A Moment of Bliss (21 page)

T
he next day, a menagerie of people unlike any Roark had ever seen, strolled into the lobby of Honeywilde. He did his best not to so much as twitch an eyebrow.

The bride and groom, their band, and the wedding party totaled twelve all together, sporting everything from denim and leather, rivets and studs, and what looked like crushed red velvet, to a jacket of pink shag carpet. They had a lot more than their ears pierced, and hair that covered the spectrum from platinum to deep purple. One girl had streaks of what could only be described as cheetah print. It actually looked really good on her.

His mother would be having a fit if she still ran the place.

Roark smiled, delighted.

The bride and groom's band, Red Left Hand, enjoyed the contradiction of having fresh-faced, sweet-looking Whitney as lead vocalist, backed by a bunch of guys who looked like they'd done several stints in county.

Madison made all of the introductions and maintained such casual calm that any outsider would swear all of this was no big deal.

But Roark noticed the tightness around her eyes, the smile that he knew as her business smile. Her hair was smoothed back in the perfect low ponytail. Not a thing out of place.

“Roark, you've met Whitney Blake, the bride to be, and Jack Winter, the groom.” Madison stepped aside so they could shake.

“Welcome to Honeywilde,” he said, Sophie beside him, vibrating with excitement.

Jack tilted his chin and shook first. The black tattooed letters were more striking in person, curling over his knuckles, the sleeve of tattoos more intricate, traveling up his arm and disappearing beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeve.

Whitney shook Roark's hand next.

“Hey.” Her accent came out Southern sweet and smooth, looking and sounding like someone's favorite granddaughter. She was the antithesis of Jack, yet when she looked at him and said, “We're thrilled we get to be here,” she looked absolutely elated.

“We're glad to have you.” He smiled, not only thinking about what this wedding meant for the couple, but how much it meant to Honeywilde and his family.

Sophie caught his gaze, giving him a threat-laden stare. She'd pop up from her spot like one of those suction-cup toys if he didn't introduce her soon.

Roark held his arm out toward his sister. “Allow me to introduce you to the people who run Honeywilde. We're all here to help you in any way.”

Sophie's arm shot straight out to shake Whitney's hand.

Madison went on to introduce the staff to the band members, and Roark stepped aside. This was her event, after all.

Staff gathered the luggage from cars and took it to the appropriate rooms while the guests mingled and enjoyed champagne at the side bar Devlin had arranged. Madison stepped close to Roark's side, remaining quiet and watchful.

“Everyone looks pleased, all smiles so far,” he said.

“You think?” She nibbled at the inside of her cheek.

“Absolutely. Look at them.” The whole group looked like they were on vacation. Not a stress line among them.

“You did well. And Dev was right with his side bar suggestion.” He kept his hand low, but opened it, palm facing out. She gave in and joined him in a surreptitious high five.

Eventually, the wedding party was shown to their rooms, where they'd find the lavish welcome baskets that Madison and Sophie had put together. Roark had seen the contents as Sophie topped them with apricot-colored bows. He'd asked her if he could have one too.

As soon as the great room was free of guests, Madison spun toward him and the rest of the staff gathered there. “We have exactly an hour and a half to have this area ready for a casual dinner of mixed grill, and the requisite relaxing evening.”

Beside him, Trevor chuckled. “As long as it's requisite chilling out.”

Roark nudged him with his elbow on his way to help everyone set up. Madison was in the zone, so everything was requisite. He dug that about her.

The list on his phone had four check marks as they covered everything discussed: tables, food, drinks, background guitar music. Check, check, check
and
check.

Madison fussed with a strand of her ponytail as they waited for the guests to reappear.

“Nervous?” Roark asked, moving to stand by her side.

She released the strand of hair. “No.”

Their small party of early arrivals began to trickle down, sitting at the oversized round table set up in the great room.

Once the bride and groom were downstairs, everyone seated and stuffing their faces with barbecue and all the fixings, Roark stepped around the corner toward the lobby. He leaned against the wall by the stairs, out of the room where he could still keep an eye on everything but not
look
like he was keeping an eye on everything.

“How do you think it's going so far?” Madison appeared behind him.

He had to clench his teeth to keep from cursing in surprise. “You scared the hell out of me. Where'd you come from?”

She peeked around him to check on the guests. “I was back here spying before you thought of it, but I went to check with your head of housekeeping to make sure they were doing turn-down service and all that.”

Roark pinched his lips. “They know what they're doing. We've had guests stay here before.”

Madison returned his pinched-lip look. “You asked Devlin about icing the beers three times today. I'm allowed to check with housekeeping.”

He put his hands up. “Okay, you're right. You warned me you'd be all up in my business and micromanaging my people. You manage away, because it's going great so far.”

“I think it is, anyway.”

Roark glanced at the table of people, all laughing and talking a lot louder than necessary, then turned to Madison.

She was twirling her hair again, sucking on the inside of her cheek. She was legitimately worried. Of course she'd never admit as much, but he'd been around her long enough to know this wasn't her normal look. Madison was somewhere between fretting and quietly freaking the hell out.

“Hey,” he said, trying to get her attention.

She kept studying the table of guests.

“Hey.” He moved to block her view so that she had to look at him. “It's going great. Fantastic, if you ask me. This weekend is going to be epic. Don't worry.”

Madison studied him before standing a little taller. “I'm not worried.”

He considered arguing the point. He'd never seen her this way. She was obviously worried, but it wouldn't help her if he pointed it out. He wanted to remind her that to be nervous was normal, as was needing reassurance. And he was there for her.

It was exactly the kind of statement and offer that would freak her out even more.

“I know you're not worried,” he said instead. “You've got nothing to be worried about. The inn has never looked better. I'm merely making an observation.”

The tightness around her eyes softened as she released her hair, her shoulders relaxing. She didn't thank him with words, but she closed the short gap between him and reached for his hand. Tangling their fingers together, she held his hand. Only seconds passed, but in the short span of time, her eyes said thank you a thousand times.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I need to go check with Wright on dessert.”

Madison was a blur of motion, gone in an instant, and it didn't matter. Because that was the first time she'd reached for him that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with intimacy.

Once dinner and dessert were over, the plates picked up and the table clean, the wedding party sipped on their drinks and shared stories about being on tour—a few of which had to be made up. No way that stuff happened in real life.

The drum player started debating the merits of a song they were working on. “It's brilliant, and commercial radio will hate it,” he said.

“No one is going to hate it,” Whitney insisted.

“Why don't you let us hear some of it and we can tell you if it's crap?” one of the three bridesmaids asked.

The bass player groaned, slumping in his chair. “I thought we were taking a break from the tour so these two could bend to social standards and participate in an institution known for its failures.” He gestured toward Whitney and Jack.

Jack flipped him off. “If you guys are in such a fucking twist about this song, what's it hurt to play it for someone?”

“You just like to hear you're right.” The bass player returned his middle finger with a smile.

Madison nudged Roark in the arm. “I know someone like that.”

He reached over, skating his fingers across her ribs enough to make her squirm before she shushed him.

The band bickered a little more, but it ended in Jack going to get his guitar and Whitney shaking her head about singing. It took a little coaxing, but she eventually buckled to the encouragement of their friends.

Whitney's voice was low, a little raspy, sounding nothing like she looked. The song was beautiful, but that wasn't what captured his attention.

What stood out, even more than Whitney's voice and the chords Jack played, was the depth of affection in their eyes as they looked at each other.

Jack stared at Whitney, eyes wide, like he was watching for falling stars, afraid he'd miss the best of them. When he'd glance toward his guitar, Whitney would study him, smiling like she was in on a secret that only the two of them shared.

The two of them didn't just love each other; they were amazed by one another.

Roark glanced around to see if he was the only one noticing this. Finally, he braved looking over at Madison. Her face was a mask of porcelain calm, but she fiddled at the ends of her hair, staring at the two of them without blinking.

Surely she saw it too. These two people loved each other, and in less than two days, he and Madison were going to give them the kind of wedding that suited who they were. Not a wedding for anyone else, only for them.

The mood was—dare he say—romantic. A thrill of pride tickled him, and even as he relished taking part in the event, it meant the inevitable drew closer.

“Hey,” he whispered, waiting until she looked at him. He mouthed the rest, his fingers crossed beneath his crossed arms. “Come by my room when we're done here? Late dinner?”

The corner of her mouth curled up as she nodded.

Time might not be on his side, but he was damn well going to make it count.

“I
have everything we need, with congratulations from the kitchen and a request that we finish up some leftovers.” Roark wheeled a trolley toward her, with two platters, presumably of grilled meat and veggies, and a bucket with four beers on ice.

She helped him carry the plates over to the coffee table in his den area, then the platter and bucket of beer.

So. This was Roark's room, and it was exactly what she expected. Clean, orderly, nice quality, and comfortable. Neutrals ruled the color wheel, with the odd splash of color in picture frames and paintings. She guaranteed those were Sophie's doing.

And his room was
covered
in pictures. His brothers and sister, Beau, Roark hiking with his family, pictures of the inn, several of him as a boy with a distinguished-looking gentleman who had to be his grandfather, and two pictures that she assumed were of his parents when the Bradley kids were all very young.

“Is that your grandfather and that's your family?” She nodded to the pictures on the table below his television. Against her better judgment, she was opening that door, but she had to know. The Bradleys as kids were all too freaking cute.

“That's us.” Roark already had a bite of kabob in his mouth.

“Heathen.”

“I'm hungry,” he said around it.

She looked away, taking a plate and placing a Portobello kabob on it before sitting.

“But yes.” He finished chewing as he got up to grab two pictures and bring them over. “This is me and Granddad, back in the day, and that's all of us with Mom and Dad.”

She took the pictures, even though the last thing she needed was to see adorable prepubescent Roark, already being the little man of the family for his younger siblings. A quick look down, and yep. He was all that and more. A head taller than the rest of them, he wore a smile but held a seriousness in his eyes. He even had his arms thrown around his family, rather than looking like a disgruntled preteen. “Look at how adorable you all are.”

Roark sat down, a solid weight beside her. “I was already hitting that awkward preteen stage. And look at Devlin. He'd rather be anywhere than posing for a family photo.”

“Where . . .” She was treading on dangerous ground again. “Where are your parents now?”

Roark grabbed a beer and twisted it open, taking a long swig before he spoke. “Mom moved to Asheville, so she's not far away. Dad is in Greenville. They rarely come up, never together. It's awkward for everyone if they're here at the same time. But they're happier now, so . . .”

“You were close to your grandfather though, huh?”

He sat up, tilting the picture still in her hands. Rhododendrons in full bloom all around them in the photo, and a misty view of the mountains behind them that'd make an artist weep.

“He was my idol growing up. One of those people who knew a little about everything and could do anything from fix a car to grow the perfect tomatoes. I loved him.”

The sincerity in his voice, the loss that still remained, cracked something open inside of her, a fracture with light shining out.

She shifted on the couch beside him, the mood suddenly too deep. “And look at your little shaggy haircut.”

“It was the style. And it's horrible, I know.”

“No, it's cute.”

“Well, I try.” He winked at her.

“Actually, I have a confession to make.”

“Nice.” Roark took the pictures from her and set them on the coffee table. He opened another beer and handed it over. “Confessions. Do tell.”

Instead of debating how honest she should be, she spat it out. “Before I even visited Honeywilde, that first time, I did some research on you guys.”

“It's normal to check a place out before you visit.”

“Yeah,” she said, dragging the word out. “But I researched you. All of you, but mostly you. Online.”

“Really?” He sounded impressed instead of creeped out.

“I saw that you went to App State, that you studied business and played baseball there, then got your MBA.”

“Did you look up a picture of me in my baseball uniform? I was pretty cute in that too.”

“Very cute.”

“You
did
look me up in my uniform.”

“Of course. Baseball uniforms are hot.” He was hotter now.

He rubbed his hand on the napkin over his thigh. “Not gonna lie, the fact that you looked me up is pretty hot too.”

“You are so weird.” She took a long drink of her beer. “I didn't go to college.” The bitter truth was out of her mouth before she could stop it. A close, personal fact that she had no reason to share with him, but after seeing him with Trevor, seeing with her own eyes what really made Roark tick, her truth wanted out.

The thing was, she'd wanted to go. She remembered kids taking the tests and talking about going away to school. They were getting out, getting on with their lives in this bright, positive way. She hadn't had the means or the grades. Her long swig of beer was cold enough to make her eyes water, but that's not why she blinked and looked away.

“Didn't slow you down though. You learned all about business and stuff the old-fashioned way.”

“You mean the only way I could.”

He nodded, eating his food, and into the quiet of the room she told him the rest. “I had no money for college, obviously, but I didn't have the grades either.”

“How is that possible? You're one of the most intelligent people I've ever met.”

That compliment was not going to get to her, even though it did. “Self-taught and clever. Not the same thing.”

“Cleverness got you to where you are now, and you seem to be doing all right.”

Except, she wasn't all right. Yes, she did fine now, but she'd had to scrape and scavenge to get here. She'd always worked her ass off for everything she had, and it left her with nothing else but work.

Her teen years weren't spent studying and her early twenties weren't full of stories about carefree weekends and playing baseball. They were full of scrounging to get by, then thinking she'd finally found love, only for it to fall apart.

“I was more concerned about having a meal at night than history and math. School was something I had to do until I was eighteen, but I was also waiting tables so at least I knew I would eat.”

His expression might look placid to someone else, but the set of Roark's jaw showed how hard he was working not to rage against her past. “Damn, I want to drop-kick your parents, in spite of the fact that you're doing better now.”

She hadn't meant to say all of that, but . . . it wasn't fair. People might think she was okay now, or even that she was cold and stuck-up, but that was only because they knew nothing about where she came from or how she got here. Madison stuck a potato wedge in her mouth to keep from telling Roark more. She could barely taste it, but chewing gave her time to get it together. “I don't mean to vent. Life is good now. That's what matters. It's—”

“Fine.” Roark said the word for her, setting his plate down. “You're going to say it's fine and I swear to god I cannot hear that word one more time, okay? It is
not
fine.” The vehemence in his voice brought Madison up short. In the time she'd been at Honeywilde, she'd never heard him like this. His tone brokered no argument.

He turned to face her, taking her plate away to set it on the coffee table as well.

Everything inside her screamed to run and hide from whatever he saw or thought he saw.

“You keep saying you're fine or it's fine that you got the shit end of the deal as a kid, and it is not fine. You deserved to be a kid and have fun and not worry about having a hot meal. Working to eat and survive at fifteen or sixteen is not okay. There's nothing fine about it, so stop pretending otherwise.”

“I'm not pretending, I—” She snapped at him, then clamped her mouth shut.

“Don't you dare hermit up on me right now.”

Madison stared at him, clutching her beer until her hand hurt from the cold.

“You're the most outspoken person I know. Say it.”

“I'm not pretending my childhood was okay,” she ground out. “This is just how I deal with it. I've moved on because I have to. What's my option? Stay in bed for days, or pay for years of therapy? Cry all over you? Not going to happen.”

Roark straightened, his lips pinched, then he nodded to himself as if he'd decided. “All right. You want to know what I do? To deal with it all?”

She was lost on how to answer. Roark always seemed so together.

“I make lists. All the time, lists. You've seen them. My brother gives me shit about it, but what you don't know—what no one knows—is I make a list for almost everything. I make one at night and sometimes in the morning, and I check each item off to keep me on track. If I don't, I'd wake up completely lost inside my head. I couldn't sleep for the jumble of thoughts about to swallow me whole. If I can't look at something that tells me what I need to do, what needs to be done, my mind starts to wander and I start to think. That is not a good thing, and you want to know why?”

Madison blinked.

“Because I start thinking about my brothers and my sister, and when I think about them, I worry about them. I worry and then I get angry for them because of what we should've had and didn't. I worry about what we went through, I worry because I've worried for so long, I can't turn it off. I was responsible for them in some way from the time I started kindergarten. Then, when I'm done stressing over them and their lives, I start to think about how much they resent the hell out of me for it.”

“They don't,” she tried to argue.

He shook his head, unconvinced. “And I don't blame them. I hover over them and get too bossy sometimes. Dad gave me a larger share of the inn than them, and even though they know it makes good business sense, it still bothers them. They see me with a degree of separation. Dev and Sophie? They can have an hour-long conversation without opening their mouths. Trevor and Soph were two of a kind when we were kids. Me? I'm the manager. Was then and I am now.”

“You're more than a manager to them. You have to know that.”

“Maybe, but the fact that I had to basically take over to save Honeywilde, that my folks were too wrapped up in themselves and their misery to keep this place in good shape—it pisses me off. It pisses me off that I was never given any option
but
to play the responsible-leader role, my whole life, yet somehow
I'm
the asshole. I'm the asshole because they wouldn't do their jobs as parents or as owners of this place, and it is
not
fine. It's shitty and it's okay for
you
to tell me it's shitty. You don't have to insist everything is fine. Not with me.”

“I hate my mother,” she blurted. The one thing she never said aloud came pouring out, making her throat burn. But this time, she wasn't going to shut herself up. “I mean,
hate
her. She was the reason Dad left and she . . . she was
horrible
.”

Madison could still hear the spite in her mother's voice when she told a sixteen-year-old Madison that if she didn't like this new boyfriend's place, she was more than welcome to try her luck on the streets.

“If she'd tried, if she'd even given half a damn, I would've felt like the luckiest girl alive. She resented me for existing. I could see it in her eyes. I wish I would've had an older brother or sister who gave a damn about me. Believe me. Your family loves you for what you did.”

At first, she wasn't going to say the rest. It wasn't her place or any of her business, but she saw something in Roark's family. A bond that, though strained at times, went deeper and held stronger than anything she'd ever experienced. What they had mattered, and if she could help Roark, she would.

“Just . . . maybe. Maybe your brothers and sister don't want you to do so much for them
now
?” She eased into her suggestion. “Maybe they want you to trust them a little more. Give Devlin more responsibility or, I don't know, let them do things all on their own, without your help. Even if it means they mess up sometimes.”

Roark leaned back on the couch, his gaze steady on the photographs in front of them. He didn't say anything for a moment and doubt flooded her senses. She couldn't feel the beer in her hand anymore. The low throb of numbness spread to every limb.

Finally, he sighed. “I know. You're right, and I want to let go a little. The thing is, I don't know if I can. I trust them; it's me I'm not so sure about.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop.

Madison reached for him. Without hesitation or uncertainty, she put her hand over the top of his, and held on tight.

She'd done her best not to know Roark, not to fall for him and like him more and more. She didn't want to understand him or for him to understand her, but she did. She knew how hard he tried and how much those around him meant. And no matter how walled up she tried to be, he got her.

More importantly, he accepted her.

She met his gaze.

“C'mere.” Roark tilted his chin and tugged at her elbow.

“What?”

“You're sitting too far away.” But he was the one who made the move to sit even closer, taking the beer bottle from her hand and setting it on the coffee table. “I can't kiss you over there and I need to kiss you right now.”

She pressed into him and their lips met, his kiss slow and soft, his fingers in her hair, skimming her face and neck. He brushed his hand over her hair, cupping the back of her head, savoring the kiss like he was savoring her. Cherishing. He slipped his tongue past her lips, coaxing her open, giving her everything that she wanted in that moment. An acceptance, without words, of who she was, all that she was, on the outside and the complicated inside.