Kiss the Bride

by Deirdre Martin

  “Charlie.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, but kept moving. “What?”

  “A little advice, okay? From the man who enjoyed being your father?”

  The regret in his voice made her pause. From the man who enjoyed being your father. She swallowed, then asked the question that had plagued her for years. “About that, why ... why didn’t you ever contact me after the divorce?”

  Grimacing, he rubbed a hand over his hair, then sighed. “Oh, Charlie. Emotions were running so high and the lawyers said—” He broke off and shook his head. “Your mother and I thought a clean break would be simplest. We didn’t want you girls dragged into the marital acrimony where you’d be forced to take sides. Looking back ... it was the wrong decision. I’m so sorry.”

  Charlotte took a minute to absorb that, seeing the situation from an adult’s perspective. “All right,” she said finally. Then she lifted her brows. “And the advice?”

  Peter’s gaze softened. “Don’t expect Luke to be perfect, honey. You know better than anyone that no man is.”

  She hurried away from Peter and his last words and headed for the lobby. While she wished she could have hailed a taxi or rented a car to head back to LA immediately, she’d made a promise to Audrey and she would see this through. They’d been sisters, once, after all. And Audrey wasn’t so bad, “fashion advice” aside.

  The bridezilla was starting to grow on her.

  As she reached the lobby, her feet stuttered to a stop. Luke was there, leaning against the counter. In dry clothes now, though his hair was still damp, he was focused on his right palm. She took a hasty step forward as she saw the elastic bandage in his other hand.

  He was injured!

  But he glanced at the clerk, reassuring the young man with a brief smile. “It’s nothing. Thought I had something to staunch the bleeding in my room, but we’re all out.”

  They’d used up the supply on her. And for once it was Luke who was bleeding. She found herself staring at him as he deftly tended his wound. Had he been hurt while dodging her temper?

  But of course he’d been injured years ago. A teenager, losing his love. A man, losing his wife. He’d kept that from her, but that only went to show how deep the damage went.

  Damn it, she didn’t want a damaged man!

  She didn’t want someone who put up walls, because hers were high and thick enough as it was. If she had to love Luke, then he should be ... should be ...

  Don’t expect him to be perfect. You know better than anyone that no man is.

  Luke wasn’t perfect. Instead he was a man who needed someone to pierce his shell. To heal his wound.

  Just like her, he was imperfect. Just like her, he needed to love and be loved.

  Meaning, she thought, going cold then hot, that she had to do her part in the relationship. Be a partner and not a parasite.

  At the thought, a whole orchestra broke out in her head. A crescendo of sound that made clear it was a momentous idea. One she needed to act upon. But how?

  “There you are!” Audrey slipped her arm through Charlotte’s. “It’s time for brunch and one last wedding party practice session,” she said, dragging her toward the dining room.

  Leave it to Audrey to want to practice the spontaneous toasting of the bridal couple. Connor hooted with laughter at the announcement and dragged her to him for a big squeeze. “My lovely fiancée, you know that spontaneous means impromptu, right?”

  She sniffed, even as she brushed back a lock of his hair. “Of course. I’m very good with words, as you’ll see when I speak my personal wedding vows to you.” The woman was so good, she didn’t even drop a hint by glancing at Charlotte.

  For her part, Charlotte’s expression didn’t waver. She could feel it was set on nervous and with the way her heart was pounding, it was probably trending toward panic. Though she had a plan, her mind was racing at the same fast rate as her heart and she wasn’t feeling all that optimistic. The fact that the dining room was small and Luke had taken a table in the farthest corner of the room from her didn’t ease her mind.

  She might have lost him forever.

  She wasn’t going to lose him forever!

  Audrey, being Audrey, had arranged for a cordless mic and amp to be available so they could get a preview of their tones of voice. “And listen, everybody,” she said. “To avoid that popping sound when saying words containing B, P, or S, make sure you have the microphone a little to the side instead of in front of your mouth.” The whole room groaned, but the matron-of-honor gamely volunteered to go first.

  “Doesn’t the best man usually start these things off?” one of the groomsmen asked, but Luke declared himself unready to speak. “I’m mum, people, until the wedding reception.”

  The mic traveled the room while the weekend revelers shared ribald or sentimental reminiscences of either Audrey, Connor, or the two of them together. Charlotte didn’t absorb any of it really, her attention focused on Luke, who was tipped back in his chair, his eyes half-closed.

  She wondered if he’d even be awake when she took her turn.

  Everyone in the room had spoken but the best man and Charlotte when she grabbed the mic as it passed by. Audrey half-rose from her chair. “You don’t have to talk, Charlie,” she said. “We haven’t seen each other in years.”

  Charlie. Peter had called her that earlier. She’d forgotten that Audrey had used it, too, as they lay in their beds in that room they’d shared.

  Charlie, do you think I’m the most beautiful girl in the junior class?

  Charlie, I think you would look prettier with bangs. I’ll cut them for you tomorrow.

  Charlie, do you realize we’ll be the aunts to each other’s children?

  “I have some things I want to share,” Charlotte said into the mic. Her tongue was clicking against the dry roof of her mouth, so she paused to gulp from her water glass.

  “First, I want to thank Audrey and Connor for including me in this fun weekend. I’ll never look at mini-donuts in quite the same way again.” The crowd clapped in appreciation. “I’ve enjoyed meeting all of you, and particularly getting to watch Audrey and Connor interact.”

  She turned to them. “I admire how committed you are to each other. Connor smiles through Audrey’s bridal mania, while she is working so hard to make the day the most perfect—no, let’s not expect perfection—to make the day the very best for them both.”

  The room exploded in more applause. Audrey, as relaxed as Charlotte had ever seen her, stood up to curtsy. Then she dropped into her groom’s lap, who acted as if a whale had landed on him instead of a smiling piece of dandelion fluff.

  Charlotte couldn’t help grinning at them herself. They were going to make it. If there was anybody who could, it would be them.

  The clapping died down. “And if I could add just one last thing.” She turned to face the dark-haired man across the room. “Luke, I’ve been inspired by the partnership of your brother and Audrey. They don’t expect the relationship to rest on just one person’s shoulders. They each do their part—sometimes being the healer and sometimes doing the healing.”

  He’d sat up, his eyes fully open now, his pose alert. “Charlotte. . .” she heard him murmur.

  “Let me into your heart, Luke,” she said, “as you’ve found a way into mine. I promise to be careful with it.” Tears stung but she didn’t care when they overflowed. She wasn’t trying to pretend any longer with him. “Let me ... let me love you.”

  Her vision was blurry so she didn’t see that he’d left his place in the room until he swiped the mic from her hand and swept her into his arms. Her size nines dangled in the air as he brought her close enough to kiss. But first he brought the mic to his mouth—sideways, of course.

  “I have something to say after all.” He paused, then smiled down at Charlotte, the deep green of life ahead in his eyes. “Yes.”

  EPILOGUE

  The wedding was traditional in many ways. There were adorable flower girls and one small
ring bearer in knee pants. The bridesmaids’ dresses were not designed to be ever worn again, though one young woman claimed she might don the lightly beaded, sweeping mermaid-style when it was her turn to be married.

  Peter Langford walked the white-gowned bride down the aisle. When they reached the groom, he put her hand in the younger man’s, then lifted the elbow-length veil. Peter pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Be happy,” he murmured.

  She smiled back. “I am.”

  The ceremony had all the usual elements. And, as was the custom, the groom spoke his vow first.

  He grinned at his bride. “I wrote this myself.”

  Her dimple showed as she whispered up to him. “Stick with math. One plus one equals two will work.”

  Shaking his head, Luke took another step closer and the humor fled from his face. His hand tightened on hers. “Charlotte, you are my prize, my partner, my passion. You are my spirit, my soul, and the source of all good things to come in my life. I promise to walk with you on the road ahead, sometimes leading, sometimes following, sometimes side-by-side, yet always hand-in-hand.” He took a big breath. “I love you. I love you so much. Please, be mine.”

  Overcome by emotion, Charlotte, the professional in the vows business, completely forgot the words she’d practiced to say in return. She searched her memory, then scoured it again, but still came up blank. Holding up one gloved hand, she gave the man she trusted enough to marry a rueful yet loving look. “I will.”

  It turned out to be the exact right thing to say.

  All’s Fair in Love and Chocolate

  LAURA FLORAND

  Infinite thanks to Jacques Genin and Michel Chaudun,

  two master chocolatiers in Paris who allowed me inside their

  laboratoires, and answered all my questions.

  Thank you also to Sophie Vidal, chef chocolatier for

  Jacques Genin, for all her patience.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The problem with summer in Paris was the lack of coats, Ellie decided. She hadn’t really thought the timing through, when she decided to take her blogging artist career to a whole new level by moving here, but sundresses made it hard to hide a camera. Also, no one else on the streets seemed to be wearing a sundress, which was a little disconcerting; hers, in its white on sunny green flower pattern, had made her think of summer in Paris. Exciting new ventures. Seizing life with both hands.

  She angled her phone as best she could, trying to look like a farsighted person reading a text message, and took a shot of the luscious display of chocolate in the window.

  She loved this man. More than Sylvain Marquis, even, more than Philippe Lyonnais, more than Dominique Richard, she loved this one, the severely private Simon Casset. She loved what he did with his chocolate and sugar, the fantastical structures of it, the way they rose and rose in whirls and swirls of colors and whimsy, as if gravity had no meaning, as if the only thing that would ever stop him was lack of oxygen up there in the stratosphere.

  She had gone to his exhibit at the Salon du Chocolat in New York last year, but hadn’t seen him. She had circled around his sculptures taking picture after picture, just longing for him, for his world, to know how he worked, to see the man who made this. Later, from her photos, she had painted some of her best-selling works. Her readers had snatched them off her blog faster than you could click Pay-Pal.

  But now ... she had done it. Left the safety of New York, made the leap to Paris. Now she didn’t have to long from a distance. Now she, Eloise Layne, food blogger extraordinaire, artist, and newly minted Parisienne-in-training, was going to awe her readers worldwide by finding out his secrets. First Simon Casset’s and then, one after the other, those of every top chocolatier and pâtissier in Paris. She could be exploring the magic of food for years here.

  She didn’t have to long from a distance, but ... she hadn’t quite anticipated how much these superheroes of the Parisian gourmet scene would intimidate her, how embarrassed she would feel to go up and introduce herself, to ask for interviews and photographs. What were her credentials? A blogger. Nobody took that seriously.

  And—moving to Paris was all very exciting, but God, did she feel vulnerable, out there floating in midair with nothing to count on. It was hard to get up still more gumption.

  Maybe a particularly spectacular post would generate enough clicks that she could buy one of those spy cameras with the advertising money and—She took a step back, worried about the light reflecting off the display window, and ran right into something hard.

  The hardness closed around her, fingers curling into her bare upper arms. “May I help you?” a voice of steel asked.

  She jumped, or would have, except the grasp held her so strongly she couldn’t get any upward momentum. Fleetingly, irrationally, something strange took hold of her: a sense of purchase, as if she had just been given something to count on in her gravity-defying leaps. “I”—she fumbled with her phone, trying to switch it from camera to text. The phone went flying from her nervous fingers, hit the flagstones hard, and slid.

  “Oh crap,” she said in English and looked down—right into a storm grate. “Crap.” Had her last link with stability just slid down the drain? Alone in Paris, no real job, no friends, whole life uprooted, following a dream, unable to sleep from the constant sense of eager panic at what she was doing ... and now no phone. There was only so much exhilarated terror a body could take before she had to sit down and put her head between her knees.

  The firm fingers released her, which felt like the final betrayal. She had just started relying on their strong grip. She floundered, twisting to face their owner.

  She looked up past a fitted gray T-shirt over hard shoulders to—oh God, that was Simon Casset himself. She recognized him from the rare photos she had managed to track down, usually poorly shot ones at reward ceremonies. Unlike media darlings Sylvain Marquis and Philippe Lyonnais, or the infamous troublemaker Dominique Richard, Simon Casset let his work speak for him and kept the person who made it—him—out of the spotlight.

  He could have been a media darling, though, she thought, with a sudden wave of yearning that caught her by surprise, as if she had been playing with her back to the ocean. This man made those beautiful, swooping dreams? With his long, lean body, angular, ascetic face, cool, proud cheekbones, steel-blue-gray eyes, and tousled black hair that fell in one lock over his forehead like a cute nerd dragged out of a bout of computer programming? A few choice photo shoots, and he could be plastered up on bedroom walls where women could swoon over him in hopeless longing.

  That bare wall at the foot of her bed, for example ...

  She tried to get a grip, wishing she hadn’t lost his more effective one, still marking her like a slow stamp of heat. She glanced at her arms, half-expecting to see gold fingerprints against her skin. How did he do that? Grip her so firmly that she couldn’t even jump a half inch, but with such control that it hadn’t hurt?

  She looked back up at him, and attraction swept through her in a high cresting wave again. A man with that lean strength of his should be required to wear baggy clothes like they did in America. To protect hopeless cases like her.

  So why didn’t he play to the media? Too impatient, too private, too modest? Maybe she could be the person who revealed him to the world, the investigative blogger who showed the man behind the creations, the—

  “Who sent you?” he asked, with a cool lift of one eyebrow. He stood so close, she felt invaded. Loomed over. French, she reminded herself. Smaller sense of personal space. Still—that small? “Marquis? Lyonnais? Richard? Who wants to spy on my work this week?”

  The top chocolatiers-pâtissiers in Paris spied on each other? Delighted excitement surged. See, now, this was good stuff. She had been right to move here. She could get all kinds of dirt. Cover story. She needed a darn cover story. If he was a private person, he might not warm up right away to the idea of her plastering him all over the web.

  “I’m getting married,” she said off the top of h
er head.

  A little, thin, clear sheet of plastic slipped between her and the chocolatier. Barely detectable to the naked eye. But there just the same. Somehow her personal space grew, and she never even saw him shift.

  Wait. Oh damn. Had he been noticing her? Like in a thinking-she-looked-cute-in-her-sundress way? Stupid cover story.

  But that penetrating gaze of his made it absolutely impossible for her to back down from it. She had to be ready for this tough Parisian chocolate scene. Ready to report on the best of the best of the best ... and not get caught skulking on the street because their coolly lofty cashiers intimidated her. And definitely not pour out her soul at Simon Casset’s feet because he raised his eyebrows. “And I’m comparing the different chocolatiers in the city so we can decide who we want to do the pièces for the reception,” she said brightly, putting a little bit of snooty into it, like someone who could afford to have him do her wedding.

  Instead of someone who had just installed herself in an apartment the size of a walk-in closet and was praying this would all work out like she had planned and she would be able to make the rent.

  He studied her for one moment as if he could see right through to her underwear and maybe the soul underneath. Her soul was not sexy—she couldn’t do anything about that—but she sure wished she had worn something better than a white cotton bra and panties.

  She forced down that urge to confess all and throw herself on his mercy—I just threw my whole life over to live this dream, can I come take pictures of everything you do and show the whole world, please, pretty please? Firmly, she brightened her smile a couple of notches.

  His eyes flicked over her, down and up, just once in an infinitesimal shift. She might as well be walking around naked, that one flick made her feel so exposed. “I suppose that means you would like to visit my laboratoire and look at some of the previous work I’ve done.” He sounded resigned.