Wooing the Wedding Planner

by Amber Leigh Williams

  Maybe he was doing the same thing she was. Maybe this was what he needed to gain clarity, to come back and start over.

  Why do I care?

  Roxie tapped her finger against the side of the crystal flute. Should I really still have feelings for him? Her friends didn’t seem to think so, but James had left Adrian years ago without a word about his whereabouts. He was gone for eight years. That hadn’t stopped Adrian from loving him, even if it was, at first, against her own wishes.

  Roxie had given Richard nearly ten years of her life—and she’d planned to give him the rest of it. She was a wedding planner. She staked her entire life on the concept of love everlasting, and she’d abandoned that concept in a rash of betrayal.

  It was time to reevaluate the choice she’d made and whether or not she’d acted too rashly.

  She needed to see him. The more she turned it over in her head, the more she knew that was what she had to do.

  Until Richard came back, she had weddings to coordinate, a new line of bridal gowns and lingerie to put together, a house to play with and a new male neighbor to contend with.

  A neighbor she’d practically seen in the buff.

  Roxie tamped down the memory of Byron in punctuated briefs. It wasn’t any easier than glossing over the kiss that had crowned an all-too-eventful Valentine’s Day.

  She caught herself eyeing the sink where she’d found him shaving. Was it just her or did it still smell like ambergris in here?

  Shaking her head, she focused on other goals. She should learn to cook. She’d always wanted to. She and Richard had considering cooking classes at the local college. He’d hedged, blaming the constraints of his schedule for his reluctance.

  If Roxie had pushed him to do it with her, would he have slept with Cassandra? Roxie tipped the champagne to her mouth, considering.

  “Eh, duchess.”

  “Eep!” The glass upended, bathing her after all. Looking wildly around, she found her so-called knight staring at her from the pocket doors, one brow arched. Instead of the standard Brooks Brothers, he wore a sleeveless black T-shirt, blue basketball shorts and white sneakers that set off his tan limbs. “Sweet lord!” she exclaimed. She shook her dripping arms before gripping the edges of the tub and pulling herself to standing. “Did you just let yourself in?”

  A scowl pulled at his mouth. It was the expression he’d worn since the day he’d agreed to let her live there. He hadn’t stuck around to watch her move in her few belongings. In fact, he hadn’t said more than two words to her since his parents left. “A little payback,” he informed her.

  This standoffish Byron was a stranger to her and more than a little off-putting. The way he looked at her had gone from warm and appreciative to as crisp as his work attire. “When the Goodchilds lived here, did you just come and go as you pleased?” she asked, reaching for a fluffy towel on the nearby rack. She dabbed at the stain on her dress.

  “Pretty much.” His gaze tipped over her torso, flickered over the mulberry midi dress and her bare, manicured toes. “Going somewhere?”

  “No,” she said, gathering a handful of skirt in her fist. “I was just having a glass or two of champagne.”

  “So?” he asked, pointedly looking at her attire.

  She lifted a shoulder. “So I always get dressed up for champagne.”

  His brows came together.

  She reached over and turned off the speaker, cutting off Billie’s “Willow Weep for Me” just before the bridge. “I’d rather you knocked next time. Just for the record.” She indicated the stain before veering around him into the bedroom.

  He didn’t follow her into the closet, where she’d already begun the process of unpacking and color coordinating. “I’ve come for my TV, Ms. Monroe,” he called from the next room.

  “Your TV?” she asked, choosing a silk kimono robe. She pulled the dress over her head, lamenting the newish purchase, and donned the silk before going out to face him again, belting it at her waist.

  Byron’s eyes did a sweep over her. Roxie felt it like a soft-bristled brush. She grabbed the belt of the robe, suddenly very aware that it was short and thin. She should’ve reached for the chenille she reserved for sick days. It came down to her ankles and had its own set of sexless slippers.

  Thankfully, his eyes swung away and he lifted a hand in the direction of the bureau. “The fifty-inch LCD. It’s mine.”

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Roxie breathed. “I thought Colossus was here to stay.”

  “Okay, her name is Giselle,” Byron told her. “And what’ve you got against fifty inches of technological goodness?”

  “Well, for starters,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest, “nobody needs a TV that big. Aren’t you worried about your eyesight?”

  “I’ll worry about cataracts later if it means watching The Walking Dead on a big screen,” Byron replied. His hand glided along the top edge. “Don’t you listen to her, baby. You’re perfect.”

  Roxie fought the urge to laugh. “Whatever happened to the everyman claim ‘size doesn’t matter?’”

  She thought she saw a smile work at the corners of his mouth. When he turned to face her, it was gone—though wicked promise gleamed there. “After your little peep show Wednesday night, you really think size is the issue here?”

  Her jaw unhinged. Again, unbidden, the image of ripply arms, long hard thighs and all the lovely bits in between reemerged...as well as the mixed-up dream she’d thought she’d had in a fit of exhaustion involving a gleeful one-sided game of tic-tac-toe with mini-marshmallows and caramel syrup.

  On his washboard abs.

  Her eyes skirted him and she kept her lips shut.

  She thought she heard him curse under his breath. “I usually work out around six during the week.”

  “Every weekday?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

  She shrugged. “No. We had an agreement. You could use the gym.”

  “I’m down there an hour tops.”

  “Fine.”

  “Oh, and my mom did mention that we share the washer and dryer in the basement, right?”

  “Lord have mercy. I had roommates in college who weren’t this intrusive.”

  “My college roommate slept with my sister,” Byron pointed out. “When it comes to intrusion, you know nothing, Norma Jean.”

  “He slept with your sister?” Roxie asked, wide-eyed. “Oh, my God. What did you do?”

  “We beat each other up for a good half hour after I found out,” Byron considered. “Then he told me he was in love with her. We hugged it out. He’s now my brother-in-law, work wife and business partner.”

  “Well. That’s...tidy.” Something told her this so-called living arrangement between them wouldn’t be. It made her stomach tighten, the thought of their promising friendship rapidly falling through the cracks. But why?

  “I can get everything washed in one day. Do Sundays work for you?”

  She waved her hand in an absent motion. “Sure. Why not?”

  His grunt rang through the room as he hefted the television. “I’ll give you the cable info so you can set up your own system.”

  “I think I’ll go without.”

  “Cable?”

  “Television.”

  There was an “uff!” followed closely by a thud. He’d dropped the television on his foot. Grimacing, he looked at her as if she’d sprouted a tail. “You don’t have a television?”

  “No,” she admitted. “You can stop looking at me like a leper. I like music. And I’m always too busy to keep up with anything on TV anyway.”

  “You don’t watch anything?” he asked. “News? Shopping channel? Tim Gunn?”

  “Not really.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “How do you know who Tim Gunn is?”

&nbs
p; He balked. “Sisters. I have two sisters. They’re into Project Runway.”

  “Sure, sure,” she said smugly. “That leak in the shower...should I contact Vera about that or do you want to?”

  Byron hefted the television with a look akin to resentment. He began to maneuver it through the door. She took pity on him and grabbed one end. They made their way to the landing. She tried not to watch the way the muscles in his arms worked. They were ridiculous. And the sleeveless shirt did nothing to hide them.

  “For the next twelve months per our agreement this house is yours,” he told her. “If you’ve got problems, you can haggle with the landlords yourself.”

  She shook her head. “And here I was thinking you were a nice guy.”

  “Being nice has nothing to do with it,” he groaned as he navigated the first few steps to the ground floor. “It’s just business.”

  Was that how things were between them now? Just business?

  She’d known the man a year and already she missed him and everything they’d shared in that small space of time. She missed the pieces of him that had retreated.

  They reached the ground floor. Byron set his end of the television down and she followed suit. As he leaned against it, she couldn’t hide a satisfied glint. “I bet you’re wishing you bought a smaller one now.”

  He opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by the chirp of the doorbell.

  Roxie peered into the foyer at the entry door. She saw the knob turn, the door crack and the blond bouffant peeking through. “Yoo-hoo!” a voice pealed. “Roxanna, darling!”

  “Oh,” Roxie said, the one word dropping low in dread. “Oh, dear God, no.” As Byron straightened, she saw the flash of concern on his face. She didn’t give him a second to voice it, edging her shoulder against his chest and nudging him to the door under the stairs. “Hide, hide, hide!”

  “What?” Byron asked, rivets digging into his forehead. “I don’t have to hide.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said with a definitive nod. She opened the door for him.

  “Why?” he asked, incredulous. “Who is that?”

  “My mother!” she hissed. “She cannot see you.”

  “Why?”

  Marabella Honeycutt’s voice rang pleasantly from afar. “I’m letting myself in!”

  “Go!” Roxie coaxed. When he didn’t move, she flattened her hands on his chest—his very hard chest—and shoved.

  She might as well have tried to move one of the Parthenon’s Doric columns. She dug her heels in, maneuvering him back through the door. At the sound of her mother’s heels clacking against flooring, she went for the ear, grabbing him by the lobe.

  “Ah!” he cried out. She shut the door on him, cutting him off as Marabella rounded the corner.

  “There you are,” Marabella said. She was regally turned out in an ermine-lined coat, kid gloves and Manolos. Her face was round, but the rest of her was sleek and slender. Contacts amped up her slate gray eyes to violet. Thanks to her active participation in the Botox movement, she always looked vaguely surprised. “Roxanna. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

  “Really?” Roxie could hear Byron’s muttered cursing. She kept her hand on the door for good measure. “I’ve had my phone on me.”

  “It’s a weekday,” Marabella said. “I thought you were at your little shop.”

  Roxie might’ve rolled her eyes. Her mother and sisters had been referring to Belle Brides as her little shop since it opened for business. No matter that that little shop was a flyaway success or that she was the busiest wedding planner on the Alabama coast.

  She lifted a hand to show her mother the moving boxes and haphazardly arranged furniture James and Cole had helped her move in. “I’ve been busy.” As Marabella took a look around, Roxie fought the urge to straighten the lines of the chairs and settee. She folded her hands at her waist. “What do you think of the house, Mother?”

  Marabella frowned...or her mouth frowned. Perpetual delight lived from the nose up. “It’s lovely. But you’re not planning on staying here, are you?”

  “It’s a year lease,” Roxie explained. “I needed a house. More space to breathe. More room to think.”

  “You had a house,” Marabella reminded her, frowning over the gargantuan television in the middle of the floor. “You couldn’t do your thinking there?”

  Her mother had voiced hearty rejection over Roxie’s quick thinking surrounding the divorce and giving up the spacious French Colonial. “It was Richard’s house,” Roxie told her. “It was always Richard’s.”

  Marabella gave a small sigh. She pulled her gloves off, one finger at a time. “Well. This one will do, I suppose. Just until you’ve sorted yourself out.”

  Roxie took a deep breath. “Actually, I have been doing some thinking already.”

  Marabella looked at her directly. “Yes?” Hope and anticipation lifted the word high.

  “And...” It hurt but she said it anyway. “I think you might have been right. About Richard. Maybe even about the divorce.”

  A squeal launched from Marabella’s throat. With a clap of her hands, she crossed the space between them, sidestepping Giselle, and pulled Roxie tight to her. “Oh, bébé. You’ve finally come to your senses!”

  Roxie smiled vaguely. “Mother. I said maybe. There’s still a lot to figure—”

  “Figure? What’s to figure?” Marabella demanded, pulling back. The exuberance was caked on her features as heavily as the Elizabeth Arden. “You should’ve patched things up months ago. Think of all the time you could’ve been in counseling together. Think of all the time you’ve wasted living in that shoebox on the bay.”

  “I needed time,” Roxie said, defensive. “I still need to think about what I’m going to do going forward—”

  “Well, that’s simple,” Marabella said lightly. “Get Richard on the phone. Tell him to come home. Tell him you’ve forgiven him.”

  “I’m not sure I have,” Roxie blurted.

  Marabella faltered, falling back a step. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

  “He slept with Cassandra,” Roxie said plainly.

  “It was once,” Marabella said. “Now the both of them have admitted their mistake, and you’ve seen Cassandra and Jefferson. They’re doing better.”

  Roxie had seen Cassandra, once or twice. Neither of them had breached the gap and actually spoken. “I thought you said they were in marriage counseling,” Roxie said.

  Marabella waved a hand. “They’re working through it. They’re actively mending what needs fixin’. And you should already be doing the same. The doctor they’re seeing...she’s a real wonder. They say she can fix anything with time.”

  And the right amount of money, Roxie thought, then quelled the ready cynicism. “I don’t know—”

  “I ran into Lucinda the other day at the store. She says Richard’s a mess. A fine mess.”

  “A mess?” Roxie asked. Richard had long been the epitome of still waters. During fights, he would maintain a stubborn thread of reasonableness. Whenever Roxie raised her voice or brought even a hint of intensity to the scene, Richard called her on it. There’s no need for dramatics here, Roxie. Your mother’s hysterics are enough to deal with, wouldn’t you agree?

  Sometimes she had absurdly wished that they could fight like everyone else—shout, curse, call each other names. They’d never even had make-up sex. They’d never needed it. What was there to make up when their arguments were as organized as their individual planners?

  So Richard was a mess, Roxie mused. She found the idea somewhat amusing... Okay, she found it very amusing. Did he miss their life as much as she thought she might?

  “You should call Cassandra,” Marabella maintained, eyes widening at the prospect. “Call her now. She can give you the doctor’s name and number. Get
the ball rolling. When Richard gets back, you can dive straight into the healing.”

  “Mother,” Roxie said. She shook her head. “I’m not going to call Cassandra.”

  Every trace of exuberance vanished from Marabella’s face as she planted her hands on her hips. “Now, Roxanna. I have been patient. I have stood by like a good mama and I’ve left the two of you to your own ends. But this is getting silly. If you can forgive Richard, you can forgive your sister.”

  Hadn’t Roxie told her she wasn’t sure about the forgiveness part? Breathing carefully through the minefield of her exasperation, Roxie counted to ten.

  Marabella went on unhindered. “Forget the phone. One of you has got to take the first step. You should just go by her house. Drop in for a visit and get it all out in the open. It’s time to move on. You have no idea how taxing all this avoidance is on my nerves.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bennet,” Roxie muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Roxie said quickly.

  “This last year has been so difficult.” Marabella’s voice began to lift and crack. Her eyes grew damp. She fanned herself with her hand. “My girls. My eldest and my youngest, in such a state of estrangement. I can’t tell you how terrible it’s been.”

  Roxie closed her eyes as Marabella dabbed at her own. She combed the sour notes from her voice and said, ever the dutiful daughter, “I’m dearly sorry for your inconvenience, Mother.”

  “Please, bébé,” Marabella said, reaching out to squeeze Roxie’s hand. “Go see Cassandra. She needs to be refitted for her bridesmaid dress anyway.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I think she’s gaining weight,” she said in scandalized tones. “You didn’t hear it from me. But her gown will have to be taken out. Let’s just hope she doesn’t gain any more before the ceremony. I gave her some new diet pills. We’ll see how she responds to them. Bless her heart. She’s got the Walton waist but the Honeycutt hips.”

  Roxie cringed. Her mother and her diet pills. The combo was a cocktail for calamity.

  Marabella scanned Roxie’s figure more closely. “Turn for me, bébé.”