Accidental Cinderella

It wasn’t the way Luc looked at Sophie. No, this was something altogether different. Her mind skittered through all sorts of possibilities involving bare broad shoulders, rumpled bed sheets and a lot more skin than he was showing now….

It kind of took her breath away.

It was her last night in St. Michel….

Even if he wasn’t part of her “New Me” plan, she’d never see him again.

But then the strangest thing happened. Her better judgment kicked in.

What was the point of a one-night stand—besides a night of great sex?

Back home, her friend Ida May Higgins, the woman who’d known Lindsay since she was born, who’d cared for her after her mother died and had in many ways been a surrogate mother to her, insisted that the only way Lindsay could fix what her former fiancé, Derrick, had broken was by simply taking the time to be alone so that she could get to know herself.

Alone.

As in no one-night stands.

Besides, Sophie had yet to cut the cake and toss the bouquet. As the maid of honor, Lindsay needed to be available for Sophie, not formulating a plan to hook up with Mr. Hottie.

Willing herself not to look back at him, Lindsay swallowed the rest of her champagne, set the empty glass on a busing tray and made her way toward the terrace for a breath of fresh air.

Something—anything—to clear her head.

If she were at home right now, she’d pull out her mother’s recipe book—a small red notebook filled with pages of handwritten recipes, mostly desserts—and bake. The kitchen was her sanctuary; baking helped her keep her sanity.

Even though she’d been so young when her mother had died she didn’t have memories of her, she had her recipes. And bringing them to life somehow made Lindsay feel connected to this woman she never really knew.

She’d brought the red notebook to St. Michel with her but she hadn’t been near a kitchen in the month she’d been there. So, since baking wasn’t an option, she made her way toward the ballroom’s open doors.

The terrace was dotted with a smattering of people. Mostly couples who’d stepped out into the moonlight for a little romance, it seemed, from the way people were paired up, some with arms entwined, others stealing little kisses—one couple, off in the far corner, getting a little too frisky for public decency.

Lindsay hated intruding on the romance, but she couldn’t go back inside. Not just yet. To give them some privacy, she walked to the other end of the terrace, leaned against the ornate wrought-iron railing and tilted her face into the briny breeze that blew in off the ocean.

It was a gorgeous night. In North Carolina, she’d need a parka and gloves to be outside on a December evening. Here, the temperature was a little chilly, but it was brisk and fresh—just what she needed. She was already starting to feel revived.

After being in St. Michel a month, Trevard, North Carolina, seemed like a vague smudge on a distant horizon. It was hard to believe she’d be going home tomorrow. She blinked away the thought. No way would she waste her last night dwelling on the mundane. She’d have her fill of that soon enough.

She looked around, taking in the huge moon hanging over the water like a brilliant blood orange, spilling diamond seeds across the inky sky and into the restless sea below. Such a beautiful moon on Sophie and Luc’s wedding night, as if the heavens were bestowing a special blessing upon their union.

It was all so romantic.

A shooting star burst across the sky like a Roman candle. Remembering her earlier conversation with Sophie, a chill skittered over her. She crossed her arms to rub away the goose bumps, then closed her eyes and wished…

When she was done, she looked around, blinking a couple of times at the couples paired up on the terrace.

Well, Cinderella, you’re certainly not going to find your prince at Lover’s Lane. Better get back inside.

As she turned to leave the happy couples to their romantic seclusion, she nearly bumped into someone. Backlit by the warm glow of the ballroom, he was silhouetted and she could barely make out his features. But she didn’t need better light to recognize Carlos Montigo.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said with a melodic Spanish accent, warming her from the inside out.

“It is beautiful. I was just—”

“If you’re cold, I’d be happy to offer you my jacket.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine.”

He nodded and stepped up to the railing next to her. Looking at him from this angle made her draw in a quick breath. He might’ve been born of the bad-boy mold that attracted her, but something in his voice and in the way he carried himself suggested he was different. But exactly how, she couldn’t discern.

“You made a beautiful bridesmaid for the princess.”

“Thank you. Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”

She cringed at the inane question. This was not North Carolina. Sophie hadn’t met three-quarters of the guests, and she’d bet good money that Sophie and Luc didn’t know most of them personally. That was what famous people did—hang out with other famous people. Go to their weddings. Whether they knew each other or not.

“I am acquainted with the Henri Lejardin, St. Michel’s minister of art and culture, the brother of the groom. I have catered events for him in the past. I am in town for another occasion—the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival—and he invited me tonight.

“I am Carlos Montigo.” He offered a hand and she took it.

“Lindsay Bingham,” she returned.

He lifted her hand to his lips. She liked this gallant European custom.

His gaze slid to hers and locked into place.

An electric jolt coursed through her, and she couldn’t look away. Even though she knew she should.

Oh, boy, she was in trouble.

But then, with the same air of rogue regality he’d shown when he so blatantly perused her from across the room, he released her hand and did a sweeping search of her face, his gaze finally lingering on her lips, which were suddenly so dry she had to moisten them before she could speak.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Florida.”

“Really? I had you pegged for a European all the way.”

“All the way?” he said, mimicking her slight southern accent. His mouth quirked up at the corner, forming a sexy half smile that Lindsay would’ve bet money had driven more than one woman wild.

“You’re definitely American, and judging from the accent, from somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line. Am I right?”

“No, you’re not. I don’t have an accent.”

He stood about a foot taller than Lindsay, yet now that her vision had adjusted to the moonlit terrace, she could see that his eyes were actually a deep shade of green rather than brown as she first thought.

“Yes, love, you do.”

Oh, boy, indeed. Tall. Broad shoulders. Green eyes.