before he sighed, his shoulders settling into a yielding line. “I told the woman it was a bad plan. You can spot a lie miles offshore. She doesn’t listen.”

The sound of the phone in his office drew his attention. Byron snatched a croissant. “Do me a favor. Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

“It’s probably your mother,” Grim warned.

Dear God, he hoped not. They couldn’t be starting this early. Not all of them. Byron walked through the first door on the right. He set his briefcase behind the desk and settled into the rolling chair before reaching for the phone. Bringing it to his ear, he answered, “This is Byron Strong.”

“Byron. It’s your mother.”

Byron closed his eyes. He reached for his temples, where a headache was already starting to gnaw. “Hi, Ma. Happy Valentine’s.”

“That’s exactly why I’m calling—”

“So you got the flowers,” Byron interrupted smoothly. “I told Adrian orchids.”

“Yes,” Vera stated. “They’re beautiful. You did good.”

“My mitéra deserves nothing less.” He tapped his knuckles on his desk calendar. “Hey, listen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got an early meeting. Can I call you back?”

“No, you may not,” Vera said, undeterred. “I called to invite you to dinner this evening.”

Byron rolled his head against the chair. “Ma...”

“No, no. It’s all planned. We’re doing chickens. Your father wants to try his hand at roasting them.”

“That’s...tempting.” Byron fought a grimace as he recalled the last time his well-meaning yet culinarily deficient father had tried to roast something. His stomach roiled. “Yeah. I’m gonna pass.”

“And why is that?” Vera asked, tone sharpening to cleave.

“Because I’ve already fielded one pity party this morning,” he explained, frowning at the door to Grim’s office across the hall. “Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Byron’s gaze fell on the framed black-and-white photo on his desk. It was the five of them—Byron; his father, Constantine; his mother, Vera; and his sisters, Priscilla and Vivienne—standing on the beach in Gulf Shores. On Christmas Day, they always drove to the coast to sit shoulder to shoulder in the sand, drink eggnog out of flasks, wrap themselves in woolen blankets and watch the waves charge and thunder into shore. He scanned one smiling face and then another before closing his eyes again and pinching the skin between them. Nosy. But well-meaning. Every single one of them. He lowered his voice as he spoke again. “It’s been six years.”

“Six years today,” she reminded him.

“I’m aware,” he told her.

“So you won’t change your mind about dinner?”

Byron’s mouth moved into something like a smile. “I want you and Pop to go out. Find a Greek place. Drink a bottle of ouzo. Make out in front of somebody other than me.”

Vera gave a quiet laugh. “Well. I suppose we could do that. But only if you promise—”

“I won’t spend the night at home in my bathrobe,” Byron said quickly. “Gerald hosted a poker night at his place over the weekend and I lost, which means I’ll be picking up his wife’s shift at the tavern, since she’s still on maternity leave.”

“And after that?”

“I just got the new season of Game of Thrones on DVD,” Byron assured her. “With that and a six-pack of Stella in the fridge, Valentine’s Day couldn’t end any better.”

“Hmm.”

Byron went another route, a sincere one. “Hey, Ma? I love ya.”

Vera sighed. “I love you, too. You’re my only son.”

“I know,” Byron replied. “And I mean it—happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Call me later.”

“Will do. Bye.” Byron hung up the phone. He eyed his coffee. Cold now. With a frown, he turned toward his computer monitor to switch it on. “Hey, Kath,” he called. “Can you bring me another cup of coffee, please?”

No sooner had the computer hummed to life than the sunny voice of Constantine Strong filled the room. “No need, darlin’. I got what our boy needs right here.”

“Jiminy Christmas,” Byron muttered, exasperated.

“Christmas was a month and a half ago,” Constantine stated as he folded his tall, skinny frame into one of the guest chairs on the other side of the desk. With his too-long legs spread wide in a comfortable slouch, the effect was very praying mantis. “Wake up, son. It’s nearly Mardi Gras.”

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Byron asked suspiciously as his father set one of the go cups he carried onto the desk.

“Oh, just a little rocket fuel for my space pirate.” Constantine grinned, a reminiscent gleam in his eye that took Byron back to his childhood obsession with the final frontier.

He eyed the cup. Great. Now they were going after his weakness for controlled substances. This put last year’s cheese basket to shame. “I’m fine, damn it.”

The mantis eyed Byron through rose-tinted lenses. There weren’t too many lines in Constantine’s face, although his long hair, pulled back into his typical man bun, had gone gray a decade before. He sported snug mustard-hued pants, a red shirt and a navy blue peacoat, and had a silver loop on his left lobe, where a black shark’s tooth dangled. He looked absurd, off-the-wall and somehow together and completely at ease—one with the earth. An aging hippie who refused to be anything but himself. “Go on,” he said finally, gesturing to the go cup. “You know you want it.”

Byron reached for it. Hot. Mm, yeah. Just the way he liked it... “Only if we play a round of ‘Guess Who’s Not Coming to Dinner.’”

Constantine’s face fell. “How did you know?”

“Your offerings are well-placed but transparent,” Byron told him.

“Your mother called.” Constantine checked his wristwatch. “Should’ve known. She starts earlier than Christ and she’s always twelve steps ahead of me.”

“You both should really start texting,” Byron suggested as he logged in to the office system. “It’ll save time and confusion. Plus, you two would tear up some sexting. Not that you’re hearing it from me.” He took a sip from the go cup and his brows came together as he swallowed. He eyed the logo on the front. “What the—”

“Ah.” Constantine quickly lifted the cup from his knee and switched it for Byron’s. “I believe that’s mine.”

“Sprinkles and whipped cream?” Byron asked. “You’re approaching sixty.”

“What do I always say to you kids about aging?” Constantine asked, his eyes sage behind wire frames. “‘We don’t grow older, we grow riper.’”

“That was Picasso, not you, pappou. And if by riper you mean the charred remains of those chickens you were going to roast me and Ma tonight, for once I’ll agree with you.”

Constantine barked a laugh. He slapped his knee and leaned forward, his natural geniality flowing warmly into the room. It sieved its merry way through the defensive pall Byron had donned automatically that morning. A true smile spread across Byron’s face. For a moment, the two men just looked at one another. Byron heard the silent message his father transmuted with a softened grin—you’re okay. Gratitude filled Byron until he nearly swelled at the seams. He lifted the coffee and took a long sip. The dark roast slid down his throat, enlivening. “That’s the stuff,” he muttered appreciatively.

“Told you,” Constantine said, crossing his ankle over his knee. Now he looked like a dandied-up cricket ready to break into a toe-tapping reel. “I’ve always got what my boy needs. And speaking of...” He pulled something from the breast pocket of his jacket and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it Byron’s way.

Byron swiped the key ring out of the air. “What’s this?” he asked, studying the two silver keys dangling from the hoop. He frowned at the address written on both in permanent ink.

77 Serendipity.

His heart skipped a beat and hit the next hard. “Pop. What is this?”

“I ran by the retirement village yesterday morning to see our girl,” Constantine informed him.

Byron beamed at the mention of his great-aunt, Athena. “How’s she doing?”

“Yapped my ear off for three hours straight, so I’d say she’s doing pretty fine,” Constantine considered. “Had lots to say about you. And the house.”

“The house,” Byron breathed, tightening his grip on the keys.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Constantine asked with a knowing smile. “At least it seems that’s what you told her not too long ago. She’s got it set in her head that the place is yours. She even says there’s no use waiting for the will...what with the rest of your life ahead of you. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind...”

Changed his mind? Was his father crazy? Byron had been in love a few times in his life. But his first love had been and always would be his great-aunt Athena’s old Victorian house. The secret cupboards. The creaky walnut floors. The odd pitch of the upper-floor ceilings. The gingerbread trim. The old-timey wood-burning stove that had been replaced by a newer model fifteen years ago, but still retained the original stone surround. One of Byron’s first memories was of lying on the second-floor landing, watching the light wash through the stained-glass window his great-uncle Ari had bought in Greece to remind his wife of the homeland she’d left behind for him.

Byron and his sisters had chased ghosts and dreams in that house. He’d pushed Priscilla out of the Japanese magnolia in the backyard, resulting in a broken arm for her and a month at the mercy of Ari’s hard-labor tutelage for him. He’d replaced the treads on the stairs, put up crown molding, and helped Ari build a detached two-car garage with a comfortable space above it where Athena could host her sewing circle.

When Ari passed, Byron had nixed plans for summer courses in order to help Athena adjust, living in the garage apartment for a time. When he decided to live on the Eastern Shore for good, Athena—by that point in assisted living—offered him the use of the loft again, since the house was under long-term lease to an elderly couple, the Goodchilds. The Goodchilds seemed to like having a built-in handyman and yard boy. They let him keep his Camaro in the garage next to their El Camino and invited him to use the basement as a place for his exercise equipment.

Byron knew the Goodchilds hadn’t renewed their lease on the Victorian. Mrs. Goodchild could no longer manage the stairs. However, he had assumed that interest in the house would be sky-high. It was a prize. Sure, it had its quirks. All old houses did. However, the Victorian had historic, architectural and—for Byron—extreme sentimental value. Who wouldn’t bribe the Almighty Himself to live there?

He closed his fist around the keys. “When?” he asked.

Constantine lifted his shoulders. “Why not tomorrow?”

Byron’s brows drew together. “Didn’t Ma crack down on you for verbal contracts?”

“This is different,” Constantine said. He was serious. Byron rarely saw his father so serious. He had to swallow a few times to digest it. “It’s family. Athena. You. The house. It’s all in the family. I’m sure Athena would gift it to you outright—”

“No, I’m buying it outright,” Byron argued.

“Even if the loan goes toward your inheritance anyway?” Constantine asked.

“I want my name on it. I also want the appraisal estimate. Nothing lowball.”

Constantine knew better than to argue the point. As the family real estate business was shared between him and Vera, he usually found houses to renovate and flip into lease homes, while Vera handled the actual leasing and brokerage part of the equation.

Constantine did have a point, however. With its claim to family heritage and Byron’s long-held interest, the Victorian perhaps called for a more casual approach.

“Take some of your things over tonight and see how you adjust,” Constantine was saying. “If you don’t have any second thoughts over the next forty-eight hours, I’ll bring the papers Wednesday.” He lifted the go cup to punctuate the question.

Byron felt another smile, big and true, on his lips, and he liked it there. He raised his own cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

A knock on the door prevented him from raising the coffee to his mouth. Kath peered inside the office, her silver hair gathered on top of her head in a twist that pulled the corners of her eyes into a slant. “Good. You’re already in.” She spotted Constantine, stopped midspeech and smiled. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Strong. I didn’t see you arrive.”

“I snuck in,” Constantine said with a wink. “How’re you, Kathleen?”

Byron sipped his coffee as his father worked the charm on the older woman, bringing a pretty blush to her cheeks. Both his parents were compulsive flirts. They were also two of the happiest compulsive flirts he’d ever seen.

Strongs are like Magellanic, gentoo and royal penguins all wrapped up in one very Greek, very reformed package, Constantine had told his three children all their lives. We’re crazy enough to mate once, for life, and the male and female are equals.

You know way too much about penguins, Dad, a surly teenage Byron had once remarked. At the time he’d thought it was a strikingly conventional belief for a man who was in no way conventional.

Yet the belief held weight not even the staunchest cynic could deny. Byron’s parents had been married for thirty-five years and were still madly in love—so much so that open affection refused to die off between them. Byron had seen enough parental PDA over the years to make a Friday-night dinner with his mother and father go from gag-worthy to blasé.

The belief had held for Priscilla, as well. She’d married Grim right out of college. The two had been married for a decade and were impatiently awaiting the birth of their first child. In addition, Vivienne’s wedding to her boyfriend of four years, Sidney, was only a few short weeks away.

That “mate once for life” business was all too real. And that was the trouble.

Byron lifted his chin, catching Kath’s gaze. “What can we do for you?”

The twinkle Constantine had brought to the woman’s eyes faded out. “The Xerox machine is on the fritz.”

Byron pushed up from his chair. “Again?”

She held up her hands. “I’ve tried the manual. I’ve tried customer service. I even channeled Pelé and gave the dang thing a few kicks like you did last week. Until the maintenance guy gets here later in the week, I’ll have to run to the library to see if they’ll let me use theirs.”

Byron shook his head. “It’s too cold out. You stay in. I’ll go to the library.”

“But you have a meeting,” she reminded him.

“I’ll have plenty of time to get back and prep.” Pointing at the manila folder she’d folded against her chest, he asked, “Is this what we need copied?”

Kath relinquished the papers. “They’re for today and tomorrow’s appointments. I usually make three copies of everything. One for records, one for the client and one spare.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Byron said.

Kath eyed Constantine over Byron’s shoulder. “You and the missus sure raised this one right.”

“Ah, I’m a bad influence,” Constantine said with a smirk. “This one’s the work of his mother.”

“Whatever the case, he’s gentleman to the bone,” Kath noted. “The world could use several more just like him.”

Byron tossed a heated glance into Grim’s office when he heard his business partner snigger. “Thank you, Kath.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said as she returned to the lobby.

As Byron stuffed the folder into his satchel and pulled on his coat and scarf, his father buttoned his peacoat. He peered into Grim’s office and asked after Priscilla and the baby before joining Byron at the door while saying, “Vivi’s flight was delayed again.”

“She still hasn’t flown out?” Byron asked, pushing the door open into the cold. Byron didn’t particularly care for his sister being on another continent, not to mention a third-world country. The flying didn’t soothe him either. She and her fiancé, Sidney, treasured their humanitarian calling. Their work was important, but Byron would feel a lot less edgy when his baby sister was back on home soil. “She’s going to miss her own wedding.”

“She’ll be here. Don’t you worry.” Constantine clapped an arm around Byron’s shoulders. “Remember, you need us, we’re here.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Byron said, amused.

“Go see Athena.”

“First chance I get,” Byron promised. He wrapped an arm around his father. “Come here, you old geezer.”

“Ah.” Constantine squeezed him into a bear hug, rubbing circles over Byron’s back just as he had when he was a child. He gave him a few thumps for good measure. “Fruit of my loins.”

“Pop, word of advice,” Byron quipped. “Don’t talk about your loins when you’re hugging people. Unless it’s Ma. In which case please ensure the rest of us aren’t anywhere within hearing distance.”

A laugh rolled through Constantine’s torso. He grabbed Byron’s face and kissed him square on the mouth. “I love ya.”

Byron rubbed his lips together. “Save some for her, huh?”

Constantine opened the driver’s door of the Prius and folded his long frame behind the wheel, defying everything Byron knew about logic. He winked. “Valentine’s Day, leap year, Lincoln’s birthday...” He cranked the Prius to life. “Doesn’t matter what day it is. My girl gets the lion’s share.”

Byron threw his father a casual salute. He waited for him to leave the parking lot before starting off for the library to the north. He bypassed the children’s park, taking a shortcut between the buildings that walled off Fairhope’s version of the French Quarter to cut the wind off his face.

As he came out onto De La Mare and turned east toward Section, he collided with the brunt of an icy gale. His scarf loosened and went flying. He spun around quickly to snatch it. The wind swirled, sending the scarf sailing the other way. And a torrent of rose petals rushed up to meet him.

He raised his hands to shield his face from the odd deluge. When he lowered them, he saw the woman standing on the curb, looking at him in dawning horror. Her peaches and cream complexion went white as Easter lilies as the petals winged away. “Oh, God,” she uttered, the round box in her hands empty.

Byron reached out to grasp Roxie Honeycutt’s arm. She looked dangerously close to falling to her knees. “Hey, hey. It’s all right. They’re just flowers.”

Her gaze seized on his, her lips parting in shock.

Clearly not the right thing to say to a wedding planner. He extricated the box from her gloved hand. “I meant there’s probably more where those came from, right?” He tried smiling to draw her out of her blank stare. The woman he’d known for a little over a year was normally expressive. Bubbly, even. Sure, she’d been a thinner, quieter, more subdued version of Roxie over the last ten months thanks in large part to her husband’s affair.

Idiot, Byron thought automatically whenever Richard Levy was mentioned. Make that her ex-husband, and rightly so. Any man who slept with one of his wife’s sisters deserved to be kicked brusquely to the curb.

Roxie licked her lips. “I’m...so dead.”

Her hand was in his. It was small, wrapped in cashmere. It folded into his big, icy fist like the wings of a jewel-breasted barbet. He moved his other palm over the back of it for friction. “Let’s call Adrian,” he said instantly. The florist was a mutual friend. She and Roxie often collaborated on events. “She’ll get what you need.”

Roxie blinked. “Adrian? She’s doing flowers for a wedding in Mobile.”

“Shit. Sorry.” He shook his head. It was ridiculous. They were friends. He could curse in front of her.

She always put him on his toes. Not that she ever spared him the free-flowing tap of her amiability. There was just something about her... It didn’t set him ill at ease. Not at all. It...brought him to attention. Close attention.

Kath would’ve said it was the “gentleman” in him responding to the lady in her.

“I’m sure there’s a solution,” he asserted, giving her hand a squeeze. He looked to her Lexus. There were boxes stacked neatly on the ground and more in the trunk. “First...why don’t I help you get these where they need to go?”

She nodded. “That would be wonderful.” Her gaze locked onto his again. Her mouth moved at the corners. “Thank you, Byron.”

The first time he’d seen her smile, he’d stopped breathing. Actually stopped breathing. The zing of her exuberant blue eyes, her blinding white teeth—straight as Grecian pillars—had hit him square in the chest. Her beauty was impeccable. He remembered thinking that she was the most unspoiled thing he’d ever seen.

She was riveting. The kind of riveting that made a man stare a few seconds too long.

Carefully, he looked away from her warm round eyes. Growing up, his parents had lived in a house on the outskirts of Atlanta. Larkspur had grown there, blooming in blue-flamed spikes in high summer. When he looked into Roxie’s eyes, he remembered just how blue those spikes were.

He bent to retrieve her packages. “Where’re you headed?”

“Just around the corner,” she told him, placing the empty box in the trunk as he gathered the others. “To the library.”

“Fancy that,” he said. “Me, too.”

The small smile grew by a fraction. “That is fancy.”

They crossed De La Mare, bound for the intersection of Section Street and Fairhope Avenue, the hub of downtown. On one corner was the white Fairhope Pharmacy. On the other was the city clock that chimed the hour. As they waited for traffic to move off so they could venture across, Byron saw that Roxie’s pale cheeks were tinged pink. He might’ve thought it was the wind had her smile not grown into a full-fledged grin. “What?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

He nudged her arm with his. “Come on.”

She licked her lips. Then she said, “You just always show up on my epic fail days.”

He frowned. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” she insisted. Her stare flickered over his middle. “You remember last March.”

He studied one of her gloved hands—the one that had wound up in his solar plexus that day in March. It had been an accident, of course. He’d stepped into the blow unwittingly and she’d apologized profusely...before crumbling on him and crying buckets. All as a result of finding Richard and her sister Cassandra in the middle of a tryst. “That?” He shrugged, dismissing the incident completely. “That was nothing.”

“I hit you.”

“You were having a bad day.”

“When I break a nail, that’s a bad day,” she pointed out. “That one could only be deemed hellacious in the extreme.”

“I wouldn’t lose sleep over it,” he advised. The light changed and they began to cross. “It’s been a year.”

“Eleven months, almost,” she said thoughtfully.

He knew she was thinking about her divorce and not their exchange that day. He changed the subject in a hurry. “What’s happening at the library?”

“There’s a vow-renewal ceremony. Fifty years.”

Byron whistled. “Impressive. Who’re the lovebirds? Anybody I know?”

“Sal and Wanda Simkin. They’re both retirees. They moved down south recently to be closer to their daughter and her family. They’re from New York, where Wanda worked as a librarian and Sal as a janitor. She was working late one night while he was cleaning. She fell off a ladder. He was there to catch her.”

“There’s a happy accident for you,” he mused as they crossed again, eastbound. The library was just ahead. When she pursed her lips, he asked, “What? You don’t believe in accidents?”

She thought over it. “I don’t know. A year ago, I would have said no, I don’t believe in accidents, happy or otherwise.”

“So you think it was what—kismet?” Byron asked, shifting the bulk in his arms from one side to the other.

“I’m not sure where I stand on all that anymore.” At his curious gaze, she added, “Fate. Kismet. I used to be a big believer in serendipity. In signs. Now...?” She shook her head. Sniffing in the cold, she continued, “Anyway, Sal and Wanda wanted something small at the library. One officiant. Their daughter and her family as witnesses. But the daughter wanted to surprise them after the ceremony. As they exit onto the street, all their friends and extended family will be waiting outside.”

He nodded understanding. “With the rose petals.”

“That are halfway to Canada by now,” Roxie noted as another gale blazed a trail through the tree-lined grove across the street where the college campus and amphitheater were located.

“It won’t be hard to find more,” he told her. “It is Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes. It is.”

Ah, he thought, gauging the slight hint of her displeasure. A kindred spirit. “After I use the Xerox machine here, I might have time to stop by the market, pick some up for you. Or I could try another florist. As long as you don’t tell Adrian.”

“My assistant will be here in a half hour or so. I’ll have him stop by Flora and see if Penny can scrounge together some more petals.” She stopped when Byron nudged the door open and stepped back to let her pass. Blinking at him, she gave a surprised smile. “Oh. Thank you.”

Byron frowned as she brushed by him into the warmth of the hushed building. How little courtesy had she been shown through the last year that the simple opening of a door struck her off guard? Inhaling, he followed her subtle, sensory cloud of lilac that was florid and pristine.

Lilies. Larkspur. Lilacs. Could he be any lamer?

“Oh, my God!” Roxie exclaimed, bringing him to a halt behind her as she whirled around to face him in the lobby.

“Jesus,” he muttered, bobbling the boxes at the renewed pallor on her face. “What?”

“Your scarf! It’s—”

“Halfway to Canada?”

“It’s my fault,” she said ruefully. “We might still be able to find it—”

“Rox.” Byron leaned toward her, lowering his voice as he cocked a brow. “It’s a scarf.”

“Yes, but it’s yours,” she lamented. “I’ll get you a new one. I promise.”

Byron nodded briefly to the woman sitting behind the information desk before setting the packages on the ledge. He relieved Roxie of hers to give her arms a break. “I’ll do you one better. I’m picking up Olivia’s tavern shift tonight. You could come by, buy me a beer, brighten my day.”

“Oh.” She stared at him, stunned. “I’d love to.” She rubbed the cashmere gloves together. “But I actually have a date.”

Byron didn’t know why his spirits tanked at the news. Of course she had a date. It was frigging Valentine’s. And she was Roxie Honeycutt. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Bertie Fledgewick,” she said. “My sister Julianna knows his family. She set me up. You know how it is.”

The only person either of his sisters had ever set him up with was Adrian. Adrian was now married to his friend James Bracken. “This isn’t your first date since...?”

She lowered her eyes to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees and cocked her hand on her hip. “The second. Bertie took me out for martinis two weeks ago. Tonight’s a little more formal. Dinner at Alabama Point.”

“Sounds classy. You’re still living in the apartment beside your shop, right? Above the tavern?”

“In Olivia’s old bachelorette digs—” she nodded “—for the time being.”

“Bring him by when he drops you off,” Byron invited. “Drinks are on me.”

She licked her lips to smooth a canny smile. “You want to buy our drinks or size him up?”

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m excellent at multitasking.”

She laughed. It was like tinny bells on Christmas. It brought mirth and a pleasant flush to her face—a face he thought still a touch too thin after last year. It couldn’t be her first good laugh since the divorce, could it?

She pressed her knuckle against the space beneath her nose as the laughter began to fizzle. She shook her head, eyes still sparkling. “I needed that.”

Bertie, you lucky bastard. He picked up the boxes again. “Anytime. Tell me where these are going.”


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_08c7011f-a884-50a1-931a-e2160757e2ba)

WOW. AND I THOUGHT chivalry was dead.

As Bertie helped her out of his car, Roxie pressed her lips together, remembering how Byron had opened the door to the library for her.

I guess, after everything, I might still be a sucker for a gentleman.

Bertie’s hand squeezed hers as she stood in the parking lot of Tavern of the Graces, her friend Olivia’s bouncing bayside bar. His hand lingered there, bringing her back again to the events of that morning when Byron had held it, too, tucking it against his middle as he comforted her.

She frowned. Looking up, she noted Bertie’s presence. They’d had a pleasant evening. There had been wine, conversation, candlelight. He’d ordered the smoked oysters. She’d wondered at the selection...just as she’d wondered over the hand he’d let stray to her knee under the table as the appetizers passed into entrées and finally dessert.

He’d blazed through a bolero album all the way home.

His palm was a bit damp against hers. She wished for her cashmere gloves, then dismissed the thought, pasting on her best smile. It had been so long since she’d dated. Had Richard’s hand sweated when they’d first gone out all those years ago? They’d been married only three months before she’d caught him and Cassandra practicing their best wrestling moves on her Aubusson, but he and Roxie had been engaged for four years after dating since graduate school. So it had been almost a decade since she’d dipped her toe in the dating pool. Perhaps she’d just forgotten what it was like...

The first time, she’d thought she’d sluiced through the dating pool skillfully, hooking Richard along until the end of the meet. In the long run, though, she’d sunk. She’d sunk hard, dragged out by the unseen undertow.

Still, no matter how much had happened in the intervening years—no matter how much the dating world had changed with its Tinder apps and its trending hookup culture—Roxie Honeycutt did not put out on the second date. It made no difference how many glowing reviews Julianna had given on Bertie’s behalf.

Bertie shut the car door. Roxie licked her lips when he stood close in the chilled night air. The wind shrieked off the bay, gaining strength. Bertie bounced at the knees, hissing through his teeth. “Let’s get you out of the cold, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. He couldn’t have known that was exactly what Richard had called her. Roxie’s heart pounded, calling up the same restless ache she’d had trouble quelling since the divorce papers had been hastily drawn last spring. She eyed the lights in the windows above the tavern. The place had been her sanctuary. The thought of bringing a man into it...

Roxie tried to keep the smile. “I can walk up on my own,” she told him. She saw the line dig in between his brows and misunderstanding glean. Poor fella. He wasn’t used to rejection. Trying to ease the sting, she added, “I had a good time tonight, Bertie. Thank you so much for dinner.”

He searched her briefly, before humor flashed across his face. “Is this you being a tease, Roxie?”

She felt his hand at the small of her back edging her toward him. Her hand flattened against him. Her smile fled. “I’m not a tease,” she stated plainly. “I’m just not ready for you to walk me up to my place.”

He bit off a sour laugh, clearly amused. “Julianna warned me about you.”

“Did she?”

“She said you’d try to keep me at arm’s length,” Bertie said, the hand on her back lowering an inch. It pressed her middle against his. “Said you’d need a little encouragement.”

Oh, double, double, toil and trouble. Why wasn’t anyone exiting the tavern? The parking lot was full up, yet not one patron had passed in or out of Olivia’s bar from the time she and Bertie had driven up. He’d knocked back two martinis at the restaurant while they waited for the entrées. With the wine on top of it... He’d driven just fine, but had he had too much? “I’m certain this isn’t what she meant.”

“Ah, come on,” he said, swaying against her, into her. The fingers of his other hand clamped on her forearm, as if he knew that her flight reflex was jumping into high gear. “You’ve strung me along too far.”

Her voice clipped. “We’ve only been out twice, Bertie. Two dates isn’t enough—”

“That’s bullshit, Roxie. Complete and utter bullshit. And you know it.” His mouth came crashing down onto hers.

Too hard, too hard! His mouth, his hands. Panic threatened to go on a tear inside her, buckling her at the knees.

She remembered vaguely the defense class she’d taken with Olivia, Briar and Adrian months ago. Olivia, pregnant at the time, hadn’t been able to do much more than shout instructions. Roxie tried to summon her righteous words to mind now.

Get loud. Push back.

“Bertie!” She planted her arms between them, trying to wedge space enough to at least breathe. “I’m warning you, back away!”

He laughed. Actually laughed at her. The grip of his arms didn’t let up. Worse, his hand moved over her rear in a possessive sweep.

“Oh.” Her hand came up. She meant to strike him flat across the cheek. Instead, her hand balled and she put more force behind it than perhaps necessary.

Her knuckles connected with his cheekbone. Pain flared down the back of her hand. He stumbled and she hissed, cradling the fist. “I did warn you,” she reasoned when he looked flabbergasted. She hadn’t broken the skin.

Seconds passed as he sized her up. Finally, he tilted his head in challenge. The wake-up call hadn’t worked. If anything, she’d poked the snake with a stick and it was coiled to strike harder. “You think you can take a swing at me like that and walk away?” he asked, advancing.

“Yes,” she said, putting her good hand out to shield herself. “It’s called consent. I didn’t give it.”

“Come here.”

He was used to giving orders. He was used to people following them. But Roxie wasn’t one of his subordinates. When he reached for her, she blurted, “I don’t want to hurt you again!” When he made a grab for her anyway, Olivia’s voice filled her head once more.

Hurt or be hurt.

Where? Roxie thought wildly.

Olivia answered. Go for the eyes. Gouge those suckers out. The groin’s good, too. Knee to the groin, very effective. Or, if you have to, just—

A long arm snatched Bertie away. His hold loosened, throwing Roxie off balance. She staggered, gaining her feet as an unmanned elbow came down against Bertie’s neck. He crumbled, his face and hands close-encountering the gravel drive. It was then that Roxie saw Byron.

He’d loosened his tie. Reaching up, he tugged at his collar. His neck was red, his lips seamed tight. He eyed Bertie’s prone form in a way that made the sea-tinged air go from chilly to glacial.

His eyes were blue. She knew that. Conversation with him was always very distracting with those midnight blues smiling back at her. However, under the low beam of the streetlight, they looked black. She wanted to reach out to him, soothe the deadly look on his face. Maybe assure herself he was still Byron. She’d never have guessed that behind the smiling eyes there was this.

“Get up,” he sneered at Bertie. “Get the hell up.”

“Byron,” Roxie said. Damn it, her lips were quivering.

He held up a hand without turning his head to her. “Just a second, duchess.” When Bertie didn’t rise quickly enough, Byron hauled him up by the back of his jacket. “Turn around,” he warned, not raising his voice. God. Not that he had to.

Bertie lifted his face. There was blood in his nostrils. He sniffed wetly. “My nose. You goddamn broke it!” Scowling, he pinched the bridge. “I was just dropping the lady off. You don’t know what’s going on here, chuck.”

“The hell I don’t,” Byron told him. “Now, judging by your breath, I’d say you’ve gone one too many rounds with the Grey Goose tonight. Maybe normally you’re not the kind of guy who gets his jollies off feeling up a lady who in no way wants that type of attention. But, hey, what do I know? You could in fact be that pervert. So I’m going to give you one of two options...”

Bertie rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake—”

Byron jerked a finger in Bertie’s face. “Number one,” he said, undeterred, “you call a nice cabbie to take you back to the hole you crawled out of. You put the tavern and Ms. Honeycutt here in your rearview and you approach neither of them ever again.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Bertie remarked.

“Number two,” Byron continued, “you keep acting like the vodka-soaked prick I just saw take advantage of my friend, and I put my fist in your mouth and call every single one of the rough-and-tumble tavern regulars out from behind those doors to join me. You leave in an ambulance and your sweet little Merc gets towed to the garage with over a grand in damages. I testify as a witness in the sexual harassment suit that’ll be brought against you and you go to jail long enough at least for the other sex offenders to take a shine to you.”

Bertie’s eyes darkened. Roxie saw his fist come up and his body twist, coiled to strike. She cried out. Before the sound was partway out of her mouth, Byron quickly stepped into the space Bertie opened up in the area of his shoulder. He bent his arm and again the elbow came up against the brunt of Bertie’s head, snapping it back.

Bertie lost his footing, stumbling back to the 4x4 truck behind him. Byron’s hands closed over the other man’s throat. The words that growled low from within cut through Roxie as effectively as the wolfish wind. “I’m getting real tired of your attitude,” he warned, “and I’m just mad enough to knock out enough of those pearly whites to make you look like a clown at the circus. You’ve got exactly five seconds to change my mind. One...”

“Byron,” Roxie said again, touching his arm. “Really. He’s not worth it.”

“Two...”

Bertie’s face was turning an alarming shade of puce. His fingers clawed at Byron’s hands over his throat.

“Three...”

“Byron, please,” Roxie said, gripping the sleeve of his black shirt. “Stop.”

“Four...”

“All righ’,” Bertie wheezed. “All righ’. Lemme go.”

Byron gave it another few seconds, his eyes drilling into Bertie’s skull. Then he released him.

Roxie watched Bertie sink, gasping, to the ground. She felt sick.

Byron’s frame swelled and released over several breaths. Then his brow arched and he reached up to straighten his tie. “Informed decision. There might be hope for you yet, Lothario. Now make the call.”

“What about my car?” Bertie asked, his raspy voice carrying nothing more threatening than resentment. Effectively cowed.

Byron jerked a shrug. “A friend of yours can pick it up in the morning.”

“It’ll have to wait here?” Bertie asked. The incredulity shrank from his face when Byron tilted his head. A simple gesture with surprisingly lethal intent. “Okay,” he said, taking a smartphone out of his jacket pocket. “Dialing.”

They waited, none of them moving. Byron nodded from Roxie to the tavern doors. She shook her head. A stubborn move. Or maybe she just couldn’t get her legs to move.

This was her mess. She’d see Bertie off, if for cognitive reassurance alone.

Not that he said so much as boo to her when, a half hour later, the transportation service arrived. On the way to the van he trampled over the handbag she had dropped when he’d started taking liberties with her. Byron went so far as to open the door for Bertie.

After Bertie climbed inside, Byron leaned in to deliver one last ultimatum. “If I get wind of you around here again, we’ll assume you’ve forfeited the first option and there won’t be a cop in town who’s not on the lookout for your license plate and VIN number.”

Bertie muttered something about good ol’ boys. Byron rolled the taxi door into place and gave the window a few raps. It wasn’t until dust rose in the van’s taillights that Byron strolled to where the handbag lay and picked it up. It was beaded and yellow. In his hands, it looked as delicate as one of those Imperial Russian Fabergé eggs they kept behind glass in the Winter Palace. She focused on it, swallowing, as he dusted it off. Her throat was sore, strained by tension. She expelled a breath, reaching for clarity. “Was the choke hold really necessary?” she asked.

He turned to her. The streetlight fell over him like a halo. His long, rich black hair was smoothed back from his face. It fell to the nape of his neck. It should be illegal to be so effortlessly handsome. In profile, his long face was a half-moon thanks to his large chin. He had an ever-present five-o’clock shadow. His proud aquiline nose was a touch overlong but it spoke of his Mediterranean heritage and suited him well.

At six-five, his broad frame saved him from being lanky despite his trim physique. His shoulders filled his button-up shirt.

It had been ten and a half months since she’d wept on him—and that long precisely since she abandoned any long-held notions of fairy-tale knights, whether they appeared in shining armor or tailored Brooks Brothers.

There was no chance she was going to start believing again. No matter how well he wore that Brooks Brothers.

He scanned her closely. She wished she was steadier. She was mussed—her dress, her hair... The glassy edge of fear was too close to the surface. She raised her chin again, locking her arms over her chest as he looked at her. Really looked at her.

He pushed the air through his nostrils and gave her a short nod. “Yes,” he decided before returning to her, handing her the clutch.

“Thank you.” She opened the handbag, letting her hair fall across her cheek, shielding his view. She riffled through the contents. Everything was there, in place. As she checked that her smartphone was safe in the hidden pocket in the lining of the bag, her hand tweaked. Damn it, that hurt.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, clipped. She stopped, hearing the bite. She mirrored him, breathing deep, trying to unlock the tension. She closed her eyes and shook her head when it didn’t work nearly as well as it had for him. “Really. I am.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. She could feel his eyes on her face, perusing. His hand lifted, as if he wanted to touch her. “Look,” he said, lowering his head toward hers instead, “it’s not your fault.”

She felt something touch the corners of her lips. Something light. Humor? Fighting ghosts of aftershock and hysteria, she couldn’t sort one emotion from another. “I know. I know that. It’s just...a mess.”

“The guy’s a tool.”

“He also happens to be the son of one of the wealthiest hoteliers from here to Fort Lauderdale,” Roxie told him. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t hear from his daddy’s high-powered litigators by the end of the week.”

Byron lifted a noncommittal shoulder. She’d forgotten he’d once been a high-powered litigator, too, and didn’t seem at all concerned with the threat. “What kind of a name is Bertie anyway?” he asked.

“Short for Robert, apparently,” she told him and rolled her eyes. “He’d do better to call himself that.”

Byron scowled. “No, he’d do better to keep his hands to himself.”

In the taut pause that followed the coarse words, Roxie saw him measuring her again. “I’m fine, Byron.”

“Sure,” he said, but closed the distance between them anyway. He reached up to take her elbow, making sure to keep his movements slow so she could track them. “Come on. I’ll buy you that drink.”

A laugh wavered out of her. “That’s kind of you. But all I want to do is go upstairs, take a long shower and down half a bottle of moscato.”

He glanced over her head to the apartment above. “All right. I’ll call Adrian. Or would you prefer Briar?”

“Neither,” she said quickly. When he looked at her in surprise, she shook her head firmly. “I’d rather they not know about this. Any of them.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I feel like I need to...absorb it before I get either of them involved,” she told him. “Plus, if Liv finds out, she’ll go chasing Bertie with her granddaddy’s shotgun. I can’t be responsible for her getting arrested after the babies.”

He tipped his chin toward the windows. “Then let me walk you up.” When her lips parted, hesitant, he spread his hands. “I’m already here. I’ll just walk with you, see you inside.”

Her mouth firmed. “But I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that,” he noted.

As he started walking, her steps fell into sync with his. It wasn’t that she was afraid to be alone with him. There were few people she felt safer around than Byron Strong—though she didn’t know why. But here he was again, witnessing another life fiasco.

His timing was horrendous. He’d borne witness to every low or ugly impasse of the last year.

Why is it always him?

Still, she gave in. She wasn’t steady. And she wasn’t all right. It would be an hour, maybe two, before she could process anything. In the meantime, he was right. She might as well have company. And though she was desperate for the chilled wine in her refrigerator, she hated drinking alone... “Go around back. I have a key to the garden door.”

The walk did her good, as did the shrill blast of icy air that knifed around the side of the tavern. Byron stepped in front of her, a solid wall that blocked the worst of the gale. She trudged along in his silent shadow. She needed that, too. Silence.

She rubbed her lips together. They felt bruised. Yes, she needed the moscato. To numb them. To mask the bitter taste of Bertie’s mouth. She’d need more than one glass if she was going to sleep tonight.

When she fumbled with her keys, Byron smoothly took them from her hand and unlocked the private entrance. He ushered her inside. She led the way up the spiral stairs to the landing. Here she took the keys firmly in hand and thrust them into the lock. Her lips peeled back from her teeth as the pain in her hand shouted in red-hot abandon. Ouch. The deadbolt clicked. She pushed the door open, eyeing her current living quarters.

It was a small space. It had seemed a bit claustrophobic in the wake of the French Colonial that Richard’s grandmother had gifted to the two of them upon their engagement. However, the apartment above the tavern had become that place she ran to for reprieve, for consolation and escape.

She needed the trio now. She needed them like moscato.

“Is there a glass of that wine for me?” he asked as she took a step over the jamb.

She stopped. His hand pressed against the frame of the door. He’d erected a smile. “You drink moscato?” she asked.

“Is it pink?” he asked with a slight wince.

Her smile grew genuinely. Impossible, she thought, bewildered. “No.”

“Good.” He grinned. “If the guys caught me drinking the pink stuff, I’m not sure I’d ever live it down.”

She hid a laugh behind her lips. She sighed over it, over him. Then, without a word, she moved back against the open door. He gave a nod and brushed by her into her space. She took a moment, closing her eyes and letting his sweet, earthy scent of aged ambergris wash over her. It was the essence of calm, of strength.

Nodding to herself, she closed the door and made her way into the kitchen to pour two large glasses of wine.

* * *

“I NEVER THOUGHT I’d be back here again.”

Byron refilled the glasses on the coffee table. He sat back on Roxie’s purple velvet-upholstered couch. Or settee. It was way too fancy to be lumped as a couch. “Where’s here exactly?” He handed her one glass.

Roxie lifted it by the stem. With her feet bare and her legs folded next to her, she looked relaxed. Not defeated. The wine might have had something to do with that. It had brought her color back, made her eyes lazy. The lids were at half-mast as she laid her head against the headrest. She eyed the truffle in her hand. She’d already taken a bite and had been nursing the other half for some time. “Sitting here,” she explained, “eating bonbons, drinking myself into a stupor, rehashing a bad date.”

As she stuffed the rest into her mouth and reached for the tin on the coffee table, which held what remained of the exotic truffle collection they’d both foraged, Byron fought a smile. “It’s not that bad.” When she turned her head slowly to scrutinize him, he raised a shoulder. “I do it every other Friday.”

It had the desired effect—her lips turned up in a smile. She pressed her fingers over them and the truffle behind them. The slender line of her shoulders shook with a silent laugh. As she tipped the wine to her mouth, she said, “I highly doubt that.”

“Why? Guys don’t eat bonbons?”

“Guys eat bonbons,” Roxie asserted. “They just know them as megastuffed Oreos, honey buns and Cocoa Puffs.”

Byron chuckled. “I’m pretty sure the last time I ate Cocoa Puffs I was in tighty-whities.”

“But you have eaten them. Anyway, I’m willing to bet that no man who looks like—” she scanned his face closely before her eyes dipped over his torso, shying “—well, you...has ever had a date blow up in his face.”

Byron contemplated that. “I can’t say what happened with Bertie has ever happened to me, but I’ve had my share of bad dates.”

“Name one,” Roxie challenged. When he hesitated, she tilted her head. “Come on, let’s hear it. If only to make me feel less like a loser.”

“You’re anything but a loser, duchess.”

“I just keep picking losers?” she asked, brow arched. She sipped her wine. “I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.”

“All right.” Byron moved on the couch, bracing himself. “To make you feel better...”

“Please.”

“I threw up on a woman once,” he admitted.

“During a date?” Roxie asked, eyes round.

“Not just that.” He grimaced. “It was after the date.”

She gasped. “Oh, no. Not during—”

He downed the rest of his wine in answer.

“Wow, you’re right,” she said. “That is bad.”

He sat forward over his knees and set the glass on the table with a clack. “Ah, it turned out okay. She was a friend.”

“Not Adrian,” Roxie said, alarmed.

“No, not Adrian,” Byron said. “This was before I moved to Fairhope, back in Atlanta about—” he squinted, counting back “—four and a half years ago? And it was my first time...or my first attempt at intimacy since...” He forced the words out. “Since I lost her.”

“Your friend?”

He let out a breath, feeling some nerves and a disturbed feeling in the pit of his stomach. “No. My wife.”

She stared at him. Her larkspur eyes went round as bonbons. “You were married?” When he nodded, she asked, “How did I not know this?”

“I’m not sure a lot of people do,” he considered. “That was the draw of Fairhope and life on the coast.”

“To get away.” Roxie nodded her understanding. Her throat moved on a swallow. “How did it happen? Can you talk about it?”

“Sure,” he said, though he had to roll his shoulders back to cast off the ready pall. “Her name was Dani. Daniella Rosales. We met in college, freshman year. I saw her and...I was done.”

A light wavered cautiously to life in Roxie’s eyes. “Just like that?” she whispered.

“Just like that,” he agreed. “When I was younger, around fourteen, my center of gravity couldn’t keep up with my growth. I got clumsy. Really clumsy, and angry, too, because I was this big, goofy guy who couldn’t walk across a room without knocking something over. It took me years to work out the clumsy and level the resentment. Then I got to college, I saw Dani and I tripped over her into the fountain outside our residence hall.”

The light in Roxie’s eyes strengthened. “That might be the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I would’ve disagreed,” he informed her. “On campus tours, the guides were adamant that nobody touch the water in the fountain. Because it was said that if you did, you’d never find true love.”

“Did you prove them wrong?”

He grinned. “I was irate with myself—until Dani fished me out, led me back to her room and dried me off. You remember odd things through the years. I remember how her towels smelled. Not like laundry, but like that unknown thing that’d been missing. Only I didn’t know it was missing until I found it...or smelled it.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s dumb—”

“No,” Roxie said with a quick shake of her head. “It’s not dumb.”

“It’s cheesy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little cheesy. It’s the sort of thing I used to believe in. That I used to have. Or I think I had.” A touch of confusion crossed her face. She dismissed it with a sweep and offered him a rueful grin. “It’s nice, being reminded that it does happen. That it can be real.”

“Real,” Byron echoed. He nodded. “Yeah. It was that.”

Roxie frowned. “You haven’t told me—what happened to her.”

Hadn’t he? Byron shifted on the cushion. He poured more wine and picked up the glass by the stem. He used the thumb and forefinger of each hand to hold the delicate crystal shoot, spinning it slowly, watching each facet flash in the lamplight. “When Dani was little, she had a heart condition. The doctors fixed it when she was thirteen. Or so they thought. As an adult, she was healthy. Active. She was a photographer, so she was never still—on the job or off. My friend Grim used to call her the Dervish. Nothing slowed her down. Then a few years after the wedding we decided it was time to start a family.”

Byron hesitated again. After a moment, Roxie reached out and touched his knee. He lifted one corner of his mouth, though he wasn’t sure it could be deemed a smile. When he spoke, he was subdued. “After her doctors signed off on it, we tried for a while before it took. She was three and a half months along when she collapsed. She went into a coma and it was four weeks before those same doctors informed me and the rest of her family that she’d never surface.”

Her hand stayed locked on his knee. He was grateful for the silence. He’d heard every condolence known to man. Before the move to Fairhope, it had seemed like he couldn’t go anywhere without hearing how sorry everyone was for his loss. Like his clumsiness in youth, the condolences had awakened his ire. It had taken a while for that ire to simmer and for him to confront Dani’s loss, and even longer for him to learn to wholly live life again.

He cleared his throat. “You know as well as I do that when you’re at the altar pledging your life to someone, it’s just that—your whole life. And even though you both say the words till death, you expect death to come later. Much later. It doesn’t enter your mind that death’s coming for you a mere six years, seven months and twenty-seven days later, or that it’s not you it’s coming for. It’s the person standing next to you, the one you’ve promised to love every day that life gives you. And learning to live without that person... It feels so backwards and wrong. It unravels every bit of who you are.”

“Your whole life,” she echoed. She released a ragged breath. “The baby? They couldn’t save it?”

He took a long glug of wine, shaking his head slightly as he did. As he lowered the glass back to the table, he ignored the bad feeling in his stomach that had grown into a full-on internal wail. “If she’d been further along, maybe. And when she fell...there was some internal damage.” He laid his arm over the back of the sofa. There was a knot in the wood trim. He circled it with the pad of his thumb. “It was a girl. We’d only just stopped arguing over what to call her.” At her questioning brow, he confided, “Maree Frances.”

For a full minute, she said nothing. Thoughtfully, she edged closer. Shifting toward him, she fit into the groove under his arm next to his chest. The wail inside him was on the verge of a banshee scream. The wave of lilacs stopped it from reaching fever pitch, beating it back down where it belonged.

She spoke low, almost inaudibly. “Nothing I tell you could ever be enough to say how sorry I am for what you’ve been through. I can’t imagine...” She sighed and pressed her cheek into his lapel. “So I’m just going to hug you.”

“Okay,” he said. It trembled out of him on a short laugh. It warmed him.

As he’d left the tavern after finishing his shift there, Byron had seen Bertie drop Roxie off. He hadn’t liked the look of him—a knee-jerk and instant assessment. The guy drove a luxury Mercedes but ground the transmission when he shifted into Park. And he wore a three-piece suit that screamed easy money.

Byron had taken a moment, studying Roxie from a distance. He’d felt the warmth gathering over his sternum, remembering the sound of her laugh from earlier in the day. Tinny bells. The best kind.

Then Byron had seen the flash of Bertie’s gold signet ring move too quickly. He’d seen the guy’s arms wind too hard around Roxie. He’d seen his body close in on hers and the hard lip-lock that came close on the heels of the not-so-nice embrace.

That’s not the way, Byron had mused. Not with a woman like Roxie. Slow and smooth was more what a lady of her caliber deserved. Hell, it was what she’d need after everything she’d been through. The warmth over his sternum had hardened into a big, black ball of volcanic rock. The back of his neck had turned to fire as it always did when he felt the old anger, the ire, rising up from the black. He moved in, loosening his tie when Roxie’s quick attempt at a punch failed and Bertie kept coming at her.

Was the choke hold really necessary? she’d asked after.

Byron had seen her fear and embarrassment, and the trampled strength behind it.

Yes, damn it, it had been necessary. A part of him still wished Bertie had taken the second option so Byron could’ve implemented a lesson with his fists.

He noted the place of her hand. Right over his sternum, where the warmth for her had built and shied and then built again. It was the same hand she’d plowed into Fledgewick’s face. The same fist she’d given Byron nearly a year ago. The edge of his mouth curved as he touched it.

“Mm.” She winced. The fingers stiffened under his.

Byron gentled his hold. Gingerly, he turned her knuckles toward the light and saw the bruising. “You should’ve let me hit him.”

“What would that have solved?”

“Nothing. But it would’ve felt damn good.”

“Didn’t feel so great to me.”

“Because you aimed for the face,” Byron explained. “Suppose he’d raised his chin or you’d struck his jaw. Your hand would be flat broken.”

“He was drunk,” Roxie reminded him. “I wanted to sober him up.”

“Next time, aim for the liver.”

“I’m no good at this,” she admitted as he caressed her knuckles. “I miss marriage.”

His hand stilled on hers. “You do?”

“Yes. I miss the security of it. The comfort of knowing that I’m safe from all this, from the uncertainty.”

“But that’s all.” Byron frowned. “Right?”

She paused. “I don’t know.”

Byron tried to read her. “Rox. The man failed you. He knowingly failed you.”

“I know he did.” She tipped her chin up and confronted him with a cool expression. “Trust me. I was there. But we were together so long... I don’t know anything else. You and Dani were together a long time. You said learning to live without her unraveled you.”

“It’s apples and oranges,” he noted.

“I know that, too,” she said, tensing.

“Wait a minute,” he said, straightening. She sat up in response. He took a good look at her. “You’re not still in love with the guy, are you?”

Her mouth parted and her eyes glazed in thought. “I don’t know.” She lifted her hands. They were empty. “I know I hate being alone. I know that when it was good, I loved the relationship, and not just the security of it—I loved the unit we built. I know how much of ourselves we put into it. And I know that Richard’s sorry.”

“He told you that?” he asked. “He got down on his knees and begged?”

“No, he didn’t get on his knees,” Roxie dismissed. “But he did try to say he was sorry. The mess was so fresh, the hurt, I couldn’t listen even if he was sincere.” Before Byron could say anything, she quickly added, “What he did was disgraceful, and I haven’t forgotten how it made me feel. But you said it yourself—you pledge your life to someone. Your whole life.”

“He quit his vows,” he said heatedly. “He quit you the second he jumped on her.” When her eyes rounded in shock, he cursed. “I’m sorry. Damn it, I’m sorry.” He pushed off the couch and left the room, taking his glass into her kitchen. He’d had enough to drink. Under the light of the stove, he rinsed the glass then used the tap filter to fill it. He tipped it up and downed the water quickly.

He was a damn fool.

Byron set the glass on the counter and braced his hands on the edge. Leaning into it, he ducked his head and breathed until he felt the heat in his neck subside. Why was the anger rising again? Was it Richard or was it pride?

Either way, he couldn’t go back to her with ire. Even if it was his pride, she’d been through enough without him piling his bruised ego on the proverbial heap.

The small window above the sink drew his attention. He looked out on the listless bay. The lights of Mobile flickered far beyond the inky black waters broken only by the small bits of light from the tavern and the inn. The watery peaks were brushed with hushed gold filigree.

He did his best to absorb the calm and lulling placidity those waters brought with their small, whispering waves. This was why he’d gravitated to Fairhope in the wake of Dani’s death—the serenity.

Calmer, he eyed the dishcloth beside the sink. He grabbed it, balled it up and ran it under cold water for several seconds. He wrung it out and walked slowly back into the living room, where Roxie sat on the settee.

He extended the rolled-up cloth to her. “Here.”

She narrowed her eyes on it as her hand lifted. Questioning, her gaze rose to his.

“Your hand,” he said. He took her wrist and wrapped the cold cloth around her injured knuckles himself.

She sucked in a breath. A line dug in between her eyes.

After a moment, he asked, “Better?”

She gave a nod. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Do you...do you think that there’s one great love for everyone? Just one?”

Byron lowered back to the settee. He reached up and loosened his tie, still a touch too warm. He thought about Dani. He thought about the doomed attempts at reconnecting with women since. The Strong family creed. “Yeah, I do,” he answered truthfully. “And I believe you shouldn’t settle for anything less than the extraordinary. Not when it comes to the rest of your life.”

She fell silent and contemplative once more.

“Have you talked to Richard about this?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “He’s been away, somewhere. His parents say he’s ‘working on himself.’” She used air quotes. The line was still entrenched between her eyes.

Byron weighed himself. He weighed her, their friendship. “Maybe you should contact him. Talking to him might give you the clarity you need.” When she looked to him, he added, “You don’t seem sure. And you need to be sure, duchess. Absolutely sure.”

She nodded. Her chin lifted. He saw the poise, a shade of the confidence that had drawn him to her in the first place. “I will.” She pressed her lips together. “How will I know if he’s the one, do you think?”

“I only have one frame of reference,” Byron admitted, “but I’m pretty sure when you love someone, you’ll just know it.”

Her mouth tipped down uncertainly again. “But if I love him, really love him, shouldn’t I already know whether or not I want him? Do I really have to see him to be sure? Or is it just—”

It was impulse. Complete and utter impulse. But chances were, he’d never get to do it again.

He leaned in. She stilled. Her mouth stopped moving, her eyes went round. As he lessened the gap, he saw them begin to close. There, he thought.

His hand found its way into the dip of her waist. It stayed there as he nudged her head back by fitting his mouth to hers.

It was simple. It was soft. For him, it was explosive.

He’d known there was something there. He’d known some part of him had wanted some part of her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Like all things unattainable, he’d ignored it.

It must’ve festered. Under cover of his ignorance, his attraction had bred on itself.

It had bred like bunnies. He couldn’t count the stupid bunnies.

He broke away, stifling the protesting noise in his throat. It was his turn to press his lips together. She tasted like raspberries. Knowing that definitely wasn’t going to lower the bunny quotient.

Are you happy now, Strong? He sat back. She stared at him, owl-eyed. She hadn’t moved so much as an inch since he’d leaned in.

So much for their friendship. Byron cleared his throat and raised a brow. “Did that answer your question?”

Her round eyes shifted slightly. “Question?” she repeated in a scant voice.

“Who’re you thinkin’ about right now, duchess?” he asked. “Me or Richard?”

“Richard?” She lowered her face. There was color in it again. Lots of color. “Richard,” she said once more without the question behind it.

He bobbed his head in an indicative nod. “Well, there you have it.” When she didn’t move, he lifted her glass from the table and extended it to her.

She took it. Drinking deep, she nursed the remainder as they sat in heavy silence.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_5549d0ae-1a62-5bf0-b18e-3a410d8ec902)

“YOU’RE ALL GOING to hell,” Roxie proclaimed. It was Wednesday morning, a brisk forty degrees. Not even the hearty bay pelicans had ventured out for their morning repast. And here she was chugging up the hill from the Fairhope Pier to the towering bluff that overlooked the Eastern Shore in all its splendor.

Adrian Bracken fell into step beside her, moving marginally faster, dressed in a gray hoodie and black yoga pants. A sun-battered baseball cap crowned her red bob. “This was Liv’s idea. Not mine.”

“Oh,” Roxie said, her voice dropping a level. Her breath was whistling at the back of her throat and her calves were screaming. “There’s a special place in hell for you, Liv.”

The roar of a gas-powered motor crept up behind them. Roxie and Adrian glanced over in unison to the woman behind the wheel of a John Deere Gator. She had one UGG-clad foot propped up beside the steering wheel and a gloved claw wrapped around a chocolate éclair fresh from Briar’s kitchen. “You know,” Olivia Leighton said as she chowed down on the pastry. “If the two of you would stop squawking like seagulls, in all likelihood we’d be back home eating Briar’s quiche by now...” She shrugged and stuffed the rest of the éclair into her mouth. “As it is...”

“Are you even allowed to operate an ATV on the open road?” Adrian wanted to know.

Olivia looked around, nonplussed. “Nobody’s stopped me.” She reached inside the box on the passenger seat for another pastry. “Come on, pick up the pace. I brought Gerald’s Indiana Jones whip and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Roxie groaned, falling behind Adrian a few more paces as the stitch in her side flared up and choked the wind out of her. “I’m sorry your doctor says you can’t run yet because you just squeezed two babies out of you. But we don’t deserve this.”

“Huh,” Olivia said with a smirk. “Bitter and out of shape. I’d feel a mite more friendly if I’d spent the night with a certain supersexy Greek man-cake.”

Roxie stopped, planting her hands on her knees. Not for the first time since waking up to him in her apartment Tuesday morning, she felt the urge to wring Byron’s foolish neck.

She’d insisted he sleep on a pallet in her living room, since they’d finished close to two bottles between them. The next morning he called down to the inn for coffee, meaning both Briar and her husband, Cole, knew that he was at her place early enough to be suspect. They’d informed Adrian and her husband, James. Who then told Olivia, who, of course, blabbed the news to everybody from here to the Flora-Bama. Roxie had half expected the stranger standing next to her at the grocery checkout yesterday to give her a sly thumbs-up. She’d tolerated as much from all three of her wedded friends.

When Roxie finally caught her breath, she lowered to the sidewalk, leaning back on her hands to ease the stitch in her ribs.

“Hey,” Olivia said, the ATV coming to a halt as Adrian ran ahead to catch up with Briar. “Ass, elbows off the concrete. You’re falling behind last week’s time, which I’m sorry to say was shameful enough.”

“Shush,” Roxie said, too tired to raise her voice. She closed her eyes. Breathe. Breathe. “I’m trying not to envision man-cakes or any other type of Greek pastry.”

“Why not?” Olivia asked, studying the éclair in her hand with a smug grin. “You still stuffed from Monday night?”

Roxie shook her head and fought hard not to laugh. At this point, it would hurt. Really hurt. “Nothing happened. In fact, I wish I could go back and make that whole twenty-four-hour period disappear forever.”

Footsteps beat toward them. Roxie looked up to find Adrian returning, her high cheekbones pink from the February nip. “I can’t catch Briar. She’s like the female version of the Flash.”

“My star pupil,” Olivia said fondly, gaze combing the cliff above. Catching sight of the blonde along the sidewalk, she lifted the bullhorn from her lap. Her lurid voice boomed over the park, making Roxie grimace and Adrian plug her ears. “That’s it, cuz! Boot and rally!”

“Wonderful,” Roxie said, reaching for the side of her head. “I am now bitter, out of shape and one-hundred-percent deaf.”

Olivia set the bullhorn down and reached back for the lid of the cooler in the Gator’s cargo bed. She lobbed a bottle of water at Adrian’s head. “Stretch and hydrate.”

Adrian lifted her hands to block the bottle from hitting her square in the face. She bobbled it several times before catching it one-handed.

Roxie lazily watched the bottle meant for her sail clean over her head and bounce onto the grass beyond. “Thank you, Derek Jeter,” she drawled. She retrieved the Dasani, cracked it open and frowned at the clear contents. “I’m thinking about getting back together with him.”

Adrian stopped in the midst of a lunging stretch. “Richard?”

“No. Jose Conseco,” Roxie said condescendingly. “Who else?”

“Go back,” Adrian said, milling a hand. “What happened to Byron? Wait, go further back. What happened with Bertie?”

“Oh, right,” Olivia said, leaning over the passenger seat in interest. “I forgot all about that yahoo.”

Roxie scrubbed her hands back through her hair. “Julianna was wrong about him—to say the least. Luckily, as Bertie was dropping me off at the tavern on Monday night, Byron happened to be outside. He intervened when Bertie revealed his true colors. Very Perseus-type stuff.”

“Byron?” Olivia cracked a laugh.

Adrian wrinkled her nose. “So you were the Andromeda?”

“Sort of,” Roxie considered. “I was clothed but, still, humiliated. She was chained to a rock, though, so she wins.”

“Ah, bondage,” Olivia said reminiscently. “Didn’t Andromeda get the man?”

“Yeah, but the damsel-in-distress thing,” Adrian said. “Who wants it?”

A sly grin colored Olivia’s face. “Clearly, you’ve never done role-play.”

“Was Gerald the damsel?” Adrian asked, droll.

Roxie waved her hands. “No, no. No more unwanted pictures. Anyway, after the Perseus thing went down, I was a little shaken, so Byron walked me upstairs and kept me company for a while.”

“Kept you company,” Adrian said, picking through the words carefully.

Olivia coughed into her hand. “Man-cakes.”

“There was wine,” Roxie said, ignoring Olivia’s pastry reference. “We both imbibed a little too much but not enough to lose our sensibilities.” She refrained from mentioning his kiss. She was still trying to riddle through the consequences. Of Byron’s mouth. On hers. “He wound up staying overnight, on the floor. Like a gentleman.”

“Good,” Adrian said. “Byron’s a family friend, but I could still kick his ass. Or we could get Liv to sit on him. Either way.”

Olivia cocked her head at Adrian. “He can get in line.”

“What does any of this have to do with Richard, though?” Adrian asked.

“Before we went to bed—separately—I talked to him about maybe reconciling with Richard,” Roxie explained. She tiptoed over any mention of Byron’s marriage and his wife’s death—it was clearly a part of his life he wanted to keep private. Respecting that was easy. If she could’ve found some way to keep the breakup of her own marriage less public, she’d have done it in a heartbeat.

“What did he have to say about it?” Adrian prompted.

“He cautioned me against it at first,” Roxie said. “But in the end he suggested I speak to Richard about it in person.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.” Roxie nodded. “As soon as he gets back from...wherever it is he’s been for the last few months.”

“Why?” Olivia asked. She threw up her hands. “I’m sorry, but I’m not on board. The ink on the marriage license was hardly dry before he slept with someone else. Before he slept with your sister. That takes scumbaggery to a whole new level.”

It had been the deepest betrayal Roxie could have ever imagined. She’d cried. For months, she’d cried alone in the apartment above the tavern. She’d taken little with her but the purple settee from their French Colonial after toying with the idea of setting fire to the whole thing. Dousing gasoline over the Aubusson rug where she’d found Richard and Cassandra coupling had been so tempting.

There was no way she could go back to that house. If they were going to start over...if they both wanted to start over and fight for all that they had built over the last decade, they would need a clean slate.

“Listen,” Roxie said carefully, “I know you both think it’s foolish.” Adrian had said nothing but her reticence was answer enough. “And maybe it is. But I read this study recently about couples who decide to stay together and work for their relationship after a spouse strays once. Just once. The majority managed to make it stick.”

“Once a cheat, always a cheat,” Olivia opined.

Adrian sighed. “I’m sorry, but I agree with Liv for once. I always thought it was common sense that once someone cheated, they were likely to do it again.”

“Richard was never a cheater, though,” Roxie said.

“People change,” Olivia told her. “I’m usually the one who would tell you to go for it, but, Roxie, we were all here last March. We saw how devastated you were.”

“We just don’t want that to happen to you again,” Adrian added.

“If it does, we’ll have to kill him,” Olivia said. “Gerald hid my firearms after we found out about the babies, but I’ve still got my bat, and I think Richard could do without his kneecaps under the circumstances.”

Roxie let out a laugh. “God, you’re wonderful. You’re all so wonderful. I love the concern and initiative. But you know what they say about regret. I can’t go the rest of my life not knowing if I let go of the person I’m supposed to be with.”

“Can I ask you?” Adrian said, narrowing her eyes. “Do you love him?”

“Byron asked me the same thing. And the answer is yes—on some level, I do. I can’t be sure if it’s enough to sustain us, or if he feels enough for me to want to start over.”

“It’s your call,” Adrian determined. “Do what you have to do. Whichever way it goes, at least you’ll finally have closure.”

Roxie nodded. Closure. That was what she’d been missing for the last year. It was no good hanging in emotional limbo. No matter how often she’d told herself to move on, the hollowness inside had kept her tethered in the murky in-between.

Olivia frowned. “Well, damn. I had a whole list of ill-advised rebound candidates to throw at you.”

Roxie arched a brow. “You weren’t upset when you thought I’d rebounded with Byron. That was you playing Marvin Gaye on the jukebox after tavern hours all night last night. I know it was.”

The Cheshire cat grin sat well on Olivia’s face. “I do feel a bit bad now about telling everybody you two did the hot dog dance.”

“Thanks for that,” Roxie replied.

A Jeep pulled up next to the ATV. The driver’s window rolled down and James Bracken leaned out in dark sunglasses and a devastating grin. “Howdy.”

“What are you doing here?” Olivia asked as Adrian softened. Every bit of her softened as she shaded her face with her hand against the brightening sun.

James jerked a shoulder. “I offered to head out and inform you that we menfolk have successfully thrown together a breakfast fit for a queen. Or four, in this case.”

Adrian’s smile turned knowing. She gave a laugh. “You bailed.”

“Bailed?” James’s grin faltered somewhat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, right!” Olivia said, catching on. She picked up another éclair. “You totally bailed on Cole and Gerald.”

James pursed his lips. He took off his ball cap and combed his fingers back through his thick brown hair. His colorful sleeve of tattoos flashed vividly. “They’ve got it handled. Cole managed to fry up eggs and sausage and sweet-talk Harmony into staying at the table. She smeared bananas all over the place, but she ate and not one of us said a word about the mess.” He pulled off his sunglasses and began to clean them with the edge of his shirt. “Then there’s Gerald.” He sent Olivia an impressive look. “It’s only three weeks in, but the man’s earned all the daddy badges there are to earn. Burping, changing, rocking. It’s like watching the Daddy Olympic games.”

“And Kyle?” Adrian asked, referring to her and James’s eight-year-old son.

“I helped him and Gavin haul the crab traps out of the water,” James told her, replacing his sunglasses and hooking a meaty arm through the open window. “Then I offered to let them tag along. But they wanted to stay behind and get to know their catch before we release them back into the wild. I expect all the crabs’ll be named after Marvel villains before we get back.”

“We?” Olivia asked. “Think again, mister. Your woman here doesn’t need rescuing.”

James tilted his head at his wife. The corner of his mouth moved. It was a nonverbal come-hither that nearly made Roxie’s weary feet move in double-time. “I could persuade her. It’s not rescuing if there’s persuasion involved. Ain’t that right, lil’ mama?”

Adrian looked as if she were fighting laughter. Warmth flooded her features. She walked to the open window and angled her face up to his. “Any other day, you wouldn’t have had to stop. You could’ve just slowed down, and Roxie and I would’ve jumped into the backseat and you’d be peeling out of here.”

“Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,” Olivia rhymed, polishing off the remnants of the éclair.

Though his chin came to rest on his folded arms, James eyed Olivia over the crown of Adrian’s head. “Isn’t it ‘Peter, Peter?’”

“You need to take your peter home,” Olivia informed him, crude. She brushed her hands together to remove the icing. “Save it for your redhead later.”

“Hey,” James said, feigning offense on behalf of his redhead and his privates.

The redhead in question grabbed him by the bill of his cap. “She’s right. Get your fine ass back to the inn and stay there. A little baby time won’t kill you.”

James’s jaw moved though he didn’t look entirely dissatisfied. “The pink one puked on me.”

“They’re both pink.” Adrian grinned.

“Okay, the loud one puked on me.”

Roxie began to cross to the Jeep. “What’s wrong, James? You don’t like babies?”

“He loves babies,” Adrian said, patting his arm. “He’s just never been around them. Go. If you change one of them, I’ll give you a cookie.” Her brows quirked. “A very...hot...cookie.”

His brows rose over the rim of his glasses and he reached over to put the Jeep in gear. “I heard that.”

She leaned up to plant a kiss on him. Roxie found herself sighing a little as the man kissed his wife with all the abandon of a person still completely and hopelessly lost over another. Apparently the romantic in her hadn’t been completely ripped up from the roots. Perhaps she did still believe in love. Being surrounded by committed couples that had managed to find happiness despite daunting odds—Briar and Cole, Olivia and Gerald, Adrian and James—certainly helped.

She wasn’t a quitter. She never had been. And she’d never not been a romantic. It was natural, even inevitable, that she’d reached the point of questioning whether she needed to explore an alternate ending for the marriage she’d desperately wanted in the first place—the marriage she’d idealized.

Olivia’s voice pealed over the newlyweds’ exchange. “Hey!” she said to Roxie. “Where’re you going?”

Roxie dodged around the Jeep’s grille. She wasn’t a quitter. Nope. She wasn’t a sprinter either. “Somebody’s gotta ride shotgun.” Lowering her voice through the passenger window, she added to James, “I change the diaper, you get the credit. Just get me out of here.”

“I heard that,” Adrian pointed out.

James reached over the passenger seat to pop the lock. “Hop in, sugar.”

Roxie felt her phone vibrating on her hip. Holding up a finger for James, she pulled it from the waistband of her leggings. The caller ID was listed as unknown. She answered it anyway. “Hello?”

“Is this Roxie Honeycutt?”

“Speaking,” Roxie replied.

“Hi! This is Vera Strong. I believe you know my son, Byron.”

Oh, what fresh hell is this? The blood drained from Roxie’s face. “I did not sleep with him!” she blurted then clamped her hand over her mouth.

There was a slight pause then a friendly chuckle. “I’m happy to hear it, dear. I’m calling because he’s under the impression that you’re looking for a new place to live.”

For a moment, Roxie was confounded. Then she remembered the brief exchange she’d had with Byron before he left her apartment yesterday morning. He’d admired the view from the windows. She’d admitted that she was looking for a change of scenery. He’d had a hard time imagining better scenery than what she had already. Roxie had told him about her new mantra—New Year, New Roxie. Which all started with finding a new place to live. Something that might begin to erase the hollow feeling that had moved into the apartment with her and refused to depart despite repeated attempts at eviction.

What was wrong with the old Roxie? he’d asked.

That had stuck with her. And the kiss.

It was difficult to forget a kiss, especially a kiss from someone...well, someone like Byron. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit trying not to think about how sweet it was—she’d forgotten kisses could be so sweet. And she’d tried especially to forget how his lips had lingered. And how in lingering he’d awakened starbursts. Small starbursts of eternity.

Roxie frowned deeply. Being touched... It had been so long since she had really been touched. The emptiness in her had turned into a resounding ache at his contact, and for a few moments, she’d considered bringing Byron’s mouth back down to hers. For a few moments, she’d craved more than his companionship. She’d craved the contact. The promise of heat that came with it.

But had she wanted it for the single reason that his heat could erode her loneliness? There was trust there. There was affection. For those small starbursts of eternity, there had been longing and the promise of flame. It had been so long since she’d felt the sheer electrical pulse of new chemistry.

But why did it seem like so long since she’d felt the flame? The passion?

Had she wanted Byron for the promise of passion? Had she wanted him because she was lonely—because she missed someone else?

She dispelled the riot of confusion left over from that night. Byron wasn’t the guy. He wasn’t her guy. He’d admitted that there was only one great love in life. His words and the experience behind them had even gone so far as to convince her to give Richard another chance.

Of course, that was before the kiss. But that was beside the point.

“Hello?” Vera said.

“Yes,” Roxie said, giving herself a quick, discerning shake. “Sorry. Yes, I am in the market for a new place.”

“That’s great,” Vera said. “My husband, Constantine, and I are in the real estate business. We own a dozen or so homes in Baldwin County. Several of them are in the Fairhope and Point Clear area. Most are lease houses with a twelve-month contract. If you’re interested, we could arrange a few showings. I understand you’re a busy woman. We would be happy to meet you at your convenience.”

Her heart began to beat a bit faster at the possibilities. New Year. New Roxie. This was exactly what she needed to get her life back on track. “I’m interested,” Roxie told Vera. “Are you free late this afternoon?”

“Sure. Does five thirty work for you?”

“It does,” Roxie said. She’d have to rush from the Hamilton wedding. It didn’t start until three thirty, but she had her assistant, Yuri, to fall back on. And Adrian would be there to help. “Text me an address and I’ll meet you.”

“Fabulous,” Vera cheered. “I’m looking forward to meeting the woman who didn’t sleep with my son.”

Roxie ended the call on a nervous chuckle. She stared at the screen for a moment, wondering if she should give Byron a call. As a thank-you.

No, Roxie. Nix the Perseus and Andromeda.

“Come on, Rox,” James said. “Let’s get goin’.” As she hopped in, he flipped Olivia and Adrian a salute, shouted “Race you!” and with a mash of the accelerator, they were off.

* * *

“THE ONE ON Nichols wasn’t so bad.”

“None of the Strongs’ houses have been bad so far,” Roxie pointed out as she steered her Lexus through light evening traffic. “What I’m looking for, though, is something a little more... I don’t know. Special.”

In the passenger seat, Briar Savitt nodded. “You’re waiting for something to jump out and take a bite out of you.”

Roxie’s lips twitched. “If Liv were here, it’d be Euphemism City. Though you’re right. I want something I can be excited about coming home to.”

At the sound of a squeal from the backseat, Briar turned and smiled at her daughter, Harmony, who was strapped into a car seat. “Almost there, baby girl.” She groped for a toy Harmony had dropped on the floor and stretched to hand it back to her. “What do you think of Vera?”

“She’s marvelous,” Roxie said and meant it. “I don’t know why I was worried.” She had asked Briar to tag along. Vera and her husband, Constantine, had invested in Briar’s bed-and-breakfast. The Strongs and Savitts were on first-name terms, and Roxie had hoped that having Briar around would help make the introduction to Byron’s mother less uncomfortable after her awkward outburst over the phone.

In the end, Roxie hadn’t had anything to worry about. Just as Briar had assured her, Vera was just as easy to get along with as Byron. Though hearing Byron’s name in conjunction with the word easy made images come to Roxie’s mind that would’ve made Olivia proud...

“Serendipity Lane?” Briar said as they passed the sign. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s nice,” Roxie acknowledged as they both took a look at the neighborhood. “Very nice.” The area was clean and heavily residential. The trees were aged behemoths. Roxie could tell the homes were older. Most had been treated to modern face-lifts.

Vera’s SUV pulled to the curb behind a mailbox with the numbers 77 painted on it. “This must be the last one,” Roxie said.

“Ooh,” Briar said as Roxie parked behind Vera. “Would you look at that?”

Roxie’s jaw dropped as she peered through the passenger window at the grand white Victorian. All the houses on the street were nice. But this one... It was like a celestial winter faerie palace, only more homey than extravagant. The front yard was large, rectangular. A picket fence framed annual springtime beds.

High on the second floor, there was a big round stained-glass window. The last light of day shined on it, making the wavy iridescent streaks of the orange sun hanging low over azure blue waves glow.

The breath rushed out of her. Her voice was scant when she finally found words. “Holy wow. It’s like utopia.” There was a wraparound porch with a large cushioned lay-back swing. She could imagine herself lounging there in the summer. She could hear the wind blowing through those ancient trees and the ice clinking against the sides of her tea glass.

The vision was so tangible, she had to blink to bring herself back to the wintry present. She barely remembered to grab her purse before joining Vera on the sidewalk, Briar right behind her with Harmony on her hip.

“What do you think?” Vera asked. The woman didn’t look old enough to be the mother of a thirtysomething-year-old man. Though one thing Byron and Vera did have in common was their striking good looks. With dark hair flowing down her back in waves, a tailored red dress cloaking her hourglass figure and towering Mary Jane heels, she looked more like one of the glossy coanchors of Entertainment Tonight than the low-key small-town real estate agent that she was. “I think we saved the best for last.”

“You aren’t kidding,” Roxie murmured. “I’ve always had a thing for Victorians.”

“Wait until you get a load of this one,” Vera advised as she rooted through her purse for the key. She led them up the sidewalk to the porch steps. “It’s a family house. Built in 1949 by Con’s uncle for his wife when he brought her over from Greece to live out the rest of their lives here.”

“How sweet,” Briar said, peering through the glass surrounding the front door as Vera bowed to unlock it. “I love houses with a story behind them.”

Vera swung the door open and turned back to them. “After you, dears.”

“Thank you.” Roxie stepped over the threshold. The flooring struck her first. It was spectacular. Walnut. There was crown molding. No doubt the interior had been updated within the last ten to fifteen years. The small cut-glass chandelier over the entry caught her eye. Drops of foggy sea glass dangled from the fringes. She had to stop herself from touching it.

“From the island of Santorini,” Vera explained, “where Athena and her sister, Con’s mother, immigrated from after the Second World War.”

Beyond the foyer, she caught sight of the staircase in the living room. It arched to the right, and curlicue ironwork made up the banister. “Oh, my word.” She lowered her voice in automatic reverence. “Vera, this is stunning!”

“It doesn’t even have that old house smell,” Vera boasted. “There’re three bedrooms, an office, two full baths and one half bath. There’s a full laundry service in the basement. The furnishings are optional. You can get rid of everything, keep everything, or pick and choose what you need until you get the desired result. Not to mention the detached garage. There is a tenant in the loft above...”

“That’s fine,” Roxie said automatically. She took a peek into the dining room on the right. More sea glass. And windows. Windows everywhere—thin, tall, lovingly trimmed in a fleur-de-lis motif. An archway led into the kitchen. “Would you look at this, Briar?” Roxie asked as she spun in a circle, taking it all in. “Better Homes and Gardens better watch its back.”

“Glass-front cabinets.” Briar sighed. “I’ve always wanted glass-front cabinets. And double ovens. And stone!” She ran her hand over the stonework surrounding what had likely once been a wood-burning hearth and stove. “I could die here.”

Vera laughed. “You haven’t seen the living room.”

Here the clack of Roxie’s heels echoed off high-arched ceilings. She’d thought old houses such as this were built tight with rooms closed off from one another under squatted ceilings. But this house breathed, the living room spilling up into the second-floor landing. More windows here, high and arched with transoms peering out onto a charming patio with a bricked fire pit. There was a fenced-in backyard that would be green and fragrant in spring and summer. Roxie stopped in front of the center window. Framed between the panes was one of those rare Japanese magnolias overflowing with plump pink blossoms.

Briar leaned toward Roxie’s shoulder and lowered her voice. “If you get this house, I’ll be insanely jealous, but at least I can visit. Or live in the kitchen. I’ll cook. Cole can do yard work. We could make it work.”

“It’s mine,” Roxie chanted. “All mine, I tell you.” She blinked, cleared her throat and shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t know where that came from. I haven’t seen the upstairs and I know. I just know, Briar. It’s like knowing you want to marry someone.”

Briar smiled at her. “You’re glowing. It’s good to see your glow again, Roxie.”

Roxie whirled around to Vera. “I’ll take it. Can we sign now? I want to sign now.”

Vera held up her hands. “Wait a second. You haven’t seen the bedrooms or the basement. There could be leaks. Rats the size of armadillos... And I’m your Realtor.”

“I’ll call the roofers,” Roxie claimed. “I’ll call the Schwarzenegger of exterminators. I have to have this house, Vera. You tell me what we need to do to get this done tonight and we’ll do it.”

Vera opened her mouth to speak, but the faint sound of Jimi Hendrix’s guitar wafted from her boho purse. She pulled out her cell phone and frowned at the caller ID screen. “So sorry. It’s my youngest. She’s flying in from Africa early tomorrow. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Roxie said.

“Seriously,” Vera cautioned, “take a walk upstairs. Leaks and rats excluding, I’ll have the papers for you in the dining room ready to sign as soon as you’re finished.”

As Vera answered the call, Roxie and Briar gleefully sprinted up the stairs to find out what other treasures the house had to offer. The stained glass was even more exquisite up close as the last wavering light of the afternoon cast rioting crystalline swaths from floor to ceiling.

Roxie found a room to set up her sewing. Wide with the high boughs of the Japanese magnolia aligned in the single picture window, it was a creative space if she’d ever seen one. There were built-in shelves where she could arrange fabrics and an alcove perfect for her sewing and embroidery equipment.

In the master suite, she gawked at the turtleback ceiling...and frowned over an overlarge television set up on an otherwise gorgeous antique dresser. The dresser could stay. The television...it stuck out like a sore thumb. The bed was built up on a platform to distinguish it from the sitting area. She’d trade the bed frame for the iron one she’d bought after the divorce. It would work well with the curlicue iron accents she’d seen throughout the house.

Briar, Harmony now snoozing on her shoulder, stepped out of the walk-in closet across the room. “There’s enough room in here for the Duchess of Devonshire’s trousseau. Wigs and all.”

“Don’t tease me,” Roxie advised, moving toward the closet door to peek inside, too.

“Have you checked out the bathroom?” Briar asked, pointing to the closed pocket doors. She reached for the slight parting between them. “If there’s a whirlpool tub, I might have to hate on you a little bit.”

“Fair enough,” Roxie said as she peered over Briar’s shoulder.

Briar slid the pocket doors back. They whispered along the tracks in the wall. Steam greeted them. Roxie squinted through it. Just as Briar tensed beside her and reached out to grip her arm, a long form took shape before her. “Um, who...”

The intruder stood at one of the matching sinks, a razor raised to his chin. As the doors clacked against the jamb, he jerked and grunted a pained cry. He turned partway toward them, his hand clasped to his chin. Briar’s gasp reverberated off the periwinkle tiles and Roxie exclaimed, “Byron!”

Shock and bemusement flashed across his face. He didn’t say a word, just stared at them.

She stared back. He wasn’t Byron. He was naked Byron. Or...almost-naked Byron. How could she not have known all this was under those suits and ties? His skin was the color of golden piecrust hot and fresh from the oven. There wasn’t an ounce of body fat on him. The bastard. Everything was ripply and muscly, sprinkled with a fine dusting of dark hair that looked so soft that Roxie had the dubious urge to run her fingertips through it. He would have been bare if not for the black briefs hugging his... Roxie’s cheeks heated quickly when words like cruller, bear claw, sweet roll rushed through her mind. Damn it, Liv!

Flustered, she balled her hands into fists, physically forcing her gaze anywhere but on his...accoutrements. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Me?” he asked. Before he could go further, he looked beyond her and Briar into the bedroom and paled considerably. “Ma?”

Vera’s voice cracked like thunder. “Byron Atticus Strong!”

As if realizing he was bare as a bumpkin, he reached down to cover himself. Roxie’s face flamed hotter at the move and she covered her mouth. “What is this, a town meeting?” he asked.

“Why the Dickens aren’t you next door?” Vera said sharply.

“Next door?” Roxie asked. The truth hit her flat in the face. “You’re the tenant?” Of course he was the tenant.

“I used to be,” Byron answered. “Now I live here.”

Briar’s mouth formed into an intrigued O. She then cleared her throat and gestured toward the bedroom door. “Harmony and I will just tiptoe downstairs and wait.” She cast her eyes in Byron’s direction, fighting a grin. “Hi, Byron.”

He pressed his lips together. “Briar.”

Roxie waited until Briar was gone before lifting her shoulders. “What do you mean you live here now?”

Byron glanced around her to his mother. “By any chance, have you spoken with Pop about the house lately?”

“No,” Vera said. “Why?”

Byron cursed under his breath. His gaze veered back to Roxie. “If you’re interested in leasing the Victorian, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Why?” Roxie asked, fearing she knew the answer already.

“Because it’s mine,” Byron finished. “Sorry, duchess.”


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_d2b080ec-c91f-5ed1-a81a-c5070420cd76)

THE SOUND OF hushed arguing echoed into the dining room from the kitchen. Byron fought the urge to scrub his temples, where his irritation was starting to collect. Whatever satisfaction and tranquility he’d found under the rain showerhead in the master bath had vanished under storm clouds of hassle.

Byron pushed aside the spray of flowers in a beveled vase at the center of the table so that he could see Roxie sitting opposite him. She looked near perfection again in a navy blue dress belted in white sateen. Her hair was drawn back from her face at the nape. A string of pearls rested against her neck. Despite her polish, she couldn’t hide the strain he saw around the lines of her mouth.

The voices in the kitchen rose several notches, his mother’s whisper rising to a shriek as his father’s exasperation rose to a muffled shout. Byron rolled his eyes toward them. “Sorry about this.”

Roxie jerked a shoulder, glancing past him at the archway through which his parents had disappeared. “Mistakes happen.”

“Yeah. They do.” When her gaze settled on him again, that unblinking stare of hers fixating on his face, Byron pushed up the sleeves of the denim button-up he’d donned quickly when he realized he had unwanted company. He and Roxie hadn’t exactly parted under normal terms Tuesday morning. The whole thing had ridden on the back bumper of his mind—the kiss, the awkward lull that followed and the entire sleepless night he’d spent on her floor.

The wine hadn’t been enough to forget her sleepy eyes, the lure behind them that had hooked him like a fish. He wished he didn’t remember what it was like to kiss her. Every time he’d thought about it over the last two days, he’d felt that hook dig in a little further.

He stanched the flow of his thoughts, skimming the edge of his index finger under his nose. “Since the two of them aren’t getting anywhere, maybe you and I could straighten this out.”

Roxie’s shoulders squared against the back of the chair. “Okay.”

“My mother probably told you that this is my great-aunt and great-uncle’s place. Since starting the accounting firm took a chunk out of my savings, I moved into the loft above the garage to build my savings back. On Monday, Athena gave my father the go-ahead to offer it to me outright.”

Roxie’s brows gathered. “But your mother thought the house was still available.”

Byron wondered whether to tell her that the deal with Athena and his father wasn’t concrete. Instead he said, “I figured word got around to my mother, seeing as she and Pop are still married and all.” He stopped to let the spirited debate in the next room speak for itself.

Roxie fiddled with one of the pearl and diamond drops at her ears. “So I guess since you’re practically moved in and the house is in your family, I don’t stand much of a chance.”

“Sorry,” he said again and meant it when he saw the crestfallen look on her face. Guilt flared in the pit of his stomach and spread outward. He smoothed his hands over his knees when the urge to reach out to her nearly broke loose. He scanned her long lids as her gaze fell to the folder on the table in front of her.

The folder. Byron frowned at it and the family logo printed on the front. Inside would no doubt be the lease agreement. His brows came together. His agreement with his father was only verbal.





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