A Moment of Bliss

by Heather McGovern

  “Help?” he offered, wondering if this was some kind of new experience for her. “Any time. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I just need to sleep on it. By tomorrow I’ll have a plan in place and we’ll be set.”

  Roark wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.

  She nodded once, that flinty look back in her eyes, as if her decision had been made and it would happen, if only by sheer force of her will. “Everything will be fine. Troutman will leave here the biggest fan of weddings, ever.”

  Chapter 7

  “I’m not a fan of weddings,” Troutman proclaimed, clasping his hands over the curve of his round belly.

  Roark had to bite his bottom lip to keep from laughing at the expression on Madison’s face.

  Phil Troutman was of average height, round in the middle, and damn if his appearance didn’t fit his name. His face was full, but curved to a point, the tip being his nose. His brown eyes bulged slightly as he stared, giving Roark the feeling he was being watched by a fish.

  Madison gave the man a smile like she’d just finished sucking on a lime. “I’m sure you’ll feel different after you hear what I have planned and see Honeywilde for yourself.”

  “Hell of a curvy road you’ve got coming up to the place. People get car sick a lot, I bet.” Troutman frowned at Roark as though the roads were his fault.

  He wasn’t sure if such a comment warranted a response, but he was going to give one anyway.

  “Actually, no. We don’t get any complaints about the roads.”

  Madison bumped him with her elbow, a warning glint in her eyes.

  “I’m complaining. That’s one right there. Didn’t you hear me?” Troutman jerked a handkerchief out of his pocket and turned away to scrub at his nose.

  Roark took the opportunity to shoot a look back at Madison. Nightmare was a good way to describe this guy.

  He moved closer to Troutman. “Can I get you some tea or anything else to drink before we look around? That might help if you don’t feel well after the drive up.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t feel well. I said the roads are too damn curvy. You ought to have someone look into that. Now, show me what’s so great about this place. You’ve got until eight, because I have somewhere to be tonight. Everyone decided to cut me out of this decision, so I’m cutting myself back in.”

  Madison cocked an eyebrow at Roark. Without saying a word, he got the message loud and clear. Today was going to be a long day.

  “I believe Mr. Bradley has a tour mapped out for us, if you’re ready.”

  Roark clapped his hands and pivoted toward the great room. He went through the usual main floor tour, but about halfway through, Troutman turned to Madison, his face on full glower. “This is where you want to have the wedding?”

  Madison stiffened. “It’s where Whitney and Jack want to have their wedding. They want the ceremony on the veranda, and I’m going to make that happen.”

  Troutman tromped toward the French doors, garnering alarmed looks from a few guests who were reading quietly. He yanked on the scroll handles, which of course didn’t open the doors.

  “Here . . .” Roark caught up to him and turned the handle down to open the door.

  They filed out onto the veranda, Troutman heading straight to the railing.

  “It’s kind of big,” he grumbled over his shoulder.

  “It’s roomy enough so that a party of fifty won’t feel claustrophobic,” Madison called as she caught up with them.

  “You don’t think this will be dangerous? A lot of people drinking and dancing after a wedding? Someone could fall to their death, and who will they try to sue? My clients.”

  She shook her head, her voice tight. “There won’t be drinking and dancing out here, Mr. Troutman. Only the ceremony takes place out here. We’ll have the dinner, open bar, and music inside.”

  Troutman sniffed, turning to glare at the mountains. “I still think it’s an accident waiting to happen.”

  Madison inhaled long and loud through her nose, her gaze locking on Roark’s as if she was thinking of tossing Troutman over the railing.

  She pinched her eyes closed. Slowly she exhaled, her face relaxing as she wet her lips. She breathed in and out again, and finally opened her eyes.

  He had no idea what had just happened, but he wanted to see it again.

  Madison pasted on a smile that was clearly false, but only slightly less attractive than the real thing. “Mr. Troutman,” she sang, stepping closer. “I do not want the ceremony to be dangerous; that would be awful. I’d love to hear your ideas on how to make it safer. You know the last thing I want is to cause you or the band any trouble. I’d be happy jot down any wedding suggestions you may have.”

  Her voice was shy of a coo, the politeness too syrupy for anyone, let alone Madison.

  It took him a moment to figure out what the hell was going on. She’d talked about the need to massage Troutman’s ego, and how everything had to be his idea. The magic she was trying to spin on him had a purpose.

  Troutman turned around to look at her too. “My ideas?”

  “Yes. You’re a brilliant businessman. I’m sure you have ideas to make this wedding absolutely perfect. We would be honored to have you involved.”

  Roark stood there, more than a little surprised at how good she was at playing sweet. She was anti-schmooze, so this had to be killing her, but if it got Troutman on board, he was all for it.

  Then, as she all but batted her lashes at the fish man, he damn near passed out. He much preferred the tart version of Madison Kline, but he respected her spin skills.

  Troutman crossed his arms to rest on his belly. “Well I-I don’t . . .” He stammered, searching for the words. “I don’t have time for all that nonsense. I don’t mess with weddings and . . .” He waved his hand dismissively.

  “We could always rent a tent and have the ceremony in the field below,” she suggested, acting dead serious, as if that was anywhere near a good idea. “Of course that’d mean hiring out the tent and tables, because Honeywilde isn’t equipped with a full outdoor arrangement.” She looked at Roark, batting her lashes in the same way she had with Troutman.

  It took a second to shake off the shock before he caught it was his cue.

  “Right. We don’t have any of that, but there’s a place in town that rents it. I think it’s weekly though, so you’re probably looking at several grand? I don’t really know. Then there’s the drainage issue. If there’s rain, even a few days before, there’s sogginess.”

  “Yes.” Madison winked at him. “Sogginess is a big issue in the mountains.”

  Roark cleared his throat to keep from breaking into a grin. He and Madison were joining forces to get fish-face to bite the damn bait, and he liked the feeling of being on her team.

  “That sounds like a lot of bullshit hassle if you ask me.” Troutman shoved away from the banister. “Let them get married out here. Get drunk if they want. I can get nondisclosures and waivers signed beforehand if need be.”

  How did this guy manage to help anyone’s career?

  The rest of the tour went exactly like the start. Troutman grumped about everything, pointing out liabilities and issues around every corner, only for Madison to lay it on thick, and Roark backing her opinions. With sugary-sweet manipulation, she offered to have Troutman involved in even the tiniest detail, until he buckled and went along with everything she already had planned.

  “Well . . .” Madison turned and focused on Troutman once they returned to the great room, hours later. “What do you think of my plan?”

  Fish-man probably didn’t detect the challenging tone threaded through her coquettish demeanor, or see the steely look hidden by her thick, flirty lashes, but Roark saw it all. Madison had strength of will that shined through her doubts and overshadowed her cool reserve. He saw it in her posture, heard it in her voice, felt it in the air.

  And damn. He was into it.

  Troutman grunted and cleared his
throat, wiping at his nose again with his handkerchief. “If you really want to know, the place seems fine if someone wants to get married. I don’t think these two idiots should be getting married at all. That’s the problem.”

  Madison’s gaze locked with Roark’s in what looked suspiciously like panic.

  “I . . . I don’t see a problem,” she tried.

  “It’ll kill their chemistry on stage. Have you seen ’em? They’ve got it and they’ve only got it because it’s new, it’s a secret. The young fans like virile, available idols. They’re going to end up a couple of useless saps who write the same old drivel as everyone else. I’ve told them as much, but you see who’s still planning to get hitched. I’d make them call it off if I could. Unfortunately, I don’t have that kind of power.”

  She stared at Roark, her lips slightly parted, but no words came out.

  “You know how these fall-in-love-hard, fast-wedding stories go. Sure, they’ll end up divorced in a few months, but that doesn’t help. Then they’ll hate each other’s guts and break up the band. Then what’ve I got?”

  It was a horrible thing to say. Roark had barely survived his parents’ divorce and here was this asshole wishing it on his clients.

  Madison swallowed, her gaze darting about, but she said nothing.

  Roark didn’t want to convince Troutman of anything. He wanted to throw him out of the inn, headfirst.

  “And that mess Whitney said about magazine coverage? Absolutely no. I don’t want it turning into a media circus up here.”

  Roark took a step toward him at that, getting his attention. “It won’t be a circus. We’re keeping the entire weekend top secret.”

  Madison finally spoke up. “Right. But it’s a wonderful opportunity for post-event public relations. To help their careers.”

  “No.”

  Her response was calm. “Mr. Troutman, a lovely feature in a magazine like Southern Living won’t cause overexposure.”

  “What part of no do you not understand?”

  It took every ounce of restraint Roark had not to step in and call out Troutman for being the unbearable prick he was.

  “I’ve handled high-profile weddings before. We aren’t talking about the paparazzi here,” she argued.

  “Are my words not getting through all that blond hair? I said no.”

  “Hey,” Roark snapped. “We both heard you say no, but you’re not listening. Your clients chose Madison because she knows what she’s doing. She knows weddings and how to get the most out of them. She knows how to be discreet. I’ve seen her portfolio. She’s the best at what she does, if you’ll just listen to her.”

  Madison placed her hand on Roark’s arm, her eyes wide before she regained the serene façade. “I’m sorry. I believe what Mr. Bradley is trying to say is that I’m suggesting the publicity because it’s in the best interest of your clients.”

  Roark swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat. That was not what he was trying to say. Troutman was an ass and he didn’t deserve her apology. The publicity was Roark’s idea. Madison having to haggle with the likes of Troutman was his fault, and it made his stomach turn.

  “How would advertising their sap status be in the best interest of my clients?” Troutman leaned back, his hands over his belly again, eyes shiny with greed.

  “Well . . .” Madison looked around.

  Roark blurted out the first thing that came to him. A lie, but he had to fix this. “I’m a big fan of theirs and the two of them getting married is intriguing. It won’t hurt their chemistry; it’ll make it better. Particularly if there are only rumors that they are an item, but no one really knows. Most fans love that kind of stuff.”

  Troutman cocked his head.

  Madison piped up. “Plus, you’ve still got a few weeks. You could always work that angle of things. Rumors get out, fans get into the ‘are they or aren’t they?’ chemistry. They’re in a band together, but they’ve yet to confirm their relationship status. If you spun it the right way, I don’t think a wedding would ruin their chemistry, I think it would amp it up.”

  “You don’t tell me how to do my job. You’re a wedding planner. I manage careers. You organize chocolate fountains.”

  “Hey.” Roark clenched his fists with the desire to shove that handkerchief down Troutman’s throat.

  Madison waved her hand through the air. “I was merely . . . thinking out loud about how amazing this wedding will be. Gorgeous location, beautiful couple. You know, romance and luxury, but edgy. Women get carried away with stuff like that. Female fans especially love it.”

  Troutman looked like he was about to roll his eyes, but he stopped. “Wait . . . they do. It’s stupid, but they do.”

  Madison clasped her hands in front of her like a hopeful little girl. If it wasn’t so bizarre coming from her, Roark would’ve laughed out loud.

  “I know I love the big weddings they put in magazines. The pictures of the dresses are always my favorite. I save them. I think we all have dreams of our own big day, you know?” She shrugged, false wistfulness pouring off her.

  Roark shook his head, feeling like he’d just done a round of dizzy bats.

  Troutman wrinkled up his already wrinkled forehead. “Women save those magazines?”

  “They do.” Madison kept it up, spinning a web of wedding magic for Troutman. She made the post-ceremony publicity sound so enticing, Roark was ready to go out and buy all copies of the magazine right now. And she did it all while making it sound like it’d be Troutman’s idea.

  He scratched at his round chin. “Let’s say I convince Jack and Whit to do it. I don’t want it in some cheap, B-list magazine. I want big-time. I want the cover.”

  Madison nodded. “Of course.”

  “I need to make some calls. Make sure this is going to take off like I need it to. Those two are going to get married whether I like it or not. Might as well make it work for me.”

  “I think it’s a brilliant plan. Why don’t we arrange a time to talk next week to see if there’s anything else I can do?” She stepped closer to him with a smile so sweet it’d cause cavities.

  Roark blinked to keep his eyes from popping out.

  “Yes. I’ll have my people call you.”

  “And I will walk you out.” She stood right at Troutman’s side and cut her eyes at Roark as they turned to go.

  He watched them go, shooting daggers at the Trout the entire time. Who did that jackass think he was? The Trout was definitely fish-man’s new name.

  “Asshole,” he muttered. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that dinnertime hunger wasn’t helping his sour mood. He tromped toward the restaurant but paused at the bar near the entry. “Y’know what?” he said to no one.

  “What’s that, sir?” The bartender, Steve, stood up from where he’d been bent behind the bar.

  “Jesus. Don’t do that.” Roark leaned on one of the chairs before slipping his jacket off and hanging it over the back.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “You’ve got to stop calling me sir. Roark is fine.”

  “Okay. Sorry, Roark. What can I get you?”

  “Something to cure confusion and an asshole headache?” He rubbed at his eyes.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Nothing. What’ve you got that you can make fast and it’ll kick in even faster?”

  “I’m trying out a new pomegranate drink. Have the fresh mix ready to go. Could I interest you in a taste test?”

  “Tell you what, you pour me some of that pub mix with the sesame sticks and peanuts, and I’ll test a double of whatever.”

  Steve hurried about, serving up a snack bowl and rattling a shaker of whatever the hell Roark had ordered.

  Madison would find him as soon as the Trout was gone. He’d done a good job of not jerking Trout up by the ears, but she’d still looked miffed on her way to the door. What was that about?

  Either way, surely she’d find Roark in the bar. Then he’d find out what the hell just happened.
The need to see her alone gnawed at him worse than Beau with a chew toy. But only so they could discuss the afternoon’s events, talk about tomorrow, talk business, and gripe about Trout being a jerk.

  That’s what he told himself, anyway.

  Chapter 8

  Madison found Roark in the restaurant’s small bar. Even from the side, with his shoulders hunched in exhaustion, the man struck a figure that halted her steps. She kept going though, because she needed a drink and they needed to talk.

  “Vodka martini, up with a twist,” she told Steve, sliding into the seat next to Roark’s.

  “That bad?” He turned to look at her, his tie loosened, hair ruffled as though he’d scrubbed his hands through it a few dozen times. His gorgeous, crinkly-eyed grin made her consider ordering a double.

  “You’ve met him now. You tell me.”

  “The guy’s an asshole.”

  “I know.”

  Roark sipped on a dark pink concoction served up in a martini glass. She did a double take but was too tired to say anything. They sat in the empty restaurant as the bartender shook her drink in a martini shaker and Madison tried to soak up the calm.

  She eased back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  Troutman was exhausting. Dealing with him and finally resorting to playing the harmless female was grating. All of that smiling at stuff that wasn’t funny had worn her nerves to a frayed edge. But sitting in a cozy bar, the lights dimmed, Roark quietly drinking his mysterious pink drink . . . this was nice.

  She rolled her head to the side, keeping her eyes mostly closed so she could peek at him between her lashes.

  He sat leaning forward with his elbows on the bar. His posture made his dress shirt pull tight across his broad back, his loosened collar and tie revealing the tan skin of his neck against his dark hair. He kept his hair cut notably shorter in the back. She bet it’d feel great to rub against the grain. Soft but a little bristly.

  Madison rolled her eyes. It’d been too long since she’d been with someone if she was ogling the back of a man’s head. Thank goodness he couldn’t see her, because she was undeniably mid-ogle.