The Best Man Takes a Bride

by Stacy Connelly

  No wonder he was staring at her. The poor man was probably trying to figure out a way to grab his child and run before the crazy lady totally fell off her rocker. She would have been more embarrassed—probably should have been more embarrassed—except she believed every word she said. Hillcrest was magical, the kind of place to bring people together, and if he gave it half a chance, Jamison might feel that, too.

  A tug on her skirt broke the moment, freeing her from that intense silver stare, as she turned to Hannah.

  “Miss Rory?” The little girl ducked her head shyly as she pointed to a glimpse of white showing between the trees in the distance. “What’s that?”

  “That, Miss Hannah, is my favorite spot in the world.”

  “Your favorite spot in the whole, whole world?”

  After pressing her knuckles to her chin and pretending to think for a moment, Rory nodded. “The whole, whole world.”

  Hannah offered a lightning-quick smile, one Rory couldn’t help returning. Playing to the child’s curiosity, she stood and held out her hand. “Do you want to go see?”

  After hesitating for a moment, Hannah asked, “Can Daddy come, too?”

  Without looking his way, she offered, “I bet your daddy would love to come with us.”

  Jamison made a sound Rory decided to take as an agreement as she led the way down the flagstone path. “What about you, Hannah?” she asked the little girl. “Do you have a favorite place?”

  The little girl gave a soft giggle. “The hidey-hole in Daddy’s office.”

  Rory laughed. “A hidey-hole, Jamison? I mean, I’ve been known to duck behind an ice sculpture to avoid a bridezilla or two, but I’ve never had to install a hidey-hole.”

  “It’s not a hole, it’s—” He shook his head. “Your favorite spot, Hannah? Really?” he asked, surprise softening his expression.

  His daughter nodded as she swung the two adults’ arms back and forth in time with her steps. “Yep. It’s just my size an’ when I’m real quiet, nobody knows I’m there. Like the time I hid from Nana.”

  “Yes, well, your grandmother isn’t as good at hide-and-seek as you are,” Jamison said, his wry tone telling Rory the older woman hadn’t been as amused with her granddaughter’s game as Hannah was, either. With a glance at Rory, he said, “And it’s not a hole. The furniture set in my home office came with a liquor cabinet. I’m more a beer-on-the-weekend than a three-martini-lunch kind of guy, so I never bothered to stock the cabinet. Probably a good thing, since someone—” he gently shook Hannah’s arm “—thinks it’s a fun place to hide.”

  Jamison thought he was struggling as a father, but he must be doing something right. Didn’t he realize Hannah’s favorite place was one she associated with him?

  As they rounded a bend along the flagstone pathway, Rory announced, “And here it is. My favorite place in the whole, whole world.”

  Rory was accustomed to breathless reactions at this point, and Hannah did not disappoint. “Daddy, look! It’s a playhouse.”

  “I see it, Hannah,” Jamison answered, and Rory couldn’t help wondering what he saw.

  With its crisscross latticework, carved pillars and wide steps leading toward the circular platform, the gazebo was breathtaking. The gleaming white woodwork could be transformed by wrapping the columns with gorgeous flowered garlands, adding colorful organza swags to the decorative eaves or bunting to the airy facade.

  It was one of the most romantic spots Rory could imagine, and she’d shown it to dozens of couples in her short time as Hillcrest’s wedding coordinator. But showing it to Jamison felt...different.

  She felt oddly vulnerable, as if she were revealing a part of herself to the enigmatic, troubling man at her side.

  Needing to create some distance, she let go of Hannah’s hand and tried to pretend this was no different from any other tour. “It does look like a playhouse, but it’s a gazebo, and this is where Lindsay is getting married.” Pointing to the wide steps, she added, “Ryder and your daddy will be standing right up there, waiting. Because you’re the flower girl, you’ll go first—”

  “An’ get to throw my flowers.”

  “You’ll throw your flowers and Robbie will carry the rings. Lindsay’s bridesmaids will walk down the aisle and finally Lindsay.”

  “’Cause she’s the bride and gets to eat cake for breakfast,” the little girl piped with a definitive nod.

  “That’s right, and she’ll walk right up here and—” Rory had barely set foot on the first step when she heard a creak and a crack. Neither sound registered until the board splintered beneath her sandal and pain shot up her leg. Her abbreviated cry got stuck in her throat as she lost her balance and fell—

  Not to the solid ground but against Jamison’s solid chest as he caught her in his arms. For a stunned moment, neither of them moved.

  “You okay?” His low murmur stirred the hair at her temples and the vibration set off tiny shock waves in her belly.

  Staring breathlessly up into his silver eyes, Rory could do little more than nod. Her heart pounded, and she wished she could blame the reaction on her near fall. Instead, she was pretty sure it had everything to do with the man who’d caught her. She braced a hand against his chest, knowing she should move, but her body refused to listen to her brain. The soft cotton was warmed by the morning sun and held the scent of soap combined with 100 percent pure male.

  His face was inches from hers, so close she could feel the kiss of his breath against her lips, a prelude to the touch of his mouth against her own...

  “Miss Rory!” Hannah’s startled cry broke the moment so quickly Rory wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it.

  “Stay back, Hannah. It’s not safe,” Jamison instructed. Bending down, he carefully maneuvered Rory’s foot from between the jagged, cracked boards. She winced at the raw scrape on the outside of her ankle.

  “She’s all bleedy.”

  The wobble of tears shook Hannah’s voice, and Rory focused on the little girl instead of the throbbing pain. “Hey, Hannah, do you—do you know what would make me feel better? If you’d sing a song. Can you do that for me?”

  Nodding her head with a big sniff, she started singing a song Rory had heard her humming under her breath on their walk. She wasn’t sure which was the bigger distraction—Hannah’s sweet voice or the feel of Jamison’s hands against her bare skin. She swallowed hard at the sight of the gorgeous man kneeling at her feet and swayed slightly.

  Jamison caught her around the waist and lowered her to the first step. “Here, have a seat while I take a look at your ankle.”

  “Thank you. I—I don’t know what happened.”

  “I can tell you that. The wood’s nearly rotted through.”

  She shook her head. “No, that can’t be. Earl, our handyman, just finished remodeling the gazebo last week.” She had noticed some wear and tear and had put the gazebo on the handyman’s to-do list.

  “I’d say all your handyman did was slap on a coat of white paint. Judging by the way that step cracked beneath your feet, that new layer of latex is about all that’s holding this thing together.”

  Dismayed, Rory struggled to push to her feet, but Jamison held her in place. “But this is where Ryder and Lindsay are getting married. It’s where I—”

  Where Rory wanted to get married. Okay, she wasn’t even dating anyone and her last relationship had ended in disaster, but none of that meant she’d given up hope of finding true love. She wanted love, marriage, a family...and it all started here. She’d imagined dozens of scenarios for her perfect dream wedding, and while the dress, the flowers, even the guy had changed numerous times, the one constant had been speaking her vows beneath the lacy, romantic gazebo.

  “Hey, it’s going to be okay.” Jamison’s voice cut into her thoughts, and only as she met his silver gaze did Rory realize how close he was sitting.

 
; He’d taken the step below her and slipped the sandal from her foot. He cradled her instep in one large hand while he brushed sharp slivers of wood from her abraded skin. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, radiating out from his palm, and Rory shivered in response. She caught the scent of his aftershave again, mixing with the pine-scented breeze surrounding them.

  She drew a quick breath in through her mouth, trying to somehow stop inhaling the heady combination, but that only made matters worse as Jamison focused on her parted lips. Her pulse pounded and it was all Rory could do not to lean closer, to close the narrow gap between them, to press her mouth against the temptation of his.

  The wind shifted again, rustling through the trees and carrying the sound of Hannah’s sweet voice as she started singing a new song...

  Jamison reared back, a look akin to horror flashing across his features so quickly, Rory wasn’t sure what she had seen. But just like that, it was as though the tender moment never happened.

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t a guest nearly breaking an ankle on that step,” he was saying. “This whole thing is a lawsuit waiting to happen. You need signs and a barricade cordoning off the area until someone can tear—”

  “Tear it down?” She stared at him as she jerked her foot away. Instantly, the warmth of his touch disappeared, and the throbbing in her ankle multiplied. Was this the same man who’d come to her rescue, catching her when she would have fallen? The same man who’d cradled her foot in those big, warm hands? The same man she’d thought was going to kiss her?

  With his arms crossed over his broad chest, he might as well have had signs and barricades warning her off.

  “I am not letting anyone tear down the gazebo!” She’d as soon rip her own heart out and douse all her dreams of finding true love. Without the gazebo—

  He reached out and gave the wobbly railing a good shake. “You won’t have to let anyone tear it down. A stiff breeze, and the whole thing will fall over.”

  Still feeling foolish over the almost kiss she was starting to think had only happened in her own head, she glared at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? After all, you’ve made it clear how you feel about this whole wedding thing. You’d probably just as soon tear it down yourself.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Jamison muttered, but the baleful look he cast at the gazebo told Rory he was considering doing some damage to the structure—with his bare hands.

  Pain shot up her leg the instant she pushed to her feet, and Jamison shot her a frustrated look. “Would you sit back down? You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck, thanks to your beloved gazebo, and you should go to the hospital—”

  “No, Daddy!”

  Jamison started at his daughter’s shout. “Hannah, what?”

  The little girl rushed over, but instead of latching onto her father, she threw her arms around Rory’s legs, almost knocking her off balance.

  Jamison frowned as Rory flinched. “Hannah.”

  “Don’t make Rory go to the hospital! Don’t make her go! Mommy went to the hospital and she never, never came back!”

  * * *

  Jamison froze at his daughter’s cry, the sound piercing straight through his heart. In those first dark days after the accident, he’d tried to be there for Hannah, to be the one to care for her, to hold her when she cried. But her tears had been for her mother, and Jamison’s fumbling, painful attempts to explain that Monica was now in heaven didn’t seem to penetrate Hannah’s sorrow.

  “No! I want Mommy!” Accusation had filled her dark eyes, as if Jamison was the one keeping Monica away, the one responsible...and in so many ways, he was.

  He’d seen the sympathy of the doctors and nurses at the hospital. Give her time, they’d advised. She’ll come around. Before long, he’d learned to step back, to let someone better prepared handle Hannah when she was upset. One step, and then another and another, and before long, he’d stood on the fringes of his daughter’s life. Present but accounting for nothing.

  “Hannah.” He could barely get the word out, barely make himself move to brush a hand against her curls. Half afraid to touch her and 100 percent certain she’d pull away.

  Rory had no such fear. “Oh, Hannah, sweetie.” Despite her injured ankle, she dropped down to his daughter’s level to give her a hug. “I’m fine! All I need is a Band-Aid or two.”

  She brushed away Hannah’s tears, reassuring the little girl who managed a watery smile in response, her ease with his daughter making Jamison feel like even more of a failure as a father.

  “See, Daddy? Miss Rory doesn’t need to go to the hospital.” Hannah stared up at him, her chin set at a stubborn angle.

  Jamison fought back a sigh. How did he end up the bad guy in all of this when he was only trying to help? “Hannah...”

  “Your daddy was worried about me. And even if I did have to go to the hospital, I promise you I would come back.”

  He caught sight of the wince she tried to hide as she pushed to her feet and warned, “You need to get some ice on that ankle to keep the swelling down.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she repeated with a big smile, and Jamison couldn’t figure out if it was for his benefit, his daughter’s or her own.

  At her first awkward step, he sighed again, wrapped an arm around her waist and under her knees and lifted her against her chest. Her startled gasp brought them face-to-face. Close enough for him to count the freckles dusting her cheeks. Close enough to feel her breath against his skin. And Jamison wondered how long he could have resisted before pulling Rory into his arms—banged-up ankle or no banged-up ankle.

  “I’m not letting you hobble all the way back to the hotel.”

  “Well, you can’t carry me back!”

  He gave her a light toss, fighting a grin at the way her arms tightened around his neck. “I’m pretty sure I can.”

  “Not into the hotel. I can’t—please, Jamison.”

  His smile faded. Rory was more than simply flustered by the idea. Pained embarrassment etched her pretty features. He didn’t know the reason for the lack of confidence he’d sensed earlier, but he could understand why she wouldn’t want her coworkers to see a guest carrying her through the hotel—regardless of the situation. Still, he couldn’t let her limp back on her own. “Rory...”

  “You, um... My place isn’t far from here.”

  “Your place? You don’t have a room at the hotel?”

  She shook her head. “Evie does. She’s staying in my aunt’s room while she’s...away. But I wanted a place of my own. I thought it would be easier.”

  “Easier?” he asked.

  He did his damnedest to ignore the dizzying thought of taking Rory back to her place, but that was as impossible as ignoring the feel of her in his arms as she gave him directions to something called the caretaker’s cottage.

  She’s injured, you idiot, he warned himself. And your daughter is right beside you.

  Hannah skipped along the path, carrying the shoe he’d slipped from Rory’s foot and still humming the song she’d switched to earlier. A song Monica used to sing to her.

  It might not have been his dead wife’s voice calling out from the grave, but it had still chilled him to the bone.

  “I thought it would be easier keeping my professional and personal lives separate,” Rory was saying, “if I wasn’t staying at the hotel.” She didn’t meet his gaze, but judging by the color in her cheeks, she was well aware whatever was happening between them was a serious mixing of the two.

  She wasn’t simply the wedding coordinator any more than he was just the best man.

  The best man... He wasn’t anywhere near the best man for a woman like Rory. He needed to keep his distance, so how the hell had he ended up with her in his arms, about to carry her into her home?

  “Yeah, how’s that working out for you?”

  She lifted her chin,
but the stubborn angle only emphasized the pulse pounding at the base of her neck. “Just fine,” she insisted, but as he rounded a curve on the path and the small cottage came into view, he thought he heard her whisper under her breath. “Until now.”

  * * *

  Rory had always loved the caretaker’s cottage, as the place was still known even though many years had passed since Hillcrest had live-in staff. From what her aunt had told her, the tiny wood-and-stone structure had nearly fallen into disrepair, but decades ago, Evelyn had saved it from the brink of destruction and had kept it up over the years.

  Still, it had needed some sprucing up and some serious elbow grease to turn it into a place Rory called home, but now it was her sanctuary. A place she could retreat to where she didn’t have to deal with demanding brides, cold-footed grooms or the mess she’d left behind in LA.

  As Jamison set her down on the tiny porch, she insisted, “I’ll be fine from here.”

  He’d said little on the walk from the gazebo, but Rory had felt the rock-hard tension gripping his muscles—a tightness she doubted had anything to do with carrying her weight.

  She’d practically thrown herself at him thanks to the broken step, and he probably had whiplash from pulling away from her so fast.

  “There are still splinters stuck in your ankle. If you won’t let me take you—you know where—you’re going to need some help.”

  She felt the weight of his frown as she hop-stepped over to the door and slipped the key out from beneath a brightly colored mosaic pot of pansies. She held her palm out in the universal stop sign as he moved closer. “I’m good. I’ve got it.”

  The very, very last thing she needed was Jamison Porter carrying her over the threshold!

  “I like your house, Miss Rory,” Hannah announced before bending down to take an exaggerated sniff of the pansies.

  “Thank you, Miss Hannah.”

  “She probably thinks seven dwarves live here,” Jamison muttered under his breath as Rory pushed the door open.

  She shot him a look over her shoulder, though she had to admit the tiny cottage in the woods did have a fairy-tale feel. The front door opened into the living room, a comfortable space Rory had filled with secondhand finds from the Hope Chest, an eclectic consignment store in town. Two floral-print sofas faced a steamer-trunk coffee table, all in pastel shades with white accents. Hannah was drawn to the patchwork bear sitting in a miniature white wicker rocking chair in the corner, both mementos from Rory’s childhood.