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Authors: Susan Sey

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BOOK: Taste for Trouble
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“Roger
that.” He turned and she watched him march back up the lawn, his shoulders
square and broad in his perfectly fitted tux.


Miss
West
.” The florist looked ready to cry.

“Sorry,”
she said, and mustered up a polite smile. “It’s a little crazy around here.”

He
didn’t smile back. In fact, he looked ready to stroke out. She half wished he
would. Then he could keep his bad news to himself.
A small, mean thought
,
she scolded herself.
Unworthy
. She dredged up a little more sincerity
for her smile. “You have some flowers to show me?”

“That’s
just it.” He clasped his hands together in front of his apron. “I don’t.”

A
mild buzz started in Bel’s ears. She flicked a glance at Annie who was flinging
breath mints from her purse into the pond. The swans appeared to be debating
the merits of going after them. “I’m sorry?”

“There
was an accident on the beltway,” he said. “Our delivery van.”

“Oh.”
The buzzing intensified. The swans reached a decision and waddled into the
pond. Bel struggled to focus. “Is everybody okay?”

“Yes,
thank God. But your flowers. Oh, Miss Bel, your beautiful flowers.” He shook
his head. “All over the expressway, all those cars...” He spread helpless hands
from which Bel surmised a terminal diagnosis. Her flowers were DOA.

“Do
we have
any
of the flowers?” she asked.

“Just
the bride’s bouquet and the groom’s boutonniere. I hand carry those to every
job.”

“All
right. Okay.”

She
broke off as another golf ball sailed over the box hedge and detonated in the
pond. The swans squawked their displeasure—
screw the breath mints
—and
paddled for shore.

It’s
all coming apart
, Bel thought.
Spinning,
spinning, the center starting to give
. The old darkness crept in with
sneaky fingers, tried to crawl up her throat, burn her eyes, turn her hands
leaden and useless.

She
shook herself. No. She was fine. She was organized. She could handle this. She’d
built room into her schedule for a few mishaps, hadn’t she? She hauled in a
nice deep breath and held it until her lungs gave in and absorbed some oxygen.

Think,
Bel. Just think
.

“Okay,”
she said. “Okay. You see that white picket fence to the left of the main house?
Go through the gate in the center. About fifty yards straight back you’ll run right
into Kate’s rose garden. You have half an hour.”

The
florist’s eyes widened. “You want me to...” He made a snipping motion in the
air between them, as if the word was too horrible to say out loud. “In Kate
Davis’ personal rose garden?”

“Yes.
I’ll answer for it. Make me a miracle.” She checked her watch. “Forty nine
minutes.”

He
swallowed. “Right. One miracle, coming up.”

“That’s
the spirit. I’ll be in the catering tent assembling the cake if you need
anything.”

She
started for the kitchen at a dead run.

Fifteen
minutes later, Bel had four tiers of ivory-fondant-coated, pink-polka-dotted,
bow-topped perfection on the cake table before her. She was just piping her new
monogram on the top tier and expounding for the camera on the finer points of
lettering with royal icing when Kate strode into the catering tent. Bel glanced
at her boss’ face and froze mid-letter.

Surviving
as the heir apparent to Kate’s hand-crafted domestic fiefdom was less a matter
of talent than of being able to instantly and accurately gauge her boss’s mood.
And the fixed, on-camera smile on Kate’s face sent Bel’s Mood-o-Meter clear
into the red zone.

She straightened.
“If this is about the rose garden, I gave the florist permission to—”

Kate’s
smile went a bit grim around the edges. “The flowers are fine. It’s the groom
we seem to be missing.”

“Ford?”
Bel’s mind went blank.

“Unless
you have a back up groom waiting in the wings?” Kate lifted a well-shaped brow.

“Of
course not.”

“Then
yes, Ford. The photographer is asking after him. He seems to be missing.”

Bel’s
heart stuttered, then just stopped. “He’s not back yet?”

“Back
from where?”

“He
went next door,” she said. “The neighbors were using the pond as a driving range
again, and he was going to—”

“You
sent your groom on an errand? An hour before your wedding?” Her tone implied,
with all due politeness, that this constituted a massive error in judgment.

Bel handed
Kate her pastry bag. “I’ll go get him.”

“Of
course you will.” Kate handed the bag to one of the myriad assistants who
orbited her at all times, invisible until their presence was required. “Take a
golf cart. And hurry back. You still have makeup and wardrobe, and the ceremony
starts in—” She consulted a discreet gold twinkle at her wrist “—thirty two
minutes. Cameras are rolling, Belinda.”

Bel
ran.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

James
Blake twisted the cap off a fresh bottle of beer, dropped an elbow over the
back of his lawn chair and watched his new buddy Ford take a crack at yet
another range ball. James’ older brother Will sat in the lawn chair at James’
right elbow, his younger brother Drew sat in the lawn chair to his left. They
all watched as Ford addressed the ball, then sent it curving deep into the
woods south of the neighbor’s pond.

“Hooked
it.” Will sighed with deep disgust and lifted the beer bottle dangling from his
fingertips.

“Amen.”
Drew helped himself to the cooler.

James
squinted after the ball, then back at Ford. The guy would have a right pretty
stroke if he’d just relax. Not that he didn’t
look
relaxed. With that
easy smile on his magazine-pretty face and that thousand dollar tux—not rented—he
wore like skin, the guy practically dripped smug assurance. Like he was about
to marry the prettiest girl in the country club. Richest, too. Probably was.

But James
had a sense about these things. Ford was an unhappy man. Not that it took a
psychic to figure that one. Half an hour before his scheduled
I do
and the
guy was on his third beer and his second bucket of balls with a bunch of
strangers. Plus that was one vicious hook for a dude who looked like he’d been
born with a golf club in one hand and a silver spoon in the other.

“Now
boys,” James said. “That’s a lot of club right there.” And it was. A soccer-mad
Titleist sales rep had gifted James with a prototype driver, and he and his
brothers had spent a very enjoyable afternoon putting balls all over creation
with it. “Give the man a minute to get a handle on it.”

He
stretched his legs out in front of him, pulled his ball cap low enough to take
a nap under and nodded Ford toward the bucket of balls. “Relax, son. And
remember, a golf club’s like a woman. Just keep your hands soft, pay attention,
and for God’s sake don’t rush her. You’ll find the sweet spot soon enough.”

Ford
took a pull off his beer and gave them a wry smile. “You’re assuming they all
have one. A sweet spot.”

“Well,
I guess that depends.” He grinned. “Are we talking about golf clubs or women?”

Ford
shrugged. “Either.”

James
winced inwardly. So it was like that. The prettiest girl in the country club
lacked a sweet spot. Or his new buddy Ford hadn’t located it yet. Bummer. That
would explain a lot about the stiff shoulders and self-mocking smile.

James
glanced at Will, who shook his head and gave him a look that said
so not
your business, bro
. James plucked the beer bottle from Ford’s hand and
nudged him toward the driver again. He waited for the guy to address the ball then
tossed the beer off the patio.

Ford
burned a ball into the lawn. Will and Drew made twin noises of pained disgust. James
gave them a mild look. Drew shrugged and Will rolled his eyes but they shut up.

Ford
shook his head. “Okay, I’m done. No point embarrassing myself further.” He set
the club aside and looked around for his beer.

Drew
glanced at James, raised a brow toward the cooler in silent question. James
shook his head. Bad enough that, given the sweet spot issue, the poor guy was
already in for a lifetime scored to
Ford’s Flaws: The Greatest Hits
. Best
not put ‘Drunk at our Wedding’ on the playlist.

“There’s
no shame in a learning curve,” James told him. “Nothing more admirable than
honest hard work. But, listen. Ford. There’s working hard and then there’s
forcing it.”

“Forcing
it?”

“Sure.
I mean, you can’t force something into place if it doesn’t want to—Ow! Damn,
Will, watch your elbows!” He rubbed his biceps and glared at his older brother,
who mumbled a wholly unconvincing
sorry
.

“As
I was saying,” James continued with a hard look for Will. “You can’t force
anything into a place it doesn’t want to be. And it’s been my personal
experience that if it feels too much like work, either the timing’s off or the
fit isn’t right. Not saying there aren’t tough times, of course. But it
shouldn’t be uphill all the way. Life’s too short and too hard to make work for
yourself. Some things ought to
flow
, you know? Roll. They ought to
just...” He spread his hands. “Sing.”

“Oh,
for God’s sake,” Will muttered, sinking back into his lawn chair with a beer.

“Sing.”
Ford repeated the word slowly, rolling it around in his mouth as if it were
some new and delicious food he’d never tasted before. A food he’d never even
imagined existed, or if it did, that he’d never received permission to try. He
frowned over it, puzzling it into place as all the other pieces scattered to
make way.

Then
his gaze shifted over James’ left shoulder, locked there. All that moneyed
polish fell away and a radiant joy spread over his face.

“Annie,”
he breathed. “Annie.”

Uh-oh.
James glanced back, saw a woman standing there looking like she’d stepped out
of one of those black and white detective flicks. Only this girl was in full
color—candy-apple curls springing around her pale face, purple silky dress, a
few swirly tatts playing peek-a-boo with her neckline. Her eyes were cats-eye
green and full of yearning, but her pretty rose-bud mouth was clamped down
hard. Fighting it.

“You’re
late,” Annie said to Ford.

“I
know. I should’ve said something months ago.”

Annie
closed her eyes. “For your
wedding
, Ford. You’re late for your wedding.”

“Screw
the wedding.” Ford strode past the lawn chairs, swept the girl into his arms
and planted his mouth on hers with an energy that suggested he knew exactly
where to find her sweet spot. Had possibly already found it a time or two, if
James read things correctly. Annie hesitated—still fighting it—but then her
arms rose up and wound around his neck.

Drew
leaned in. “Thought he said the bride’s name was Bethany,” he whispered, as if
they were at the theater.

“He
said Belinda, dumb ass.” Will didn’t bother to keep his voice down. The happy
couple didn’t seem to mind. “And that’s not her.”

“Ohhhhhh.”
Drew nodded sagely and settled in for an entertaining scene. Will delivered a
shot to James’ shoulder. “I
told
you not to get involved.”

James
winced. “What did I do?” He rubbed his arm. “I just said—”

“All
your bullshit about flow and singing and what not.” Will snorted and tipped the
last of his beer down his throat. “God.”

Ford
came up for air at the precise moment a golf cart zipped around the house. It had
barely skidded to a stop before a woman leapt off, a whole lot of veil
streaming from her head. A paunchy guy with a muscular camera in his hands wobbled
out of the other side of the cart. James watched, amused, as the guy sucked in
a couple of deep breaths then made a furtive sign of the cross in apparent
gratitude for having survived the ride. He shouldered the camera and followed
the woman.

Tall
and slim, the bride-to-be marched toward them on yard-long legs. A glossy river
of hair the color of good maple syrup swung between her shoulder blades. Strong
cheekbones in a striking, rectangular face. Dark, snapping eyes. That thoroughbred
gait. James lifted his brows. Appealing, he supposed, in a polished, corporate
sort of way, but not the prettiest girl in the country club. And probably not the
most patient regarding balky sweet spots. Her own or anybody else’s. He almost
turned back to root for the curly red-head.

Then
he noticed her mouth. That plump, bee-stung mouth that had surely been created
with a man’s pleasure in mind. A mouth that, given the rest of her face—hell,
given her entire vibe of crackling, practical energy—was a searing shock. Blatant,
flag-waving evidence of a sweet spot just waiting to be discovered. He stared,
arrested.

Drew
leaned in again. “Belinda?”

BOOK: Taste for Trouble
8.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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