Magical Weddings (102 page)

A little voice in her head reminded her that he’d kissed her back in her office the first day they’d met, but she pushed that episode aside. She still hadn’t been able to figure that one out. That was the day she’d called him an ass hat, after all.

Maybe he was just a little turned on by rudeness.

But she wasn’t being rude now.

He pulled back and looked into her eyes. With his face lit from beneath, he looked like a demon come to tempt her.

He frowned. “You’re thinking nonsense again. Shall I apologize? I won’t mean it, of course, but I will if you wish.”

“No. That’s okay. I’m good.” She picked something off the plate and stuffed it into her mouth so he wouldn’t just take up where they left off, no matter how badly she wanted to.

Ew!
It was shrimp. She hated shrimp.

He handed her a napkin and she realized her disgust must have shown on her face. She spit the decimated appetizer into it and wiped her mouth.

“Not a fan?” He took the napkin from her and tossed it in a large garbage can under the counter.

She shook her head, determined not to throw up. She didn’t want him to remember her as the girl who fainted and threw up for no good reason. “No. I can’t stand seafood.” She shrugged. “Utah is land-locked. I never acquired a taste for it.”

“Perhaps you’ve never had good seafood. Perhaps I can tempt you into trying sushi sometime.”

“Not a chance.”

He smiled, though he looked a little wounded. But it wasn’t like he’d asked her out or something. And when they left the lodge in the morning, she’d never see him again. He’d be back in England by Monday or Tuesday. Just when did he think they’d have time for sushi?

And he had to stop kissing her. She was the kind of chick whose lips were tied directly to her heart, so when he left town, she was already going to suffer. She would never be able to handle a full-blown broken heart.

What she needed was something—besides shrimp—to put between them.

“I’m going to light some candles.” She stood up and searched for the lighter. “I feel fine now.”

He stood too. “I take it you do not want company.”

She smiled politely. “I need a few minutes to myself, to process, you know?”

“I understand. Call out if you need me.”

“I will.” She picked up one of the candles and took it with her.

The hallway was completely black now, and the ballroom was getting down to flower-cooler temperature. She went to the closet where she’d stored her personal stuff and got her coat. Having something to do made her feel much better. Putting distance between herself and St. John helped her feel normal again. She wouldn’t be surprised if she blushed every second they were in the same room. And her heart needed to rest after more than an hour of racing.

She put only three big candles in her apron and took them upstairs. Three would have to do. St. John would think she was an idiot if she fell down the stairs because she’d tried to take too many.

There were three large rooms over the south half of the lodge. Each had a giant arched window in which she placed a single candle. The small flame seemed pretty pathetic for such a huge space, but that was as good as it would get. If she had a team, she’d have a dozen vases and candles of different sizes. The water and the glass would have made the windows visible for a mile.

In the last window, she paused to watch the party starting in the parking lot. The stream of car lights winked through the trees as guests started arriving. The generator kept the strings of white lights on, both inside and outside the tent. Men directed traffic with flashlights—compliments of the lodge. Four outdoor heaters looked like a line of tiny space ships hovering over red-hot heating elements. A combination of fog and breath lent it all a mystical element. It was going to be a memorable night.

And this would be the last.

The thought was bittersweet, but the bitterness was due to the fact that London would be devastated. What would her friend do now that Ivy and Stone would be no more? And what would Mal do herself?

January and the wrecking ball weren’t far away.

She wondered if London had found two seconds to sit down. Had she already realized what this disaster meant to their business? Had she been too busy to remember about the disaster clause? Surely, once things settled down, London would come to the same conclusion. Maybe she would come to terms with it before Mal ever got the chance to talk about it. Hell, maybe she realized it before Mal had. Maybe she, too, was trying to get up the courage to say it out loud.

“Ivy and Stone is finished,” she whispered. Her breath made a circle of fog on the glass.

“No!” cried a little voice in her heart.

Yes
, she wrote on the little cloud, and tears started streaming down her face. Images flashed in her mind. The first open house they’d held. The tiny crowd that showed up. Mostly employees or family of employees.

The line was twice the size the next year, for their anniversary. Then came the Holiday Open Houses. The lines were all the way to the street. Even when the economy tanked, Ivy and Stone customers came to support them, to make sure their favorite flower shop stayed in business when so many others were closing their doors. It seemed a shame to close now that the economy was bouncing back.

Their full-time employees. What were they going to do?

Maybe they’d find other shops to work at. But it wasn’t so easy for owners. Every florist had a right way to do things. Adjusting, working for someone else, would be torture.

Mal searched the parking lot for London’s head of messy blond hair poking out of a clip. And there she was, laughing with guests in line.

“Oh, London.” Mal sobbed as quietly as possible.

A shape moved behind her reflection and dark arms wrapped around her. St. John’s chin came to rest on her shoulder.

“Mallory. Please,” he whispered. “Let me help you. What is it you’re keeping from me?”

He released her only long enough for her to turn in his arms, then he pulled her close. He drew that damned handkerchief out of his pocket and blotted her tears, his brows puckered with worry.

“Of course it may be none of my business, but I hope you will tell me in any case.”

She nodded. He was going to find out anyway. Whoever counted his money for him would notice an extra fifteen grand in his account.

She sighed. “I’m just tired.”

He looked doubtful.

“But I do have something to tell you, just in case you didn’t read your contract very well.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “A disaster clause.”

“What about it?”

She swallowed hard and forced her emotions into her stomach to swim around with traces of shrimp her body would eventually refuse to digest.

“In case of disaster, no fault of either party, we split the cost of the flowers. Your refund will be around fifteen thousand.”

He frowned. “It will not.”

She forced herself to smile. “Give or take.”

He moved back a little and held her upper arms. “I’ll
not
take it, Miss Mayhue. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not ridiculous. Peace of mind, for a bride and her family, is priceless.”

He just looked at her, speechless.

“And you
will
take it, Mr. St. John. I refuse to be dishonest. The money is not mine.”

“And your little flower shop? What will this do to your business?” He gave her a little shake, a warning to be truthful.

She forced a laugh. “We have survived disasters before, I promise.”

“Gah!” He released her, like it was a punishment, which it felt like. “I want to hear the truth.”

She sighed. “The truth is the shop is going to be demolished at the end of January. London and I are going to do something else with our lives, something less stressful.”

He narrowed his eyes. In the candlelight, it looked possibly more dramatic than he intended. “Pemberly said something about Ivy and Stone changing locations, so don’t lie to me.”

Mal shrugged. “We’ve decided not to go through with it.”

“Oh? Recently? Within the last two hours, perhaps?”

She smirked. “Do you really think you can make or break a business with fifteen thousand dollars?”

“I know you can.”

She shook her head and walked around him, staying out of reach. “I’m going to turn on the generator. It’s too cold in here.” He’d left a candle in the hallway, so she was able to find the stairs. Then she felt her way to the kitchen, grabbed a candle and went to find her shoes. She could sense him trailing behind her, lingering in the doorways, watching her every move. In the dim light, it gave her the chills. But when she considered how close she’d come to spending the night on the island all alone, she was grateful.

She got the flashlight out of the emergency kit in her car trunk, then went to the generator they’d already placed behind the building. With Big Brother watching over her shoulder, she tried hard to look like she knew what she was doing, but the damned thing wouldn’t start. It’s hard to look cool when you’re trying to start a lawnmower, which was essentially the same thing, and even harder when you’re a girl. After seven tries, she gave up.

She pulled the edge of her sleeve down and opened the gas cap, then shined a light inside.

Nothing. Not a drop. They’d rented it, but the machine had to be new, it was that clean.

“Do you have gas for it?” St. John said.

“Of course I have gas for it.” She pictured it in her mind. “Only it’s sitting in the van, out in the parking lot.”

“Then we must think of a more primitive way to get warm.”

She couldn’t stop the new wave of chills shooting through her body like fireworks. When she finally felt stable enough to face him, she found him gathering wood from under the back porch.

Heaven help her, she was going to sit by the fire, alone with 007, until morning.

“Come here. Hold out your arms.”

She did what she was told and he handed her a small load.

“Have you still got the lighter?”

She nodded and followed him back inside.

When she shut the door behind her, she turned and bumped into St. John’s back. He stood perfectly still, listening to harp music.

“Is that your phone?” she said.

He turned and winced at the flashlight shining in his eyes. “No. Is it yours?”

She could feel her eyes bugging out. “No.”

“Did you know there was someone else on the island?”

She shook her head and thought it was probably better if she didn’t mention the laughter she’d heard out by the front steps. He already thought she was “a nutter.” She wasn’t about to tell him she believed in ghosts.

Mal's heart sunk when she realized she was no longer alone with Bennett St. John, that she wouldn't be sitting before the fire all night with a handsome prince, trying to kiss him without her heart knowing about it.

The music, at least, was no phantom. St. John led the way, using one arm to keep her behind him as they followed the sound. Apparently, he expected the mysterious harpist to be dangerous. Mal bit the side of her lip and tried not to laugh. After all, he was trying to be gallant. But they both stopped short when they entered the ballroom and found the place well-lit.

Mal's first thought was that the causeway had been opened and London had arrived and had lit all the candles. The idea should have made her happy, but instead, it felt like a weight on her chest.

She walked around St. John's protective arm and looked for her friend, but there was only one new addition to their party—an old man with thick white hair who sat in the alcove with the harp leaned back against his shoulder. His fingers hardly moved, but produced a flawless tune. It was familiar, somehow, but at the same time, she felt like it was new. Maybe there was a bar or two that reminded her of something else.

St. John moved up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against him while they waited for the song to end. Of course it ended just as St. John's warmth made it through the layers of her coat.

“Good Evenin',” called the old man.

“Good Evening.” St. John took her hand and walked with her to the alcove. The harpist tipped the harp back on its base, then stood and bowed.

But the harpist wasn't a harpist at all; he was one of the men she'd hired. He was dressed in white and green livery.

“I'm Mallory, from Ivy and Stone. Are you our doorman?” She shook his offered hand.

“Aye, I am that, though I’ve been known to drive a carriage or two. The name is Ferguson.”

007 stood there like he was waiting to be introduced, so Mal introduced him.

“Yer lairdship,” the old man said, then bowed even lower than before. Mal laughed, then realized Pem's brother probably got treated that way at home.

He was so out of her league.

“Tell me, Ferguson. How did you manage to reach the island?”

Two white brows rose high on his wrinkled forehead. “I didna come by boat, that's certain.”

St. John frowned.

Ferguson seemed to realize his answer wasn't good enough. “I suppose I came same as you, but early on. I went to the gentleman's dressing quarters, put on me finery, then laid down to take a wee nap. I only woke when me teeth started chatterin'. When I realized I was here alone, I lit the candles, hoping the chase the chill from the room, and thought my fingers might warm faster if I plucked a string or two, aye?”

St. John looked at Mal and lifted a brow. She nodded, accepting the old man's story. After all, there was no way he could have gotten past the firemen, even if he dared try.

“You must be hungry,” St. John said. “You'll find the kitchen through there. Please eat whatever suits you.” He looked at Mal in a way that left her dying to know what he was thinking. Then he smiled. “Rejoin us here, Ferguson, in say, half an hour. We'll need more music, I think.”

“Aye, yer lairdship.” Then the old man was gone.

Mal shook her head. “I wish I could read your face the way you can read mine.”

He gave her a purely 007 grin. “No need, darling. I'll tell you.” He took her by the hand and twirled her around. “All of this pageantry is not going to go to waste. And if you'll don that change of clothes you were talking about earlier, we'll make the most of it. Just the two of us.”