hour now to input all the new data from the evening consult and the initial choices made by the clients.
An estimated 225 on the guest list, she thought as she wandered back into the bedroom with the intention of going to work on her laptop in her sitting room. A bridal party of six, including a flower girl who’d be five by the June wedding.
The bride’s favorite flower was peony, her color choices—for now anyway—pink and green. Soft tones.
Soft, Parker thought again, and changed direction to open her terrace doors and step out. She’d just get a little air first, just take in a little of the night air.
The bride wanted soft and delicate. She’d asked Parker to meet her at the salon to view the gown she’d chosen, which proved she was a bride who understood that the wedding dress created the center of whatever tone or theme or mood the wedding took.
All those lovely, floaty layers, Parker recalled, the subtle gleam of seed pearls and tender touches of lace.
Pastels and peonies, shimmering tulle, and whispered promises.
She could see it. She would see to it. She excelled at seeing to things.
There was no reason, no good reason to feel so restless, so unsettled, so addled.
No reason to stand here looking out at night-drenched gardens remembering the unexpected thrill of a motorcycle ride that had lasted only minutes.
And had been fast and dangerous and foolishly exciting.
Like, very like, the hard, rough kiss of a brash man in her own foyer.
She wasn’t interested in those things.Absolutely not. Intrigued, maybe, but intrigued was a different matter. She found sharks intriguing when they swam their eerily silent way in the tank at an aquarium, but that didn’t mean she had any interest in taking a dip with them.
Which wasn’t a fair comparison, she admitted with a sigh. Not fair at all.
Malcolm might be cocky, he might be brash, but he wasn’t a shark. He’d been so natural with Mrs. G, and even a bit sweet in that area. She had unerring radar for phonies when it came to their behavior with those she loved, and there hadn’t been a phony note in Malcolm’s.
Then there was his friendship with Del. Del might tolerate professional relationships with phonies and sharks, but never a personal one.
So the problem, if there was a problem, was obviously with her. She’d just have to correct it. Correcting, solving, and eliminating problems was her stock-in-trade.
She’d just figure out the solution to this one, implement it, then move on. She needed to ascertain and identify said problem first, but she had a pretty good idea of its root.
At some level of the intrigue—not interest, but intrigue—at some level of that level, she was attracted.
In an elemental, strictly chemical way.
She was human, she was healthy, and Laurel was right. Malcolm was hot. In his primal, rough-edged manner.
Motorcycles and leather, torn denim and cocky grins. Hard hands, a hungry mouth.
Parker pressed a hand to her belly.Yes, definitely an aspect of attraction. Now that she’d admitted it, she could work out the best way to defuse it.
Like a bomb.
Like the bomb that had gone off inside her when he’d yanked her . . . Yanked her, she thought again. She didn’t like being yanked.
Did she?
“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.You fixed problems with answers, not more questions.
She wished she didn’t have so many damn questions.
In her pocket, her phone rang. She plucked it out like a woman reaching for a float in a stormy sea.
“Thank God.” She breathed out relief. Crazy Bride would absolutely, no question, give her a problem she could efficiently solve. And keep her mind off her own.
“Hi, Sabina! What can I do for you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
P ARKER PREPPED FOR THE MORNING STAFF MEETING WITH BLACKBerry and laptop. She sat at the large round table in what had been the library of her home and now served as Vows’ conference room.
The walls of books and the rich scent of leather remained, and on brisk fall
An estimated 225 on the guest list, she thought as she wandered back into the bedroom with the intention of going to work on her laptop in her sitting room. A bridal party of six, including a flower girl who’d be five by the June wedding.
The bride’s favorite flower was peony, her color choices—for now anyway—pink and green. Soft tones.
Soft, Parker thought again, and changed direction to open her terrace doors and step out. She’d just get a little air first, just take in a little of the night air.
The bride wanted soft and delicate. She’d asked Parker to meet her at the salon to view the gown she’d chosen, which proved she was a bride who understood that the wedding dress created the center of whatever tone or theme or mood the wedding took.
All those lovely, floaty layers, Parker recalled, the subtle gleam of seed pearls and tender touches of lace.
Pastels and peonies, shimmering tulle, and whispered promises.
She could see it. She would see to it. She excelled at seeing to things.
There was no reason, no good reason to feel so restless, so unsettled, so addled.
No reason to stand here looking out at night-drenched gardens remembering the unexpected thrill of a motorcycle ride that had lasted only minutes.
And had been fast and dangerous and foolishly exciting.
Like, very like, the hard, rough kiss of a brash man in her own foyer.
She wasn’t interested in those things.Absolutely not. Intrigued, maybe, but intrigued was a different matter. She found sharks intriguing when they swam their eerily silent way in the tank at an aquarium, but that didn’t mean she had any interest in taking a dip with them.
Which wasn’t a fair comparison, she admitted with a sigh. Not fair at all.
Malcolm might be cocky, he might be brash, but he wasn’t a shark. He’d been so natural with Mrs. G, and even a bit sweet in that area. She had unerring radar for phonies when it came to their behavior with those she loved, and there hadn’t been a phony note in Malcolm’s.
Then there was his friendship with Del. Del might tolerate professional relationships with phonies and sharks, but never a personal one.
So the problem, if there was a problem, was obviously with her. She’d just have to correct it. Correcting, solving, and eliminating problems was her stock-in-trade.
She’d just figure out the solution to this one, implement it, then move on. She needed to ascertain and identify said problem first, but she had a pretty good idea of its root.
At some level of the intrigue—not interest, but intrigue—at some level of that level, she was attracted.
In an elemental, strictly chemical way.
She was human, she was healthy, and Laurel was right. Malcolm was hot. In his primal, rough-edged manner.
Motorcycles and leather, torn denim and cocky grins. Hard hands, a hungry mouth.
Parker pressed a hand to her belly.Yes, definitely an aspect of attraction. Now that she’d admitted it, she could work out the best way to defuse it.
Like a bomb.
Like the bomb that had gone off inside her when he’d yanked her . . . Yanked her, she thought again. She didn’t like being yanked.
Did she?
“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.You fixed problems with answers, not more questions.
She wished she didn’t have so many damn questions.
In her pocket, her phone rang. She plucked it out like a woman reaching for a float in a stormy sea.
“Thank God.” She breathed out relief. Crazy Bride would absolutely, no question, give her a problem she could efficiently solve. And keep her mind off her own.
“Hi, Sabina! What can I do for you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
P ARKER PREPPED FOR THE MORNING STAFF MEETING WITH BLACKBerry and laptop. She sat at the large round table in what had been the library of her home and now served as Vows’ conference room.
The walls of books and the rich scent of leather remained, and on brisk fall
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