Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1)

by Patricia McLinn

  * * * *

  “Paul, this is the airport.”

  “Boy, I sure am glad I didn’t get bus tickets then. We’d have been in a lot of trouble.”

  He sounded odd, almost giddy and a little nervous. Not at all like himself.

  “Paul. Just this once. Answer me straight. What are we doing here? What’s all this about a first step, and showing me?”

  “I’ll tell you. But not until we’re inside.”

  She couldn’t sway him from that as they turned in his rental car and made their way to the main entrance to the airport.

  “Okay, we’re inside,” she reminded him. “Now tell me what this is all about.”

  “See Gate B23?”

  She scanned the monitors for B23. “Departing for Las Vegas,” she read.

  “Right.”

  “We’re going to Las Vegas?”

  “That’s right. I bought a pair of tickets for this flight right after I landed here.”

  “I don’t understand. You want to gamble?”

  “I hope what I have in mind is more along the lines of a sure thing.”

  The husky timbre of his voice sent a thrill down her backbone. “What is it you have in mind, Paul?”

  “I have in mind getting married.”

  “Married?” Her mouth formed the word, but she didn’t think she spoke it. No matter what tricks her respiratory system might be doing, her mind hesitated to accept what she’d heard. “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. I’m also sure, positive and certain. A little anxious maybe, but also eager.”

  Behind all the glib words, she saw that there was a doubt in his eyes, though, and when he expressed it out loud she feared she’d cry in the middle of Sky Harbor Airport.

  “If you’ll have me. Will you marry me, Bette?”

  Twice she tried to swallow the tears. But she couldn’t stop them, certainly not enough to get out any words. Instead, she placed her palm against the faintly bristled curve of Paul’s jaw and stretched to touch her lips against his, even as she continued to cry.

  He took her face between his hands and kissed the tearstains on her cheeks, then returned to her mouth. Deep and hot and dark, he still somehow managed to make the kiss tender. And full of promises for the future. Oh, Lord, so full of promises.

  They broke apart to gulp in air and smile giddily at each other.

  “I don’t have any luggage.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t have much myself, only a few things I’d left at my parents’ house. We’ll buy what we need.” The green flecks in his eyes heated, sharing the memory and the anticipation. “After all, we’re veteran shoppers for this sort of trip. But first, I have to know: is that a yes?”

  “Yes, that’s a yes.”

  They stood, grinning at each other for a full minute before Paul grabbed her hand and headed for the departure gates. “That’s us,” he said as the boarding of the Las Vegas flight from Gate B23 was announced.

  Bette’s head was in too much of a spin to notice much except the compact energy of the man next to her as they passed through security and continued toward the gate. Then, as abruptly as he had showed up at her parents’ front door, Paul stopped.

  Two strides short of Gate B23, he pulled back suddenly on Bette’s hand. She felt the smile on her lips freeze as she looked at him. His gaze went from the gate back to her, and she knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  “I can’t do this, Bette.”

  She pulled in a breath of pure pain. For an instant she thought she might collapse. But she didn’t. Numbness and pride held her up. She felt only gratitude that her legs held steady as she pivoted and started back down the corridor. Later, she knew, the numbness would recede and the hurt would be nearly unbearable. But she would bear it. And she would love Paul Monroe despite the pain.

  “No! Bette, wait.” He caught her after two steps, none too gently pulling her around to face him. “You misunderstood!”

  “What did I misunderstand, Paul? Your proposal? Did I take it too seriously? Was it a joke? Were you teasing, was that it?”

  “God, no, I wasn’t teasing. And I wasn’t joking. Look at me, Bette. It’s a basic matter of believing. No time to make a list or keep to a schedule or create a seven-step master plan. You either believe me or you don’t. Right now.”

  His demand allowed only instinct, no thought. “I believe you.”

  Some of the tension went out of his hold on her, but none of the intensity. “Good. Because I meant every word I said. You’re in my life for good, whether you like it or not, and I want to be married to you, Bette Wharton. But not Las Vegas style. We can’t get married that way. It’s not the right way for us.”

  “I...I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve sworn to stop doing what my grandfather wouldn’t have wanted and start doing what I do want. Eloping to Vegas was reflex action. But it’s not what I want and—Hey!” His eyes lit up with something a shade hotter than laughter before his voice changed. “You were really willing to elope with me, weren’t you? No plans, no schedule, just hop on a plane and go get married.”

  “Yes.”

  The single word said more than all her explanations could have.

  “What do you know about that?” His grin tilted. “That’s the nicest thing you could ever have done for me, Bette.”

  He caught her closer.

  “But I want the whole damn thing with you, Bette. I want to go back to your parents’ house and be introduced as their son-in-law to-be. I want to take you home to Lake Forest and watch my parents’ faces when we tell them the good news. I want to hear Judi squeal. I want to get congratulated by Grady and Michael. I want to go looking for the perfect house for us to buy—together. And I want to marry you in a church, with a minister and flowers and a veil and pictures and a cake and one hell of a reception. I want as many of our friends and relatives as we can cram in to be there when we make those promises about forever and ever.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.” She watched his eyes acquire a familiar glint, and she realized that her love for this man might never stop growing. “See, I even know my line already. ‘I do.’ “

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was one of the things she loved about Paul Monroe, this ability to make her laugh. Because, his joy in making her laugh, in drawing that out of her, was one aspect of his love for her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you for making my fantasy come true, Paul,” she whispered against his lips. “My whole fantasy.”

  His arms tightened across her back, almost fiercely. But his voice was soft.

  “Any time, Bette. Any time.”

  Their mouths met with a tenderness that belied the desire trembling in their bodies. The desire that would be as much a part of their lives together as the tenderness. And the laughter.

  Paul rested his forehead on hers, though he couldn’t resist dipping to take her top lip between his in a caress that evoked memories and promises between them. Then he loosened his arms enough to meet her eyes. “You kiss me like that again, Bette Wharton, and you better be prepared to tell me you’ve had fantasies about airports.”

  Her chuckle was still a little frazzled, and his brows rose above suddenly hopeful eyes. “Have you?”

  “No!” This time she laughed outright.

  His disappointment sighed deep and long, and he pressed a quick, hungry kiss to her lips before settling his arms more comfortably around her waist.

  “So, how long do you think it’ll take you to plan a wedding like that?”

  “Oh, so I’m going to do the planning?”

  He grinned. “I’m learning to enjoy thinking about the future, but would you really want me to plan a wedding? With schedules and deadlines and stuff?” He seemed to take her wrinkled-nose grimace as a no. “I bet you could get my mother to help. And I’ll consult. So, how long will it take you to plan a big wedding like that?”

  “I don’t know. Nine months, a year maybe?”


  “A year!”

  “I really don’t know, Paul. I haven’t done it before, you know.”

  “I tell you what, since you’re a rookie at this, I’ll give you eight months and a little time to spare—say the last weekend in August.”

  “I feel a ‘but’ coming.”

  His grin sent a deliciously hot shiver through her.

  “But—” he drew out the word as he ran his hands up her arms and along her shoulders “—the honeymoon comes first.”

  The pads of his thumbs reached lower, skimming the points of her collarbone, stirring her body to recognition of the sensations those thumbs could create if they strayed lower, and lower still. She felt a small shudder ripple through her, and saw from his eyes that he felt it, too, had wanted to feel it, had been trying to create it.

  “We’ll turn in these tickets to Vegas and see how far that’ll get us toward the most exotic, most romantic, most sun-drenched, most secluded place we can get to with the least possible delay.”

  She went into his arms without hesitation. “Just like a kid, wanting dessert first.”