2. Carson
Icough up the Benjamin, pulling a crisp one from my wallet and passing it to Sawyer’s brother, the best man, who just smoked me in a head-to-head round of croquet.
“Double or nothing?” he offers, pocketing the hundred-dollar bill with a broad smile.
I tuck the Montecristo No. 2 between my lips as I slide my wallet back into the pocket of my shorts, then draw a deep breath and blow it out. “I know when to cut my losses,”
I wouldn’t be on deck to succeed my if the board didn’t believe I could assess the chances of any deal in the blink of an eye. And this former frat boy, who probably minored in lawn games, has an edge I can’t ignore.
He raises his longneck in my direction. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Okay, gentlemen, time for that run through we went over,” the leggy, blonde wedding planner exclaims, clapping her hands together as her heels click down the flagstone path in our direction. “The bridesmaids are sure to one-take this run-through, but I have no doubt you all can hold your own. Just remember what we talked about.”
This isn’t brain surgery, it’s a wedding processional, where our task literally consists of walking and standing. I think we can handle it. But I get it. This is her job, and I take mine just as seriously. It’s about the only thing—besides my cross-fit routine—I take seriously. After all, life’s too short not to have fun.
We dutifully re-rack our mallets and deposit our drinks and cigars on the tray of the waiting server then follow the planner, skirting hundreds of white chairs in precise rows facing the flower-covered arch at the end of the aisle.
The clear-blue waters of Lake Michigan stretch for miles beyond, and part of me wishes the group of us were still out on the water, fishing for trout, like we were hours ago. Because this morning, I didn’t catch a single one, and I never like to leave a job unfinished.
The cluster of bridesmaids, in matching mint-green dresses, are gathered at the top of the two-story, marble grand staircase on the patio of this secluded resort. With an appraising sweep, I take them in, narrowing the field with a quick elimination of any wearing a diamond on their left ring finger.
After disqualifications, a single bridesmaid remains. And I should buy a lottery ticket because, as I fall into place right before the best man, she’s at my side in front of the maid of honor. And she’s a knockout.
Why didn’t Sawyer give me a heads up?
She’s late twenties, or maybe early thirties, and nearly as tall as I am with a mane of light-brown curls and a figure other women would kill for. Especially the set of knockers that are, unfortunately, tucked away beneath a neckline so high it requires a creative imagination. No matter. My target for the weekend is locked and loaded.
“My eyes are up here.”
Her voice has a steel edge to it but carries a distinctive touch of humor. I cock an eyebrow and take my time sliding my gaze up to meet her appraising blue eyes that are frostier than a winter blizzard, despite the sultry summer afternoon. But then I freeze as my mind whirls.
I recognize this bombshell. I know exactly who she is. The face of one of the largest companies in town, a woman known around Chicago for her ability to handle the press and AV Industries uncompromising CEO, Luke Ashford, at least until his recent marriage.
I’m staring down a conflict of interest but can’t seem to resist. My lips curve into a smile as I extend a hand. “Am I dreaming, or did I just land the spot of a lifetime?”
She flicks a glance at my hand but makes no move to shake. “Depends on what you dream about.”
I drop my arm to my side but lean in close enough to catch the scent of fresh flowers drifting up from the bouquet of white roses she’s holding. “Why, being able to spend a few hours in a beautiful woman’s company.”
“Please tell me these lines don’t actually work for you,” she whispers, facing forward as the first notes of a recorded string quartet, playing the processional song, comes on the speakers.
“You’d be surprised,” I murmur as the first set of attendants is counted off at the front of the line and disappear down the double grand staircase.
“I’d be shocked.”
The statement, muttered under her breath, sends a smile racing to my lips. Brilliant, gorgeous and feisty? An irresistible combination.
“Carson Bennett,” I offer, as we inch forward. “I’m surprised Kelsie never mentioned she was friends with the Mallory Stone.”
Mallory swallows, and the squeeze that works down her lovely neck is the only hint she’s surprised I know who she is. The motion sends a curl of pleasure through me, despite her composure that snaps back into place instantly.
Suddenly, the desire to peel away that poise, one kiss at a time, to reveal the passion flowing just under the surface, arises as clearly as a first quarter earnings target.
“Probably because she knows me well.”
I face forward but lean over, close to her ear. “Are you suggesting I’m not your type?”
“You’re press.”
So she knows who I am. Interesting. Normally, that information greases the wheels, but in this case, I find I like having to work for her favor.
“And therefore…” I ask, trailing off in an invitation for her to finish the thought.
“Off limits.”
That’s debatable.
“Because my company covers yours?”
“Because you’re committed to fair and balanced reporting, and like it or not, I always have an agenda.”
At the moment, I have an agenda, too. You.
“Even here? At a wedding?”
“A beautiful resort on the lake doesn’t change who we are.”
“But it could, just for one weekend. We could go incognito.”
She snorts as the next set of attendants is sent. The soft sound of dismissal lights a fire in my belly.
“Like undercover reporting?”
I ignore her mocking tone. “I knew I liked you.”
“I wasn’t suggesting we play pretend.”
The wedding planner turns back from the couple in front of us, now halfway down the stairs, and faces us with a wide smile.
“Why not?” I reply.
“Your name listed as Vice President of Bennett Media Group on every issue of the daily paper, and my name listed on every press release from AV Industries makes it hard to just be ourselves.”
We step forward, her heels ticking on the marble as we approach the front of the line.
“Usually my position is an asset, not a liability.”
“Good thing you’re a journalist and respect the truth.”
She’s a tough nut to crack, but I’m just getting started. “I thought public relations was all about building relationships with journalists.”
“Professional relationships, not personal.”
“So it’s a hard no?”
One of her eyebrows lifts. “I don’t recall you posing a direct question, but if I’m assuming correctly, then yes. The answer is no.”
An answer I never like. And one I’m determined to change.
“You’ll need to hold on to his arm,” the wedding planner says to Mallory, waving her hand between us. “Can’t have you tripping and falling down the stairs, now can we?”
I extend an elbow, and Mallory reluctantly slips her arm through mine. Tucked up close to my side, she fits against me like a puzzle piece that’s a perfect match.
Until she squirms and clears her throat. “Don’t worry, there’ll be no falling here this weekend,” she announces to the planner. Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, “For anything,” in a low tone, directed at me. As if she’s serving notice.
I don’t bother to hide my smile as the wedding planner sends us off with a reminder to, “Step together, in perfect sync.”
As we make our way down the double grand staircase toward the aisle that ends at an arch overflowing with lush flowers in every shade of the pink, the wedding planner calls after us, “That’s it, perfect.”
“See,” I murmur, resting my hand on Mallory’s bare forearm, her skin warmed by the sun. “We’re perfect together.”
She turns to me with a saccharine smile curling her lush lips. “Maybe in your dreams.”
I wink at her. “Definitely there.”