Page 2 of Baiting His Bride

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.

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