Wooing The Wedding Planner

“Byron,” Roxie said again, touching his arm. “Really. He’s not worth it.”

“Two...”

Bertie’s face was turning an alarming shade of puce. His fingers clawed at Byron’s hands over his throat.

“Three...”

“Byron, please,” Roxie said, gripping the sleeve of his black shirt. “Stop.”

“Four...”

“All righ’,” Bertie wheezed. “All righ’. Lemme go.”

Byron gave it another few seconds, his eyes drilling into Bertie’s skull. Then he released him.

Roxie watched Bertie sink, gasping, to the ground. She felt sick.

Byron’s frame swelled and released over several breaths. Then his brow arched and he reached up to straighten his tie. “Informed decision. There might be hope for you yet, Lothario. Now make the call.”

“What about my car?” Bertie asked, his raspy voice carrying nothing more threatening than resentment. Effectively cowed.

Byron jerked a shrug. “A friend of yours can pick it up in the morning.”

“It’ll have to wait here?” Bertie asked. The incredulity shrank from his face when Byron tilted his head. A simple gesture with surprisingly lethal intent. “Okay,” he said, taking a smartphone out of his jacket pocket. “Dialing.”

They waited, none of them moving. Byron nodded from Roxie to the tavern doors. She shook her head. A stubborn move. Or maybe she just couldn’t get her legs to move.

This was her mess. She’d see Bertie off, if for cognitive reassurance alone.

Not that he said so much as boo to her when, a half hour later, the transportation service arrived. On the way to the van he trampled over the handbag she had dropped when he’d started taking liberties with her. Byron went so far as to open the door for Bertie.

After Bertie climbed inside, Byron leaned in to deliver one last ultimatum. “If I get wind of you around here again, we’ll assume you’ve forfeited the first option and there won’t be a cop in town who’s not on the lookout for your license plate and VIN number.”

Bertie muttered something about good ol’ boys. Byron rolled the taxi door into place and gave the window a few raps. It wasn’t until dust rose in the van’s taillights that Byron strolled to where the handbag lay and picked it up. It was beaded and yellow. In his hands, it looked as delicate as one of those Imperial Russian Fabergé eggs they kept behind glass in the Winter Palace. She focused on it, swallowing, as he dusted it off. Her throat was sore, strained by tension. She expelled a breath, reaching for clarity. “Was the choke hold really necessary?” she asked.

He turned to her. The streetlight fell over him like a halo. His long, rich black hair was smoothed back from his face. It fell to the nape of his neck. It should be illegal to be so effortlessly handsome. In profile, his long face was a half-moon thanks to his large chin. He had an ever-present five-o’clock shadow. His proud aquiline nose was a touch overlong but it spoke of his Mediterranean heritage and suited him well.

At six-five, his broad frame saved him from being lanky despite his trim physique. His shoulders filled his button-up shirt.

It had been ten and a half months since she’d wept on him—and that long precisely since she abandoned any long-held notions of fairy-tale knights, whether they appeared in shining armor or tailored Brooks Brothers.

There was no chance she was going to start believing again. No matter how well he wore that Brooks Brothers.

He scanned her closely. She wished she was steadier. She was mussed—her dress, her hair... The glassy edge of fear was too close to the surface. She raised her chin again, locking her arms over her chest as he looked at her. Really looked at her.

He pushed the air through his nostrils and gave her a short nod. “Yes,” he decided before returning to her, handing her the clutch.

“Thank you.” She opened the handbag, letting her hair fall across her cheek, shielding his view. She riffled through the contents. Everything was there, in place. As she checked that her smartphone was safe in the hidden pocket in the lining of the bag, her hand tweaked. Damn it, that hurt.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, clipped. She stopped, hearing the bite. She mirrored him, breathing deep, trying to unlock the tension. She closed her eyes and shook her head when it didn’t work nearly as well as it had for him. “Really. I am.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. She could feel his eyes on her face, perusing. His hand lifted, as if he wanted to touch her. “Look,” he said, lowering his head toward hers instead, “it’s not your fault.”

She felt something touch the corners of her lips. Something light. Humor? Fighting ghosts of aftershock and hysteria, she couldn’t sort one emotion from another. “I know. I know that. It’s just...a mess.”

“The guy’s a tool.”

“He also happens to be the son of one of the wealthiest hoteliers from here to Fort Lauderdale,” Roxie told him. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t hear from his daddy’s high-powered litigators by the end of the week.”

Byron lifted a noncommittal shoulder. She’d forgotten he’d once been a high-powered litigator, too, and didn’t seem at all concerned with the threat. “What kind of a name is Bertie anyway?” he asked.

“Short for Robert, apparently,” she told him and rolled her eyes. “He’d do better to call himself that.”

Byron scowled. “No, he’d do better to keep his hands to himself.”

In the taut pause that followed the coarse words, Roxie saw him measuring her again. “I’m fine, Byron.”

“Sure,” he said, but closed the distance between them anyway. He reached up to take her elbow, making sure to keep his movements slow so she could track them. “Come on. I’ll buy you that drink.”

A laugh wavered out of her. “That’s kind of you. But all I want to do is go upstairs, take a long shower and down half a bottle of moscato.”

He glanced over her head to the apartment above. “All right. I’ll call Adrian. Or would you prefer Briar?”

“Neither,” she said quickly. When he looked at her in surprise, she shook her head firmly. “I’d rather they not know about this. Any of them.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I feel like I need to...absorb it before I get either of them involved,” she told him. “Plus, if Liv finds out, she’ll go chasing Bertie with her granddaddy’s shotgun. I can’t be responsible for her getting arrested after the babies.”

He tipped his chin toward the windows. “Then let me walk you up.” When her lips parted, hesitant, he spread his hands. “I’m already here. I’ll just walk with you, see you inside.”

Her mouth firmed. “But I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that,” he noted.

As he started walking, her steps fell into sync with his. It wasn’t that she was afraid to be alone with him. There were few people she felt safer around than Byron Strong—though she didn’t know why. But here he was again, witnessing another life fiasco.

His timing was horrendous. He’d borne witness to every low or ugly impasse of the last year.

Why is it always him?

Still, she gave in. She wasn’t steady. And she wasn’t all right. It would be an hour, maybe two, before she could process anything. In the meantime, he was right. She might as well have company. And though she was desperate for the chilled wine in her refrigerator, she hated drinking alone... “Go around back. I have a key to the garden door.”

The walk did her good, as did the shrill blast of icy air that knifed around the side of the tavern. Byron stepped in front of her, a solid wall that blocked the worst of the gale. She trudged along in his silent shadow. She needed that, too. Silence.

She rubbed her lips together. They felt bruised. Yes, she needed the moscato. To numb them. To mask the bitter taste of Bertie’s mouth. She’d need more than one glass if she was going to sleep tonight.