Page 3 of Baiting His Bride

“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.”

Mallory

Abell’s gentle chime rings out across the patio over the din of laughter and conversation. It’s time to take our seats for the rehearsal dinner. My stomach rumbles from an aromatic whiff of freshly baked bread as a server whips past our high table on the outdoor patio with a tray full of cloth-lined baskets from the kitchen.

“I’m starving,” one of my sorority sisters announces, her hand flying to her belly. I attended her snowflake and glitter explosion of a winter-wonderland themed wedding a year ago December. Bubbles climb the sides of her cocktail glass and a slice of lime bobs with the ice, but I’d bet good money she’s drinking seltzer water.

The four of us gathered around the high table exchange knowing glances over the single votive before dispersing, the rest of them seeking their husbands while I drain the last sip of Pinot Grigio from my glass and head toward the two long communal tables.

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