Page 3 of Exposed

There are no words.

Actually, there are a lot of words.

Daniel Armstrong is an entire experience.

Not one thing on him reconciles with another. His dress shirt looks more expensive than my entire outfit—including my purse and shoes. His trousers are pressed to perfection, like he slipped them on right before he walked through the door. There’s not a wrinkle on the man, and his shoes are shined to perfection. I doubt he’s ever worn them before today. His shirt is unbuttoned at his neck and topped with a navy sport coat with the tiniest hint of herringbone sewn into the material.

Mr. Armstrong looks like he’s bleeding money. Yay for me. Maybe there’s a chance at a big budget wedding after all.

Other than his clothes that fit like a business-casual second skin, the man has missed his last two haircuts—maybe three. His overgrown locks curl around the lenses of a pair of aviators that are shoved back on his head. There’s something about the man that screamsI’ve lived three dramatic lifetimes, and it has nothing to do with the few grays that dot his temples. It’s the smile lines framing his eyes that give him away. But on him, they’re more like frown lines.

Why in the world is he so angry, and who would want to marry this man?

He repeats my name on a harsh clip. “Marigold?”

Dang it. My mom always says my worst fault is taking first impressions too seriously. I give my head a little shake and stand on my kitten heels to offer my hand. “Goldie. Everyone calls me Goldie. You must be Daniel.”

He hesitates before his hand engulfs mine in a warm, firm grip. “That’s me.”

I pull in a breath and wet my dry lips. “It’s nice to meet you. I appreciate the opportunity to discuss your big day.”

That wins me a hike of one brow and a chin lift.

I try not to frown.

He lets go of my hand. “Yes, let’s discuss that. Have a seat.”

I step back to claim my chair and pray I haven’t wasted my time, gas, and anxiety because of the parking situation. “I can’t wait to hear about your fiancée.”

He rips his aviators off his head and tosses them unceremoniously to the pressed white tablecloth as he sits. “I’m not engaged.”

“Oh.” I sit back in my chair. “Then whose wedding are we here to discuss?”

He pulls in a deep breath and hesitates. “My aunt.”

“I see.” I pick up my free water and take a sip. “Are you planning your aunt’s wedding?”

“Yep.”

“Yep,” I echo, and do my best to stay unaffected by the turn of events. “Well, this is unusual, but that’s where I thrive.”

His frown deepens. “You thrive in the land of unusual?”

I shrug, because that’s a lie.Unusualstresses me out unless we’re talking about a new venue or color scheme. “I love unusual. It really gets my juices going.”

I immediately cringe at my choice of words.

His head tips to the side, and both his brows touch the messy curl that has fallen to his forehead.

Damn the dirty-talking portion of society who ruined words like “juices” and “moist.” Don’t even get me started on pineapples.

Well, if I’m going to die from embarrassment, at least I’ll have a view of the ocean. “Creatively speaking, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

He picks up his water to take a drink. I wonder if it would be too much to ask for him to throw it in my face to cool me off.

I clear my throat. “Let’s get back to your aunt. Why are you planning her wedding?”

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