The Bridesmaid and the Bachelor

by Kris Fletcher

  Kyrie slipped back into position. Ben ordered his feet to stay put, reminded himself—forcefully—that this wasn’t his show, that there was still a ceremony to finish, that he and Kyrie would have plenty of time to discuss what had just happened.

  Maybe even a lifetime.

  ***

  Once the song was over, Kyrie couldn’t look at Ben, which really surprised her because while she was singing, she’d had to push herself to focus on anyone else. For the space of the song, he’d been her world.

  Then it ended, and she snapped back to reality, and put on her bridesmaid face once again. She was swept out of the room on the arm of a linebacker, hustled into place by yet another photographer, told to smile and lift her chin and twist like that, yes, perfect. All she wanted was to escape to her room and talk to Ben, but she stayed and smiled and murmured her thanks when the Megans complimented her on the song. The least she could do after Siobhan’s gracious acceptance of the truth was to continue playing her part and be the best damned bridesmaid who ever walked the planet.

  But it wasn’t just Paige’s shoes pinching her now.

  More poses. More locations—the conservatory, the staircase, the fountains. More minutes and distance separating her from Ben. Until, at last, the photographer was ready to do shots of only the bride and groom and Wendy told the rest of the wedding party to return to the building and start mingling with the guests.

  Kyrie’s heart thumped. More so when she peered through the mass of departing attendants and spotted Ben standing very still, watching her.

  As the photographer issued instructions to Adam and Siobhan, Kyrie walked along the stone fence in the opposite direction from that taken by the other attendants. A quick glance back told her that Ben was following. There was no such thing as privacy in the middle of the crowded walkway, but there was a curve ahead, and a skinny tree, and maybe, just maybe, a chance to say what she needed to say.

  But when she came to a halt and turned to find Ben right behind her, it turned out the words could wait. She met him halfway, grabbed his jacket, and yanked him to her, kissing him as if her whole existence depended on it. Because in that moment, it did.

  “You told her.” Ben whispered the words against her lips. “I didn’t know what the hell was happening in there, and then when I saw . . . when I heard . . . I knew you must have told her everything.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  She gave him the condensed version—the gift, the singer, the last-minute panic.

  “And she was okay with it? Siobhan?”

  “She was . . . surprised, of course. And a little hurt. But then she laughed and said, well, it wasn’t what she would have chosen, but maybe fate had known something she didn’t.”

  “That her singer was going to end up in the ER?”

  “No.” Kyrie pulled back slightly, smoothing the lapels she had disrupted. “That she needed a reminder that she couldn’t control everything. And that sometimes, the thing you need has been staring you in the face all along.”

  A lesson that Kyrie had also taken to heart.

  “What about Paige?” he asked. “And the loan, and the shop, and—”

  “Excuse me, you two.”

  Kyrie squeezed her eyes closed as Wendy’s authoritative voice cut through the voices and horns. She moved back.

  Ben’s grip on her waist tightened.

  “Relax,” she said, settling her hand over his. “I’m not going anywhere this time. Not unless it’s with you.”

  ***

  Ben stepped out of the shower the next morning, reached for his towel, and heard Kyrie’s laughter floating in from the bedroom.

  It was a hell of a lot more welcome than a note on the table.

  Also a hell of a lot more encouraging, considering that her parting words before he slipped out of the bed were that she was going to call Paige and tell her everything.

  There hadn’t been time for that call yesterday. Nor had there been a chance for the two of them to talk about what was going to happen next, other than a few promises traded when they were able to dance together. They had stumbled back to the room too tired for any conversation deeper than Sweet dreams, and when they woke this morning—well—as Kyrie had said, there was important, and then there was imperative.

  But now . . .

  He slipped beneath the sheets and pulled her close, soaking up the feel of her warmth against his skin. She switched the phone to her other hand and rubbed her cheek against his chest. His pulse spiked.

  They really had to get moving on these plans for forever.

  “I’ll see you next week,” Kyrie said. “Have a safe trip back.”

  “What did she say?” he asked as Kyrie ended the call and dropped her phone on the bedside table.

  “At first she said a lot of things that I don’t want to repeat. But once she heard the whole story, she knew right away that I did the right thing. It was Siobhan’s wedding. How could I not help?”

  “Okay, but what about the loan?”

  “She agreed that the end justified the means. We came up with a deal. I only need to repay half, and I have twice as long to do it.”

  “That seems fair.”

  “I’m glad you think so. It was my idea.” She wriggled a bit closer, playing hell with his concentration. “She drove a tough bargain, though. She insisted on free coffee for life.”

  That sounded like the opening he needed. “Speaking of bargains, I think we have one that’s still not finished.”

  “What do you—Oh.” Her blush went far enough below her neck that he had to avert his eyes to stay focused.

  “Yeah, oh.” He yielded to temptation and kissed the tip of her nose. “Why’d you leave the lake, Kyrie? For real this time.”

  “It wasn’t all a lie. I do suck at good-byes.” She bit her lip. “But only when I really don’t want to leave the other person.”

  “That’s . . . encouraging.”

  He was pretty sure there was more to it. Could he explain how he knew? No. He just knew.

  Maybe there really was something to Grandma’s lines about lover’s intuition.

  “The real reason was . . . I was afraid that if I stayed—if we had one more night together . . . I would end up falling for you. Totally and completely. And I knew that would only lead to a mess, because I wanted to be home and you wanted to be all over the world, and I wanted to build my business and you wanted adventure, and I thought . . . I was pretty sure there was no way around those things.”

  “But now you think there might be?”

  “Now, I think . . . no. I know.”

  “Knowing is good.”

  “So is learning. Especially when it’s something about yourself.” She breathed in deeply. Parts brushed parts.

  He checked the clock. How much time did they have before the farewell brunch?

  “Remember what you said, about how you liked to learn about new places because it made you feel stronger? Well, I’m kind of the same way. Except it was the other way around. You got stronger by mastering new places. I got strength from familiarity and routine.”

  He thought of his days in the hospital, when the first fear and newness had passed and he learned to take pleasure in the predictable schedule of nurse visits and pain meds and meal trays.

  “I think I understand,” he said.

  “But the thing is, nothing has been routine since I left the lake. Okay, I was still in the same place, but I was learning all kinds of new things, all about codes and wiring and mortgages and . . . and everything. Things I never believed I could master, but I did. Because you had convinced me I could make it happen.”

  “Kyr . . .”

  She pushed up on her elbows and gazed down at him. “Listen to me, Ben. I kept telling myself I was opening the shop because you gave me the guts to do i
t. And that’s true. But the other part was . . . I did it to keep you close to me. Everything about it reminded me of you and the lake and us. But I finally got a clue. I could settle for the substitute, or I could take a chance and maybe end up with the real thing.”

  “God, Kyrie.” He swallowed hard, his hands at her waist. “I’m not letting you go again.”

  “Me, either. There’s no way of getting over you, Ben, and I’m not going to go hunting for one.” Her eyes softened. “Especially when it’s far more satisfying to think of a way we can both get what we want.”

  “You think I want anything but you?”

  “Right at this moment?” She glanced at the telltale tent pole holding up the sheet. “No. But we have to get out of bed eventually.”

  “Not if I tie you to the bedpost.”

  “Be serious. My sister Jenna . . . she’s going through a rough time. She was in a bad accident, and her marriage just ended, and she . . . she needs some focus. I thought, maybe, she could take over the day-to-day management of the shop.”

  This time, the jump in his heart rate was all about hope. With, yeah, some lust thrown in, just because.

  “Where will you be while your sister is running things?”

  “I thought maybe I could ditch the building and make a coffee shop on wheels.”

  Screw the brunch. “And where might those wheels be headed?” he asked as his hands ran slowly down her ribs.

  “That part is open for discussion.”

  “You know,” he said, gripping her hips, “there’s something to be said for having a home base. Especially if it’s filled with good coffee and great music.”

  “But what about seeing the world?”

  “There’s a lot of places around the globe that grow coffee.” With a hand on either side of her, he guided her to the precise spot he needed her. She closed her eyes and he breathed her in, committing the moment to memory.

  “Ben? I know the real reason I couldn’t say good-bye.”

  He rose to kiss her, murmuring his question against her lips. “Why’s that?”

  “Because there wouldn’t have been anything good about it.” She smiled down at him and moved over him and joy jumped within him like the water from the fountains outside her window. “It turns out I’m really lousy at lying. Especially to myself.”

  Keep reading for a special preview of the next

  Calypso Falls romance

  LIFE OF THE PARTY

  Coming soon from InterMix

  Jenna Elias Stirling Elias—now Jenna Carpenter, thanks to her legal name change having finally been approved—gave an experimental lift to the tray of assorted coffees, lattes, Frappuccinos, and one lone plain hot tea. Too heavy. Her arms could handle it but her stupid damned leg would give out on her and she would end up sprawled on the floor. Loudly. Messily.

  Not the best course for someone whose mantra was, Nothing to see here.

  She removed the mug with the teabag and the silver pot of hot water before trying again. Better, but not quite. Off went the Skinny Latte. Ah. That would work. Two trips were a pain, especially when the Brews and Blues coffeehouse was hopping, as it was this on this early-June afternoon. But a pain in the ass was infinitely better than making a spectacle of herself.

  Aunt Margie would disagree, of course. But she wasn’t the one hauling overloaded trays through a swarm of folks all focused on their phones, their companions, or their conversations—anywhere but their surroundings. Those who did notice Jenna usually fell into two camps: those who frowned at her for blocking their way, or those who moved aside with a knowing smirk before patting her ass. She had never suspected that merely crossing a room could be the modern-day equivalent of running the gauntlet, but hey, she had never suspected that she would find herself doing the broke student-waitress thing at her age, either.

  Soon, she reminded herself. She had her new name. Her degree was one semester from completion. In a few months she would be far away, away from Calypso Falls. And memories. And history.

  Meanwhile, there was coffee to deliver.

  Jenna ducked and dodged her way to table 6, the big one in the farthest corner, of course, with no real trouble. The people seated around the table—four men, three women—barely paused in their conversation as she delivered the drinks to their recipients. Good. She hated when people came to an abrupt halt at her approach. For one thing, she always felt like she was interrupting something crucial. For another, a part of her always wanted to check her smile and her walk to make sure that both of them were still working properly.

  “I’ll be right back with the rest,” she said to anyone that might have been listening as she picked up her empty tray.

  The woman who seemed to be running this show glanced up from the sea of notepads, tablets, and phones filling the table. “My latte?”

  “On its way.”

  “In that case, could I get a fruit cup, too, please? Yogurt. No granola.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Jenna moved back behind the counter, grabbed a fruit cup, and added it to the tray with the remainder of the drinks. She turned to the register and was modifying the receipt when a deep voice reached across the counter and commanded her attention.

  “Excuse me.”

  She glanced toward the speaker. Her usual smile—the one her ex had paid so much money to repair—slipped a bit as she took in the man who waited patiently beneath the Order Here sign.

  He was . . . well, it was odd. There was really nothing extraordinary about him. He was dressed well but not flashy, his grey pinstripe suit and muted blue tie obviously good quality but not obnoxiously so. His dark brown hair had the slightest wave at the front, spoiling the otherwise neat lines of his short cut. Everyday, ordinary brown eyes watched her with the mildest interest. They certainly weren’t smoldering, or evasive, or hypnotic.

  Yet she couldn’t quite stop staring at him.

  Her rational brain ticked through the points—attractive guy, my age, waiting politely—while something within her urged her to look harder. Deeper. Before she missed something vital.

  Then he raised his eyebrows and tipped his head, and she caught it. The flash of humor. The air of expectancy. The feeling that, in this moment, she was the only thing that mattered to him.

  “Could I get a coffee, please?”

  Hello, reality, you cruel bitch.

  “Um . . . sure. Sorry. I’ll be right with you.”

  Okay. So his desperate focus had been not on her, but the caffeine she represented. Nothing wrong with that. Better, even, than the possibilities being offered up by her imagination.

  She returned to the register and focused on the order she needed to modify. It would be a lot easier if she wasn’t certain that he was following her every move, watching her hands glide across the keyboard like they held Harry Potter’s wand. Or maybe he was the one with the magic. It certainly took all of her determination to stay on task when she had this sense that she was being compelled to turn back to him.

  Lucky for her, learning to walk again had taught her a few things about determination.

  At last the receipt was modified. She braced herself and returned to Mr. Compelling with the practiced smile she kept in her pocket for any situation requiring tact and/or faking.

  “Sorry for the delay. One coffee, right?”

  “Right. Milk, no sugar.”

  “Let me deliver these, and I’ll get right on that.”

  She reached for the tray, but he placed a hand across it.

  “Hang on,” he said.

  Well, hell. There was nothing like watching a guy turn into an entitled, demanding jerk to crash through the Hormone Net.

  “I’ll be right back.” She said it firmly, resisting the urge to explain playground rules about taking turns to him.

  “That’s going to the table in the co
rner, right? The loud group?” At her nod, he added, “I’m with them. Add my coffee to the bill, let me pay up, and I’ll do the delivery myself.”

  Her first thought was that Aunt Margie had got things seriously wrong when she said that all men were shortsighted asses who couldn’t see beyond the end of their peckers.

  Her second was that he’d caught her limping and felt sorry for her.

  She straightened her shoulders, her backbone, her hips. “Thanks, but I can manage.”

  “Sure you can. But I’m heading that way anyway.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’ve kept them waiting long enough.”

  “Yeah, well, I kept them waiting longer. If I come bearing gifts, they might be more forgiving.” The grin flashed again. “In fact, why don’t you toss a few of those muffins on the tray, too. I have a lot of groveling ahead. It might go better if I feed the beasts before I throw myself at their mercy.”

  How was a girl supposed to resist that?

  Jenna laughed before she knew what she was doing, loosening the knot that had tightened her insides.

  Not every man was her ex. Not every man was her father.

  “Okay. The customer is always right, and all that jazz.” She drew his coffee and added half-and-half. “But don’t tell the boss, okay? Can’t let her think I’m slacking off.”

  So what that the boss was her sister who would be far too delighted that Jenna had talked to a man—a good-looking one, to boot—to worry about who carried a tray to the table.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Jenna had to check. Not only were they sealed, they were also curved in a secret smile. And utterly enticing.

  Not now, Jenna.

  “That’ll be a dollar ninety-eight, please.”

  Up went the eyebrows again. “For everything?”

  “I’m sorry, did you mean you are—”

  “Taking care of the bill for the whole table. Right.” He extended a credit card. “Unless that complicates things too much.”