Wooing The Wedding Planner

The small smile grew by a fraction. “That is fancy.”

They crossed De La Mare, bound for the intersection of Section Street and Fairhope Avenue, the hub of downtown. On one corner was the white Fairhope Pharmacy. On the other was the city clock that chimed the hour. As they waited for traffic to move off so they could venture across, Byron saw that Roxie’s pale cheeks were tinged pink. He might’ve thought it was the wind had her smile not grown into a full-fledged grin. “What?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

He nudged her arm with his. “Come on.”

She licked her lips. Then she said, “You just always show up on my epic fail days.”

He frowned. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” she insisted. Her stare flickered over his middle. “You remember last March.”

He studied one of her gloved hands—the one that had wound up in his solar plexus that day in March. It had been an accident, of course. He’d stepped into the blow unwittingly and she’d apologized profusely...before crumbling on him and crying buckets. All as a result of finding Richard and her sister Cassandra in the middle of a tryst. “That?” He shrugged, dismissing the incident completely. “That was nothing.”

“I hit you.”

“You were having a bad day.”

“When I break a nail, that’s a bad day,” she pointed out. “That one could only be deemed hellacious in the extreme.”

“I wouldn’t lose sleep over it,” he advised. The light changed and they began to cross. “It’s been a year.”

“Eleven months, almost,” she said thoughtfully.

He knew she was thinking about her divorce and not their exchange that day. He changed the subject in a hurry. “What’s happening at the library?”

“There’s a vow-renewal ceremony. Fifty years.”

Byron whistled. “Impressive. Who’re the lovebirds? Anybody I know?”

“Sal and Wanda Simkin. They’re both retirees. They moved down south recently to be closer to their daughter and her family. They’re from New York, where Wanda worked as a librarian and Sal as a janitor. She was working late one night while he was cleaning. She fell off a ladder. He was there to catch her.”

“There’s a happy accident for you,” he mused as they crossed again, eastbound. The library was just ahead. When she pursed her lips, he asked, “What? You don’t believe in accidents?”

She thought over it. “I don’t know. A year ago, I would have said no, I don’t believe in accidents, happy or otherwise.”

“So you think it was what—kismet?” Byron asked, shifting the bulk in his arms from one side to the other.

“I’m not sure where I stand on all that anymore.” At his curious gaze, she added, “Fate. Kismet. I used to be a big believer in serendipity. In signs. Now...?” She shook her head. Sniffing in the cold, she continued, “Anyway, Sal and Wanda wanted something small at the library. One officiant. Their daughter and her family as witnesses. But the daughter wanted to surprise them after the ceremony. As they exit onto the street, all their friends and extended family will be waiting outside.”

He nodded understanding. “With the rose petals.”

“That are halfway to Canada by now,” Roxie noted as another gale blazed a trail through the tree-lined grove across the street where the college campus and amphitheater were located.

“It won’t be hard to find more,” he told her. “It is Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes. It is.”

Ah, he thought, gauging the slight hint of her displeasure. A kindred spirit. “After I use the Xerox machine here, I might have time to stop by the market, pick some up for you. Or I could try another florist. As long as you don’t tell Adrian.”

“My assistant will be here in a half hour or so. I’ll have him stop by Flora and see if Penny can scrounge together some more petals.” She stopped when Byron nudged the door open and stepped back to let her pass. Blinking at him, she gave a surprised smile. “Oh. Thank you.”

Byron frowned as she brushed by him into the warmth of the hushed building. How little courtesy had she been shown through the last year that the simple opening of a door struck her off guard? Inhaling, he followed her subtle, sensory cloud of lilac that was florid and pristine.

Lilies. Larkspur. Lilacs. Could he be any lamer?

“Oh, my God!” Roxie exclaimed, bringing him to a halt behind her as she whirled around to face him in the lobby.

“Jesus,” he muttered, bobbling the boxes at the renewed pallor on her face. “What?”

“Your scarf! It’s—”

“Halfway to Canada?”

“It’s my fault,” she said ruefully. “We might still be able to find it—”

“Rox.” Byron leaned toward her, lowering his voice as he cocked a brow. “It’s a scarf.”

“Yes, but it’s yours,” she lamented. “I’ll get you a new one. I promise.”

Byron nodded briefly to the woman sitting behind the information desk before setting the packages on the ledge. He relieved Roxie of hers to give her arms a break. “I’ll do you one better. I’m picking up Olivia’s tavern shift tonight. You could come by, buy me a beer, brighten my day.”

“Oh.” She stared at him, stunned. “I’d love to.” She rubbed the cashmere gloves together. “But I actually have a date.”

Byron didn’t know why his spirits tanked at the news. Of course she had a date. It was frigging Valentine’s. And she was Roxie Honeycutt. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Bertie Fledgewick,” she said. “My sister Julianna knows his family. She set me up. You know how it is.”

The only person either of his sisters had ever set him up with was Adrian. Adrian was now married to his friend James Bracken. “This isn’t your first date since...?”

She lowered her eyes to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees and cocked her hand on her hip. “The second. Bertie took me out for martinis two weeks ago. Tonight’s a little more formal. Dinner at Alabama Point.”

“Sounds classy. You’re still living in the apartment beside your shop, right? Above the tavern?”

“In Olivia’s old bachelorette digs—” she nodded “—for the time being.”

“Bring him by when he drops you off,” Byron invited. “Drinks are on me.”

She licked her lips to smooth a canny smile. “You want to buy our drinks or size him up?”

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m excellent at multitasking.”

She laughed. It was like tinny bells on Christmas. It brought mirth and a pleasant flush to her face—a face he thought still a touch too thin after last year. It couldn’t be her first good laugh since the divorce, could it?

She pressed her knuckle against the space beneath her nose as the laughter began to fizzle. She shook her head, eyes still sparkling. “I needed that.”

Bertie, you lucky bastard. He picked up the boxes again. “Anytime. Tell me where these are going.”