A Ring For Christmas: A Bride by Christmas / Christmas Lullaby / Mistletoe Manoeuvres

Another waltz began and they swayed to the lilting music.

What on earth had possessed her to ask Luke to dance with her again? Maggie thought, feeling a flush of embarrassment warm her cheeks. How brazen was that, for Pete’s sake? Not only brazen but dumb, really dumb. She was supposed to be putting distance between them, not practically begging to be kept nestled close, so enticingly close, to his body.

But he felt so good and smelled so good and he danced so smoothly she was transformed into Ginger Rogers. Oh, what harm could one more dance do? She’d never see Luke again after tonight, so why not have the memory of two fantasy-filled dances instead of just one? Sure, why not?

It was sort of like the story of Cinderella, only this handsome prince wasn’t going to run all over the kingdom of Phoenix trying on a shoe to find her. No this was it, all there would be, and the very thought of that was so depressing it was enough to make her weep buckets.

Soon—much, much too soon—the song ended. Maggie drew a steadying breath, then stepped back out of Luke’s arms.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling slightly. “That was lovely. I…Well, I have things to check on regarding the cleanup crew and what have you so…It was nice meeting you, Luke. Goodbye.”

“Good night, Maggie,” he said quietly.

Maggie made her way through the crowd on the dance floor, and Luke watched her go before weaving through the guests to return to the head table. He sat down next to his father, a distinguished-looking man with a trim build and salt-and-pepper hair.

“Everything went very well this evening, don’t you think?” Mason St. John said. “Your brother and Ginger must be pleased.”

“Mmm.” Luke rocked his chair back on two legs and folded his arms over his chest.

“Your mother is still out there dancing,” his father continued. “She’s having a marvelous time.”

“Mmm.”

“The wedding cake was the best I’ve ever tasted,” Mason said. “Some I’ve had over the years have been like sawdust with a plastic bride and groom on top.”

“Mmm.”

“I do believe you’ve met your match in Maggie Jenkins, son,” Mason said. “You have all the signs of a man who has had the pins knocked out from under him.”

“Mmm,” Luke said, then blinked and thudded the chair back onto four legs. “What?”

Mason chuckled. “I thought that might get your attention. I’ve been watching you, Luke. You’re a goner. I was beginning to believe there wasn’t a woman in Phoenix who could stake a claim on you, but Maggie Jenkins obviously has. What I don’t understand is why you look so gloomy.”

“It’s very simple, Dad,” Luke said. “Maggie may plan fantastic weddings but she doesn’t want one for herself. She has no intention of marrying. I don’t know if you believe in love at first sight, but it has happened to me big-time. I am irrevocably in love with a woman who wants no part of ‘until death do us part.’”

“Well, for the record,” Mason said, “I certainly do believe in love at first sight. I fell in love with your mother when we were in the seventh grade and one of the rubber bands from her braces flew off and smacked me right in the eye. As for your Maggie? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you need a plan.”

“Oh, man,” Luke said, squeezing the bridge of his nose, “don’t say that word. I’ve worn out my brain already trying to come up with exactly that—a plan. And I’m running on empty.

“Maggie isn’t going to go for the wine-and-dine routine. No way. She’d head for the hills before she got tangled up in anything that even hinted of courtship, a serious relationship. I can literally see, feel, the walls she’s built around herself.”

“So chip away at them. That’s where the plan comes in,” Mason said. “Come on, Luke. You’re a St. John. We go for the gusto, we’re winners, we don’t even entertain the word defeat.”

“In the courtroom,” Luke said. “Dealing with women is a whole different arena, Dad. It calls for understanding the female mind, and I’m not sure there’s a man on this planet who can do that.”

“Good point. I certainly don’t know what makes those wonderful creatures tick, even after all these years,” Mason said, stroking his chin. “Well, now, this is going to be quite a challenge for you, isn’t it?”

“The most important fight of my life,” Luke said. “I really, really need an idea.”

“Yep,” Mason said, nodding. “Keep me posted on this, son.”

“Yeah, okay. In the meantime, pass that champagne bottle down here, will you? Maybe there’s a magic answer waiting for me in the bubbly.”

Mason laughed as he handed his son the bottle. “All that is in there is a hangover waiting to happen.”

“Whatever,” Luke said, then filled his glass to the brim.

Late the next morning Luke rolled onto his back in bed, opened his eyes and groaned. He closed his eyes again, pressed his hand to his throbbing forehead, then dropped his arms to the bed with a thud.

He was a dying man, he thought, eyes still tightly closed. Some idiot was playing a bongo drum in this brain, every tooth in his mouth ached and even his hair hurt. To even hope to survive he’d have to cut off his head and grow a new one.

“Ohhh, I hate champagne,” he said aloud, with another groan thrown in for good measure. “I’m never drinking that junk again. This is somehow all Maggie Jenkins’s fault, damn it.”

Luke opened his eyes slowly, then eased upward and moved his feet cautiously to the floor. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his throbbing head in his hands.

He couldn’t believe he’d done this, he thought miserably. He hadn’t gotten smashed since his freshman year in college many years ago. But there he’d sat, filling his glass with expensive champagne, chugging it down, filling it again and again and again.

He vaguely remembered his father watching him and chuckling with maddening regularity, then finally extending his hand and asking for Luke’s car keys.

So how had he gotten home? Oh, yeah, his dad had driven him with his mother following in their vehicle. Well, at least his SUV must be parked in the garage beneath the building. His mother had seemed to get a kick out of her oldest son’s condition, too, now that he thought about it. What rotten parents.

At least Robert didn’t know what his big brother had done. Robert and Ginger had changed into their traveling clothes and with all the proper fuss had left the reception to catch the plane to their honeymoon in Greece.

Their honeymoon. Because they had just gotten married. Mr. and Mrs. Robert St. John. Robert and Ginger were so happy it was nauseating. No, that wasn’t fair. He was sincerely pleased that Robert had found his happiness in ditzy Ginger. By this time next year they would no doubt have produced the first St. John grandchild. How crummy was that?

“Knock it off,” Luke said, the sound of his own voice increasing the pain in his head.

He was so jealous of Robert and Ginger, it was a crime. And envious of his parents and every other dewyeyed in-love couple on the face of the earth.

Well, watch out world, because Luke St. John was in love, too, and…and had gotten as drunk as a skunk because the woman of his heart wasn’t remotely close to being in love with him. What a bummer.

Luke staggered to his feet, steadied, then shuffled into the bathroom, where he stood under a very hot shower for a very long time. He dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, consumed four cups of coffee with four matching aspirins and decided he might, just might, live.

He wandered into the living room and slouched onto the large sofa, resting his head on the top and staring at the ceiling.

How many people, he wondered, would decide to take the big step and get married after witnessing the faultless Barrington-St. John wedding Maggie had produced the night before? Would her phone be ringing off the hook Monday morning with newly engaged brides-to-be? That was sure what he would like to be doing come the first of the week—helping to plan the wedding of all weddings and…

Luke sat bolt upward, then smacked one hand against his forehead as the sudden motion caused a lightning bolt to shoot through his head.

There it is, he thought, his hear racing. Even through the last lingering fog of his hangover it was taking shape, coming together, clicking into place.

The Plan.

“Yes,” he said, punching one fist high in the air.

Maggie spent Sunday catching up on Roses and Wishes paperwork, tackling a mound of laundry and cleaning her neglected apartment on the upper floor of the old house.

That done, she shopped for groceries for her Mother Hubbard cupboards. She prepared a nice dinner for herself of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and a fruit salad, with the smug knowledge that the effort would provide enough leftovers for several days.