After seven years of longing—five of those from a far distance—and a bucket load of regrets, he once again occupied the same space with her, only now they shared it with a mob of other people. He’d be lucky to see her again before the reception was over.
His mother kissed his cheek and left to mingle. Alex retreated to one of the posh bathrooms and knocked back a couple of ibuprofen. It wasn’t much, but he avoided anything stronger. The champagne and cocktails ran freely, and he was one of those who’d make a few toasts tonight. He could easily handle a glass of champagne by itself. Mix it with prescription meds, and he played a whole different, deadly game. Plus, he didn’t want to be drunk-stupid in front of Phee.
If anyone asked him later what he thought of the reception dinner, he’d be hard-pressed to give an opinion. It might have been beef, chicken or sautéed flip-flop in a garlic au jus for all the attention he paid the food. He ate mechanically, his focus on Phee where she sat across the room from him at one of the guest tables, laughing and chatting with the people on either side of her.
Alex wished he was one of those people. He’d ask her how life had treated her while he was overseas. Did she enjoy her role as owner of a bakery? Had she dated anyone special? And did she miss him as much as he missed her during those empty years?
But he was stuck at the elevated table reserved for the bridal party with Phillip bellowing in his ear that it was time for him to make the toast. Alex regretted not taking one of the stronger pain meds he carried and washing it down with a double vodka tonic.
Resigned to making up some bullshit about love, marriage and how the most perfect couple was sitting right next to him, he braced on his cane and lurched to his feet, his features stoic despite the pains shooting through his lower back and pelvis. The reception room quieted as he raised his glass. Phee met his gaze, the Mona Lisa smile he remembered best playing about her mouth. She nodded once as if in encouragement.
Alex cleared his throat and began the toast. His mouth said one thing as he raised his glass; his mind another. Thank you for being here, Seraphina. I’m alive again.
~!~!~
It took two more toasts and the promise of a dance to a tipsy octogenarian before Alex escaped the head table and made his way to a deserted table in a quieter part of the room. Through a cloud of alcohol fumes, he’d ascertained the white-haired lady with the sweet, drunken smile was someone’s great, great aunt on the bride’s side. She loved red-haired men and dancing to the Chicken Dance, and while he obviously, desperately needed a haircut, she wanted him to reserve that dance for her.
Alex escorted her to the nearest chair and promised her someone would dance with her. He didn’t think either of them could execute all the elbow flapping and hip shaking required without one or both of them ending up in the hospital. A teenage girl with pink hair that matched her dress rescued him by sitting next to the elderly lady and offering her a glass of water. She assured Alex they’d be fine, and he escaped while he could, skirting tables and chairs as fast as his hitched gait allowed until he reached the one that offered the best sanctuary from the crush of guests.
He exhaled a relieved sigh and loosened his cravat. Weddings sucked. If he ever married he hoped his bride would agree to an elopement. He’d take her wherever she wanted to go as long as she agreed not to bring the population of a town with them to witness the marriage.
He settled into his chair with the intention of admiring the city view through the panoramic windows in relative solitude. A voice guaranteed to get his heartbeat jumping and his blood racing intruded on his peace.
“Did you know that a bald eagle’s eyes are the same size as a human’s?” Phee appropriated the chair next to Alex and sat down, her teasing grin emphasizing the dimple in her right cheek.
The music faded, along with the white noise of chatter and the clink of china and cutlery as bussers cleared tables. Alex let his gaze wander over her and drank his fill of her presence. He’d missed a lot of things about her—one of them the quirk of spouting trivia. Even after they grew familiar with each other, she’d used it as a means to tease him when he rose to the challenge and tried to best her with even stranger facts.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. “I bet you didn’t know that a pregnant goldfish is called a twit.”
Phee’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, touché; that’s a good one. You haven’t lost your edge.” Her head tilted in curiosity. “What are you doing hiding out in this back corner?”
“Avoiding a drunk little old lady who wants me to partner her for the Chicken Dance.” Phee tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. Alex shifted in his seat, searching for that ever elusive comfortable spot. It didn’t exist, but he tried anyway. “And the music isn’t as deafening here. Any closer to the dance floor, and we’d be shouting to hear each other.”
He was on the verge of asking her a similar question—why she was here with him instead of being twirled about on the crowded dance floor—when she spoke.
“This hotel has a rooftop garden with an open air piano bar and an even better view.”
Alex stared at her without speaking for a moment, his pulse thudding hard in his temples. “Is that a trivia fact?”
“No,” she said with a faint smile. “It’s an invitation. Want to go check it out?”
He might be debilitated; he wasn’t insane. Despite the relentless ache in his bones, he abandoned his seat, rose and offered Phee his arm. “Lead the way, Seraphina.”
She looped her arm through his, not second-guessing his agreement with solicitous questions as to whether or not he felt up to it. She knew him well enough to know that if he didn’t want to do something, he had no hesitation in saying so—usually in biting terms that never invited interpretation or cajoling to change his mind.
They found themselves alone in the elevator for a moment, and Alex savored her nearness, the press of her arm against his, her pale hand resting lightly on his coat sleeve. They didn’t talk, but the silence was comfortable, as if they’d seen each other only yesterday and parted on good terms with the promise to meet again soon.
Their solitude lasted only until the elevator stopped two floors above theirs. A rush of people, laughing and chattering, filled the elevator to capacity. Pushed into a corner, Phee managed to deftly change positions until she stood in front of Alex and settled back into the cove of his body. His arms came around her naturally, fitting her close until she was nestled against him from shoulder to knee. He leaned in to nuzzle the silky hair at her temple. She sighed. Alex didn’t imagine that breath of sound, a cat’s purr of contentment.
The overpowering smells of whiskey and heavy perfume saturated the stifling air, but he barely noticed. The crowded elevator offered an unexpected boon—Phee in his arms.
He regretted when the elevators came to a stop and the doors opened. The revelers filed out, everyone headed the same place they were—the rooftop piano bar. Not very private, but still not as crowded or loud as the reception below them.
Alex held Phee a second longer than necessary before letting her lead him out of the elevator. She slid a knowing look his way and kept her fingers entangled with his as they navigated a path toward an unoccupied table for two near a wall of blooming jasmine illuminated by strategically placed lanterns.
The bar, with its spectacular views, soft music and ambient lighting practically screamed romance. Alex felt completely out of his element as he held out a chair and waited for Phee to sit down. A server appeared at their table, took their drink orders and opened a tab under Alex’s name. When he left, Phee winked at Alex.
“I bet that club soda we both ordered is going to cost you more than if you bought a case of good German beer from the store.”
Alex chuckled. “Count on it. You’re not paying for the drink. You’re paying for the atmosphere.”
“And it’s a very nice atmosphere. What do you think so far?”
He didn’t care if they were splitting a six-pack in a parking lot as long as she spe
nt time with him. He never imagined he’d find her at Phillip’s wedding. The long flights from Dubai to London and from London to the States had been spent sifting through a multitude of possible scenarios for how he might see her while he was here. Fate, luck or some divine providence had decided today was his lucky day and, through no effort on his part, practically dropped her into his lap.
“I think I should have bought a couple of lottery tickets today,” he said. She gave him a curious look. Alex chose not to enlighten her. The piano player had segued into a slow ballad, and while the Chicken Dance was an unconquerable challenge, Alex could manage a gentle shuffle without falling all over Phee or maiming himself. He held out a hand. “Care to dance?”
Phee glanced at the cane hanging from the arm of his chair. A fire ignited in her dark eyes, and she rose with him, taking his hand as he led her around the table. “Absolutely,” she said and slipped into his arms as easily as if she were created solely to sway with him to the tune of a classic love song.
Alex gathered her close, resting one arm across her back as the other clasped her hand. She fit into every hollow space. Curves to angles, two puzzle pieces notched together. In her flat shoes, she was shorter than he. The top of her head brushed his chin before she draped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. The world fell away, and for the space of a song Alex embraced heaven.
***
Was it only prissy girls who wanted to faint at the feel of a man’s arms around them? If so, then Phee intended to wholeheartedly embrace prissdom. She’d had a hint of this five years earlier, when Alex gave her a ride home one evening when Phillip couldn’t. His hands had been warm on her waist, just like now, his breath drifting gently across her forehead as he stared at her with eyes that blazed with equal measures of guilt and desire.
This was worlds better. No guilt, no desperate craving for the forbidden. Okay, she admitted to herself, the desperate craving was still there, but that wasn’t a bad thing. Especially now, when she held him in her arms and threaded his soft hair through her finger as they swayed to the music.
Alex was adept at adopting a stoic expression, but Phee had seen him wince when he stood to toast the new couple and when he rose to follow her to the elevators. She’d resisted the urge to ask him if he felt up to the short jaunt. The warning spark in his eyes told her he still bristled at even a hint of coddling, no matter how well-meaning, so she said nothing and used his slower pace to stretch the minutes in his company. When he asked her to dance, she didn’t hesitate. After all, she’d prayed for this opportunity from the moment she accepted the invitation to the wedding.
Phee was content to stand there all evening, her head on Alex’s muscular shoulder as he led her through simple dance steps that were little more than a brush of bodies and the rock of hips.
“Sweet as sin,” he whispered in her ear.
She tread on his toes. “What?” She lifted her head to stare at him, flustered by his comment.
Laughter glittered in his blue gaze. “Sweet As Sin,” he repeated. “Your business. My mother told me about it. You did what you said you’d do and started your bakery. Congratulations.”
The music ended before she could thank him, and he guided her back to their table where their club sodas waited. Phee perched on the edge of her chair and took a drink. She set her glass down and discovered Alex staring at her the way she’d seen some of her customers eye the chocolate zinfandel cupcakes she sold.
“You’re staring, Alex,” she said softly.
He didn’t blink. “Hard not to. You’re as beautiful as I remember. Even more so, I think.”
The heat of a blush slid over her chest and up her neck. She might be eating ramen for the next month, but the new dress was worth every penny she spent. “Thank you,” she said. She took another sip of soda.
“Tell me about Sweet As Sin,” he said. “I like it. A play on the owner’s name?”
Phee laughed. “Definitely, though you’re the only one besides my tenth grade geometry teacher who ever remarked on my name. Remember when we were first introduced?” She remembered every last detail.
The Kingmakers had lived in a typical tract house in a typical suburban neighborhood. Phillip had put her on edge when he saw Alex’s car in the driveway.
“Great,” he muttered. “Attila the Hun is visiting.”
Phee had heard more than one rant from Phillip during the months they’d been dating about how difficult and overbearing his brother was. She hadn’t thought much of it. She was an only child but had friends with siblings, and those who were younger often complained of the elder’s tyranny. Still, this was the first time she’d officially meet Phillip’s parents, and she hoped the formidable Alex Kingmaker wouldn’t make it awkward.
His appearance had startled her. He looked nothing like his younger half brother. At 6’ 4”, Phillip took after their father, tall and lanky with ash blond hair and brown eyes. Both men towered over Alex who was only a few inches taller than Phee with a muscular build and hair the red of new copper. Still, there was a presence about him that gave the impression he was the biggest person in the room.
Introductions were made and Phee stuttered “Nice to meet you” when Alex took her hand and gave it a light shake. It didn’t help that bolts of electricity had shot through her body at his touch. His patrician features were those one might see on an ancient Roman coin, and he dissected her with a somber gaze as blue as lapis lazuli.
“Phee,” he said, and she blushed at the sound of her name. “Is that short for Fiona?”
Everyone always assumed it was Fiona. “No. Seraphina.”
His stepmother Lacey clapped her hands together. “Ooh, that’s a lovely name.”
One of Alex’s eyebrows cocked upward. “Seraphina Angeles. Your name is Angel Angel?”
Phillip glared. “Knock it off, Alex. It’s just a name.”
Phee tapped him on the arm in a soothing gesture. There was no insult in Alex’s question, only an amused curiosity. She preferred that far more than the dour seriousness. “My father’s name is Rafael and my mother’s is Gabriella. They’re thematic sorts.”
His grim mouth relaxed into a smile. “Obviously. And I’m sure you get a lot more grief about the more prosaic Phillip and Phee combination.”
She’d returned his smile, enthralled by Attila the Hun.
The scrape of Alex’s chair as he shifted positions brought Phee back to the present. “I remember thinking Phee was charming but Seraphina was elegant.” He lifted his glass in toast. “The bakery name is a clever pun on yours.”
Phee tapped her glass against his. “Thanks. I think it’s helped market my products. Has a touch of the naughty to it. A chocolate truffle or slice of mascarpone cheesecake is a decadent, forbidden pleasure. At least that’s how I try to promote them.”
An image of licking a smear of champagne butter cream icing off Alex’s bare midriff suddenly burst into her mind’s eye, and Phee grabbed her glass to take a cooling drink. The carbonation combined with a too-fast gulp made her choke. Alex’s quick rescue and firm thumps on her back didn’t ease her embarrassment, and she held up a hand as the coughing faded to the occasional wheeze. She wiped tears from her streaming eyes, praying her mascara wasn’t painting black runnels down her cheeks.
Alex returned to his seat, his face pale and set. “You okay?”
Phee nodded. “Nothing that dying from embarrassment won’t cure.” She pushed the offending glass of club soda away from her. “Sorry about that. It went down the wrong pipe.”
He looked as if he was about to leap out of his seat again if she so much as twitched. To distract him, she pointed to the cane still hooked on his chair. “For someone using a cane to get around, you sure move fast without it.”
Alex glared at the cane. “I didn’t plan on bringing it. Mom insisted, and you can’t budge her when she locks in on something.”
It was one of the things Phee liked best about her almost-mother-in-law. �
�It just means she loves you. The SEDT doing a number on your hips?”
He snorted. “When is it not?” His half smile challenged her. “I bet after all this time, you can’t say the whole thing without tripping up.”
Phee gave him a mock scowl. “Care to put down a five on that?”
Alex pulled his wallet out of a hidden pocket inside his coat. He fished a bill out and laid it on the table between them. “I’ll raise it to ten if you can say it three times in succession. No stutter, no pause for breath.”
She whistled. The last part would be difficult, especially after her bout of coughing. Phee matched his ten with one of her own in case she lost the bet. She took a deep breath.
“Spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia tarda. Spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia tarda. Spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia tarda.”
All the air in her lungs was gone by the time she finished, and she inhaled on a gasp before snatching the money off the table. “Ha!” she crowed. “Nailed it!”
Alex laughed, and Phee melted in her chair. He and Phillip had a similar laugh, but Alex’s always made her pause. Maybe because he rarely did it or because that laugh always seemed to promise the revelation of some beguiling secret. Whatever it was, if he ever learned to bottle and sell it, he’d be a rich man.
He raised his glass and toasted her a second time. “Well done, Seraphina. Even my rheumatologist has a hard time saying the three-word tongue twister.”
SEDT did more than twist the tongue. The first time Phillip had mentioned his brother’s bone disorder, she’d gone home and hit the net to research. While females were the carriers, the very rare X-linked spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia tarda only affected males. Alex might have grown to his father’s and brother’s impressive heights, but when he turned nine the SEDT manifested, slowed the growth of his spine, flattened his vertebrae and turned the femoral bones inward. A brace during childhood had helped correct the resulting scoliosis, but osteoarthritis had set into his hip and elbow joints as well as his shoulders.
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