Magical Weddings (97 page)

He shook his head. “She told me she always wanted to get married in a little castle on a...”

“On a lake?”

He grimaced. “Yes.”

“Harmony Lodge looks like a little castle. Of course, it’s nothing like the real castles
you’re
probably used to.” She tried not to sound snotty when she said it, but she was tired. It had just slipped out.

“Why, Ms. Mayhue. You’re a snob!” He cocked his head and a curl fell across his brow.

Mal’s jaw dropped. When she recovered, she realized just how close he stood. Since his chest was within reach, she had to resist the urge to poke a finger into it.

“Sorry, Mr...”

“Forgive me. The name is St. John—Bennett St. John.”

Bond. James Bond.
She tried not to laugh. “Mr. St. John, I’m sorry if I sound testy. I’m just a little sleep-deprived. I didn’t mean to sound snotty. I promise.”

He took a little step closer, but she wasn’t about to retreat. Two more steps and she’d be cornered. Literally.

“Oh, but I think you did.” He’d lowered his voice. “I think you either have a problem with authority—a complaint which afflicts most Americans—or you dislike people with means.”

She laughed in his face. “Wow. You read all that in my tone?”

He smiled. No answer. Just the smile. Too bad it made a little crease at one corner of his mouth. She flat out refused to think of it as a dimple.

“Well, first of all, I don’t have a problem with authority. I’m the authority here, and I get along with myself just fine. And secondly, I don’t have a problem with money. I just can’t live without it, you know?”

He didn’t back up. Not even an inch. If anything, he leaned toward her.

“I wasn’t suggesting you have a problem with money but with the
people
who have a great deal of it. You’ve been quite petulant since the moment I arrived.”

“Petulant? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Peevish, then?”

“Peevish!”

“
Ass hat
, Ms. Mayhue?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but her brain completely bailed on her. She couldn’t even think of a way to apologize.

He looked at her lips. She looked at his. Holy crap, how had they ended up face to face, standing so close they could easily—

He kissed her. Their lips came together like soft magnets. And he
kept
kissing her while a little rabbit in her head watched his stopwatch. The man’s lips barely moved against hers, as if there was still some invisible pull keeping them where they’d landed. Her hand lifted to his chest in an automatic reaction to push him away, but once she felt the texture of his suit coat, she snatched it back. What if she got it dirty?

She found herself standing alone with her eyes still closed. With her lips still pursed. She blinked and stepped back, bumping into the white board and smearing the drawing with her butt. He had backed up less than a foot. His hands were still in his pockets.

He tilted his head again, but she wasn’t about to look at him. He ducked his head to get her attention. She looked to her left. No way could she look him in the eye. There was too much blood in her head for her to think straight. She was supposed to be preserving Pemberly’s wedding plans, but she couldn’t imagine how. The entire meeting made no sense to her.

Since it looked like he wasn’t going to say anything, she faced forward, taking great interest in his shoes as she broke the silence.

“What now?” she asked.

His shoes never moved. “Would you like me to apologize?”

She shook her head. What she would like was for him to come kiss her again. Only this time, maybe he could take his hands out of his pockets. But she’d die before she’d admit it.

Why couldn’t she have listened to London one time and worn something a little tighter—something at least flattering enough to get him to put his arms around her? But maybe Brits didn’t like to touch. It wouldn’t surprise her.

“Well, unless you’d like me to kiss you again...”

She looked up sharply and felt her eyes bugging out of her head.

“No? All right, then. Let’s finish up this business, shall we?”

“What is it you really wish to know?”

“Honestly?”

She nodded once. “Honestly.”

“I am honestly curious how much profit you will make from my sister’s event.”

Mal felt herself grow an inch or two when her spine straightened. “I’m sorry, what? You want to know what my cut is? Would you like me to scoop up horse manure after the carriages have gone, to make sure I earn every dollar?”

She had no idea how she ended up nose to nose with him without paying attention.

“I was just curious how you run your business, Ms. Mayhue.” He was laughing at her with his eyes again.

“My policy—not that it’s any of your business—is to charge actual money for my labor, and for the labor of my employees. If it takes me less than fifteen minutes to arrange for horse-drawn carriages, or linens, or anything else, I don’t charge anything. The only things I do make a profit on, Mr. St. John, are the flowers. And your sister’s wedding is mostly non-florals. I make nothing from the large tent rentals, the helicopter, the Snowcats, or any of the other contingency plans. No kickbacks. I charge enough to cover the cost of a small army to come set up. It should take about two days if we only stop for meals and a couple of hours’ of sleep.

“Out of Pemberly’s $60,000 budget, thirty thousand of it is for flowers and décor. Out of that, London and I will make about five grand. That’s twenty-five hundred a piece. Would you like a calculator?”

He turned away and returned to the leather chair. “Who is London?” He pulled his phone from his pocket and started pushing things, like he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, other than London’s name.

“The co-owner of Ivy and Stone.” Mal walked over to the crappy chair and collapsed into it.

London shouldn’t have warned her about her temper; she should have sent Mallory to set up the wedding and met with Big Brother herself. He was probably so offended he couldn’t wait to call his sister and tell her she had to find a new florist. Or maybe, if Pemberly made a fuss, he’d insist that London take over, that maybe Mal shouldn’t get within five hundred yards of him ever again.

She wouldn’t be surprised if she had to sign her share of Ivy and Stone over to her partner before she took the company down single-handedly.

“I need to speak with Pemberly right away.” He swiveled his chair so he faced the opposite wall. He probably couldn’t bear the sight of her. “Pemberly? I’m at Ivy and Stone and we’ve just gone over the order.” There was a pause. “Yes. Crazy. I couldn’t agree more.”

Mal took a deep breath and prepared herself for the worst.

“I think there is a problem, though. I know I don’t know much about wedding receptions, but...”

Here it comes
.

“I really don’t think...you’ve ordered nearly enough flowers.”

What did
that
mean? That they needed to go with a bigger florist?
Well, good luck. Hope you get something amazing in your Deluxe Wedding Package B!

“You can double the flower budget if necessary. I just don’t want it to look...sparse.”

“Sparse? What the h—”

He winked. “Okay. Well, you just think about it and maybe come talk to Ms. Mayhue on Monday. See you tonight.”

A wink was not going to shut her up, especially since she’d already burned her bridge.

“
Sparse?
You’re going to go with
sparse
? If you want to fire me, I understand. But don’t go bad-mouthing Ivy and Stone.
Sparse
is not on the menu here.”

He tucked his phone away and straightened his jacket as he stood. Two steps later, he leaned over her with his hands on the arms of Crappy Chair. The anticipation running like electricity through her veins could be blamed on the fact those chair arms might collapse under his hands. The chair was that crappy. Of course, she would have to catch his fall…

“What about you, Ms. Mayhue? Are you on the menu?”

She breathed carefully. Gave the chair a couple more seconds, but it held tough.

“Careful,” she finally said. “You’ll get your suit dirty.” It was the cool cucumber-est thing she could think of to say. And if she hadn’t been leaning back so far, she wouldn’t have sounded so breathy when she said it.

“Pem’s got plenty to work with. See that this reception is half so beautiful as she is, and you will have earned every penny.”

He tapped her on the nose with a finger, then straightened and headed for the door.

“Wait,” she said. “You’re not cancelling?” She couldn’t find the strength to stand.

He turned and smiled, tugging at his cuffs in a move he had to have learned from James Bond Movies. Real people didn’t do that. Did they?

“I am not cancelling. Are you mad? At this late date? I may as well try to change the color of the wedding.” He winked, then frowned. “Will it be too late for you to order in more flowers?”

“No, it’s not too late to order more. But I don’t need to. It’s going to be perfect.
As planned
. You’ll see.”

She was going to blow his mind. And if he claimed he wasn’t impressed, when all was said and done, he could kiss her b—

She was so tired her head spun, but among the images parading around her mind, there was one where St. John was leaning over her, asking her if she was on the menu. It was a detail she wouldn’t share with London—her friend would never believe it. It didn’t make sense. They didn’t even like each other.

“Ms. Mayhue?” There he was, leaning over her again.

“What?” Maybe she was hallucinating.

He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek—not very far at all from her mouth. In fact, it felt more like he’d been aiming for her lips and missed. Had she turned her head?

Either way, intentional or not, it was the most incredible non-kiss she’d ever been given, coming so close to touching lips, but not. And those lips were much warmer than she imagined they’d be. And yes, she had imagined them, damn him. After all, he
was
gorgeous…for an ass hat.

And he was still there, hovering over her.

She clamped her teeth down on her tongue, to keep from criticizing his aim and suggesting he try again. Since he was still in the area.

What was wrong with her? He brought out the worst in her. Clearly.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he said quietly, “for reminding me that it is also my job to make sure Pemberly is happy.”

“Mm hmn.” She wasn’t about to let go of her tongue. Not as long as she was so tired she couldn’t trust herself. And not as long as his expensive cologne and car leather hung in the air, giving her the ridiculous urge to whimper.

And then he was gone. The fading roar of an expensive car engine left Mal shaking and cold.

She blamed it all on fatigue. Well, that and the kind of shock she’d learned about in High School Health Class. But nobody was around to toss a blanket over her. And since there was no head injury, someone should really lie her down and raise her feet.

Mr. Bennett St. John was gone, along with the flavor of him. She sniffed, testing the air.

Nope. All gone.

It had been so long since she’d been hit on, she couldn’t tell if she’d been sexually harassed or not. He’d asked if she was on the menu. But the question was, had he been trying to intimidate her, or trying to tell her he was interested? She really needed to get out more so maybe next time someone got that close to her, she'd be able to tell. Maybe next time it would be someone in her own league. Someone who didn't do formal either. Someone who wouldn't turn his nose up because her life was a little messy.

Probably someone boring.

She could at least hope that he'd be half as handsome as Pemberly's brother. Or if she was greedy—
exactly
as handsome as he was.

Oh, give me a break.

She couldn’t waste good sleeping time worrying about an ass hat.

The morning of Pemberly Adams’ big day was full of excellent omens. A light, harmless cloud cover kept the temperature above freezing, so by the time Mal got to the shop, they didn’t need to wrap up every flower in order to get them from the refrigerated truck, to the vans, then into the lodge. A simple garbage sack, draped across the larger items was enough to keep any malicious breeze from doing damage. The delicate body flowers, the corsages and boutonnieres, were already packed in boxes.

Another promising sign was that every designer, delivery boy, and extra pair of hands that had committed their day to her, actually showed up by six a.m. No stragglers. Even the chick assigned to bring donuts showed up on time, and that never happened. Donuts were never on time.

Donut Chick also happened to be driving a snow-tired Suburban, in case they were short on room.

As Mal was about to lead the convoy out of the parking lot, she took one more look at the awakening sky. The clouds were parted perfectly around a morning moon—a tiny sliver of curved ice that would probably be gone by nightfall, melted away to make room for the New Moon. No moon-dogs in sight—the rings that promised snow—and Mal was a little disappointed. Pemberly had hoped for a light snowfall once the Lodge was all lit up. A wedding reception in a snow globe. So Mal said a little prayer with her attention still on the moon.

Just a little miracle snow. Please.

London honked. She sat behind the wheel of one of the big vans. Mal got her own head back in the game and left the parking lot. They’d gone over the master list twice. They’d forgotten nothing. Besides, the Hopi Indians—at least she thought it was the Hopis—believed that perfection was bad luck, and so did Mal. If they’d forgotten anything important, they could call it a good omen, then they’d have it brought up later. Or they’d improvise. That’s what florists-slash-wedding planners did.

An hour and a half later, they were unloaded and settling in for a long six hours of on-sight set-up and design. Mal glanced out the cut glass window of the lodge’s grand entrance. A strange car headed up the causeway. A low sports car. Instead of driving off to the side of the lodge, to the tiny parking lot in the rear, the car remained in the circle and stopped in front of the steps. Or more importantly, in front of the sign that read, “No parking in the driveway.”