Jamison’s gaze cut to Ryder as his friend spoke those words, but no buried anger, no lasting bitterness over the past lingered in his expression. Nothing but excitement and anticipation for the future.
“We’re lucky Rory was willing to work with us, and she’s done an amazing job with the wedding preparations.”
“What’s her story, anyway?”
Ryder’s eyebrows shot upward. “Seriously? You’re interested in Rory McClaren?”
“I didn’t say I was interested. I’m...curious. Hannah thinks she’s some kind of fairy-tale princess and fairy godmother all rolled into one, and I want to know more about her.”
“Well, from what Lindsay says, the woman can perform miracles when it comes to weddings.” Ryder shot him a sidelong glance. “It’s a pretty sure bet Rory’s got plans for her own dream wedding someday.”
Jamison felt his face heat. He needed to put on some more damn sunscreen. “Not interested,” he repeated, “just curious.”
And maybe if he kept telling himself that, he’d start to believe it.
You were thinking of kissing me.
Thinking about it? Jamison still didn’t know how he’d escaped her house without pulling her into his arms and tasting those lips that had tempted him from the start.
“Right... About Rory. Her family’s owned Hillcrest for years. Her aunt’s been running it the past three decades or so, but she recently brought Rory and her cousin Evie in to help out with the wedding destination packages they’re promoting. From what I’ve heard, Rory had been living in LA. She worked for some hotshot interior design firm—the kind that decorates houses for Hollywood stars and stages million-dollar mansions for putting them up to sell.”
Jamison could picture Rory in the role—dream weddings, dream houses, all part of her belief in happily-ever-after. “Sounds like a job she’d be good at.”
“Yeah, well...”
“What?” Jamison asked when his friend’s voice trailed off.
Ryder shook his head. “Small-town gossip about the reason why Rory was let go from the job. Like you said, not a whole lot else to do around here.”
“Hey, Uncle Ryder, catch!” One of the boys tossed the ball back, an end-over-end lame duck Ryder still managed to deflect up into the air at the last minute and catch one-handed—much to his nephew’s delight.
Ryder grinned as he spun the ball between his hands, cocked back his arm and returned the ball in a perfect spiral.
“Show-off,” Jamison muttered under his breath, more annoyed by his burning curiosity about the gossip about Rory than he was by his friend reliving his golden years.
It was hard to imagine any scandal connected to Rory McClaren. She had such a sweetness, such an air of innocence surrounding her. But he’d seen a hint of the shadows hiding behind her wide blue eyes.
If his marriage to Monica had taught him anything, it was that everyone had secrets. Had he paid more attention in the final months of his marriage, maybe he would have seen what was coming. Maybe he could have stopped her, and if he had—
Jamison looked over at his daughter, carefully crafting her sandcastle, the expression on her sweet face so serious, even as the boys yelled and laughed and raced around her.
Maybe if he had, Hannah’s mother would still be alive.
“What can I say?” Ryder raised a shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Some of us have still got it. Hey, man, you okay?”
Jamison pulled in a deep breath. He couldn’t close his eyes and pretend everything was going to be okay. If Rory was going to be in his—in Hannah’s life—even for a short time, then he needed to learn everything he could about her. For his daughter’s sake.
“You were telling me about Rory and her life in LA.”
“Oh, yeah. Look, I’m sure it was nothing, but the story goes that she got involved with the boss’s son and it didn’t end well.” Ryder shook his head. “As someone who once worked for his in-laws, I can sympathize. I guess things got pretty ugly at the end, with lots of accusations being thrown around about Rory stealing some stuff...not that I believe it for a second.”
The whole thing sounded rather petty and ridiculous. What had Rory done—refused to return the gifts her ex had given her? Kept some of the things he’d left at her place? Ryder was right. The rumors were likely nothing more than a bad breakup blown out of proportion thanks to the Clearville grapevine.
“Has Rory talked to you about the gazebo?”
“She said it’s in bad shape and even asked if she could hire me to do the work, but with trying to get our scheduled jobs finished—” Ryder shook his head “—I don’t see how I can squeeze another project in. Lindsay’s disappointed, but she understands. Plus, Rory’s done such a fabulous job on short notice that she doesn’t want to make her feel bad.”
The image of blue eyes flashing wide with hurt and disappointment jabbed at Jamison’s conscience. He had made Rory feel bad, snapping at her the way he had when she’d been nothing short of amazing with Hannah.
And before Jamison realized what he was saying, he told his friend, “I could do it.”
“Do what?”
“Fix up the gazebo.”
“Seriously? You haven’t done any remodeling work in years. I bet a judge’s gavel is the closest thing to a hammer you’ve been around since we were in college.”
Although it was quite possibly the worst idea he’d ever had, Jamison insisted. “It’ll all come back to me the minute I put on a tool belt.”
The two of them had met while working construction part-time. Despite the differences in their backgrounds and the fact that Jamison was a few years older than Ryder, they had struck up an instant friendship.
And it was that friendship that had him saying, “Consider the gazebo your wedding present.”
That was the reason he’d made the offer. It had to be. No way should he be doing this as a way for Rory to see him as some kind of hero when nothing could be further from the truth. He was simply helping out a friend.
Nothing more.
Right. Helping out Ryder by fixing up Rory’s favorite place in the whole, whole world.
A wide grin split his friend’s face. “Hot da—dog!” he exclaimed with a glance at the kids. “You have made my day. No, my wedding! Lindsay is going to be thrilled, and this is much better than some high-tech coffee maker ordered off the bridal registry!”
His face heated at how closely his friend had him pegged. A perfectly wrapped present had been delivered to the hotel the other day, compliments of his assistant’s efficiency. He had no idea what the box contained or even what the card said. “I would never buy something so lame.”
“Are you sure about this, though? Isn’t the point of this vacation for you to spend time with Hannah?”
Jamison rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m going a little stir-crazy here, Ry. I’m used to nonstop meetings and calls and conferences. This is all getting to me.”
Restlessness and frustration stacked one on top of the other inside him, like the brightly colored blocks Hannah used to play with. Higher and higher until a crash was inevitable. He had too much time on his hands. Too much time to worry about Hannah. Too much time to—
You were thinking of kissing me.
“Right...” his friend drawled. “I can see how tough this is, you know, when life is literally a walk on the beach. Tell the truth—you’ve been dying to check your phone the whole time we’ve been out here.”
“There’s no reception,” Jamison grumbled as Ryder laughed. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy? This small-town living?”
“This small-town living has given me the chance to know my son.”
“You could have done that in San Francisco,” he argued even as Ryder pinned him with another knowing look.
“I’m not that far removed from the corporate world, Jamie,” he said, b
reaking out the childhood nickname only Jamison’s father still used and only to remind him of who he used to be. “You can’t tell me you’d be doing this in San Francisco.” His friend tipped his head toward the kids running along the windblown beach.
“I have a job,” Jamison argued. “A career—”
A child. One he’d already let down so many times in her short life.
With his gaze locked on Hannah and her precarious sandcastle, Jamison admitted, “I don’t know if I can do this, Ry.”
His friend was silent for a moment before he advised, “Do your best, Jamison. That’s all any of us can do as parents.”
Jamison nodded as his friend clapped him on the shoulder before jogging over to join the boys in their game. Do your best... Good advice, but other than in his professional life, doing his best had never been enough. Not for his mother, who tried to fill the emptiness in their lives with one failed marriage after another. Not for Monica, who’d taken to wild spending sprees and late-night partying with friends during the final months of their failed marriage. And not for Hannah, who would grow up without a mother thanks to the choices he had made.
You’re her father. Rory’s gentle yet insistent voice seemed to echo in the ocean breeze at his back, a warm, buffeting push in his daughter’s direction. She’s still a little girl who wants to run and laugh and play again...
“Hey, Hannah Banana,” he said as she upended another bucket of wet dark sand to start another tower of her leaning castle. “Can I give you a hand?”
She squinted up at him in the sunshine, her sweet face adorably wrinkled, and Jamison stepped to the side so his shadow blocked the glare. “I dunno. Do you know how to play?”
His own father had taught him how to fix, repair, build any number of projects. How to start with the best materials and use the right tool to guarantee what he crafted was solid, sturdy, dependable. Built to last...
But when it came to forming lasting relationships—with his father, his mother, Monica...Hannah—Jamison felt as though every foundation rested on shifting, unstable sand, always ready to give way at any moment.
I have faith in you.
Rory’s words rang in his ears. He didn’t have that kind of faith in himself. But maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe for now, for as long as he was in Clearville, Rory’s faith in him would be enough...
Sinking down onto his knees in the cold, damp sand by his daughter’s side, he brushed some dried grains from her pink cheek. “I was thinking maybe you could teach me.”
Chapter Seven
“As you can see, the rose garden is a beautiful spot for a wedding. In fact, we have a ceremony scheduled here in a few days.” Rory forced a smile as she turned her gaze to the young couple who’d come to tour Hillcrest.
The rose garden was beautiful, and if they had to move Lindsay and Ryder’s wedding to this location, the ceremony would still be as touching and emotional as it would be taking place in the gazebo. But it wouldn’t be the wedding Lindsay and Ryder had imagined, and that was the problem. Rory wanted to give every couple the wedding of their dreams, not some kind of runner-up.
The couple exchanged a glance. “On the website, we saw pictures of a gazebo. It looked like the perfect backdrop. We’d love to see it in person.”
Her heart sinking, Rory admitted, “I’m sorry. The gazebo isn’t available at the moment. We have some renovations in the works. I’m sure it won’t be long before the work is completed, and there’s still plenty of time before the two of you plan to get married. For now, why don’t we take a look inside at the ballroom?”
Twenty minutes later, the young couple left...without signing a contract. It was a big decision, and Hillcrest House wasn’t the only option for couples looking to get married, but Rory couldn’t help feeling like she’d failed. Again.
She’d hated having to call Ryder to tell him about the sorry shape the gazebo was in, but in the back of her mind, she’d hoped he might have a crew she could hire. Evie would blow a gasket if she learned Rory had tried to solicit a Hillcrest groom to do manual labor at the hotel, but construction work was Ryder’s job. But he was also in high demand, booked solid and rushing to get several jobs completed before he left on his honeymoon.
He had told her he would see what he could do, but Rory hadn’t heard back, and her other efforts to find someone on such short notice had turned up empty. She didn’t want to admit defeat, but maybe Evie was right. Maybe she needed to be practical—and not just about the gazebo.
She hadn’t seen Jamison and Hannah in the past two days, and she hated how much she missed them. More than once, she’d done a double take when she spotted a dark-haired man out of the corner of her eye or stopped midsentence at the sound of a child’s voice only to be disappointed that it wasn’t the man or the child she was instinctively looking for.
She was getting too close, too fast. She’d made the same mistake with Peter, certain she could overcome the obstacles between them and trying to make molehills out of mountains. She’d fallen hard—and landed even harder. If she wasn’t careful, when Jamison and Hannah returned home after the wedding, she’d be left behind nursing something far more painful than a bruised ankle.
If only Evie’s “be practical” advice didn’t feel so much like quitting without trying her best. How could she give up on having the gazebo ready for Ryder and Lindsay’s wedding before she’d exhausted every possibility of getting it fixed?
And how was saving herself from heartache later more practical if it meant being miserable now?
Rory was still waging that internal battle as she headed for Evie’s office, tucked back behind the registration desk. A group of hotel employees had gathered over to the side near an empty luggage rack, and Rory recognized the tall redhead in the middle.
Trisha Katzman had worked at the hotel for years. The thirtysomething woman had made it clear she, and not Rory, should have been the one to take on the expanded wedding coordinator role. Rory had done her best to smooth things over, to reassure Trisha she wasn’t taking over her job and the increase in weddings would create more than enough work—and reward for a job well done—for everyone.
Her efforts had met with little success. The redhead was coldly polite face-to-face, but Rory could feel the daggers the other woman shot her way the second her back was turned.
And something had changed lately. The subtle disgruntled looks were no longer so subtle, and Trisha’s smug expression reminded Rory of her last miserable months in LA.
The other women in Trisha’s clique returned Rory’s greeting before picking up their conversation. “I still can’t believe that store’s computer got hacked and some loser stole my credit card number,” one of them was complaining as she walked by.
The other two made sympathetic sounds, but Trisha pointedly looked over her shoulder, tracking Rory’s movements as she said, “Hard to know who to trust these days, isn’t it?”
Rory froze.
She knew.
The patterned carpet shifted beneath her feet as her stomach listed and sank. Rory didn’t know how the other woman had found out about what happened in LA, but she had no doubt Trisha was responsible for the rumors swirling around the hotel.
Once Rory would have walked over and confronted the group. She’d learned back in junior high that showing fear in front of a group of mean girls was the worst thing she could do. But after everything that happened in LA, when nothing she said made any difference and keeping silent had ended up her only defense, the words stuck in her throat.
Ducking her head, Rory headed away from the group and down the narrow hallway to Evie’s office. Her cousin glanced up at her quick knock. “Oh, good. I was about to come looking for you—what’s wrong?”
“It’s—nothing.” Rory didn’t need to see the “I told you so” look in her cousin’s eyes. She’d been fooling herself thinking she could have a fres
h start in a place she’d always loved.
Evie’s gaze narrowed, but she didn’t press. “Good, because right now we have enough trouble. Mrs. Broderick called. She swears she and her daughter requested veal piccata and not chicken as part of the reception menu.”
“They went back and forth before deciding on chicken.” Rory specifically remembered. The conversation had gone on so long, by the time the two women made up their minds, she thought she might scream if she heard the words veal, chicken or piccata ever again.
Evie lifted an eyebrow. “That’s not what she says.”
“I’ll talk to the chef. Hopefully it won’t be too late to cancel the order.”
“And if it is? They signed the contract, which states chicken,” her cousin pointed out. “If you talk to them...”
“What difference would that make?” If Mrs. Broderick didn’t believe what was in front of her in black and white, what was the likelihood the woman would believe anything Rory had to say?
“Then I’ll talk to them,” Evie decided.
“No, Evie, this is my job. I’ll handle it.”
Rory held her breath, waiting for her cousin to take yet another responsibility away from her because she couldn’t be trusted—
Finally, her cousin gave a short nod. “All right.”
Half an hour later, after dealing with their disgruntled chef and butcher, Rory stepped outside. She inhaled a deep breath, taking in the scents of forest pine and salty ocean and hoping the combination would clear her head.
She had a dozen phone calls and emails to return on everything from placing orders with the florist to confirming the chairs and bunting with the rental company to sending a new song list to the band for a wedding. But nothing needed to be done right that second. And with Trisha and her clique still inside the lobby, Rory wanted a few minutes to herself.
But as she followed the meandering walkways leading from the hotel, she didn’t take the curve that would lead toward her cottage. Instead, she found herself walking down the tree-lined path toward the gazebo.
The Best Man Takes a Bride Page 8