Page 4 of Baiting His Bride

I adjust the wrap I grabbed for dinner around my elbows and cross the flagstone as the summer sun dips below the horizon. A soft glow from dozens of golden bulb lights are strung back and forth from the pergola to illuminate the immaculate table-scape and guests. I search for my place card, pulling up short when I catch sight of him from the corner of my eye.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Cocky is kicking back in a chair as if he owns the place, one leg crossed over his knee at the ankle and an arm thrown over what I’m assuming is my seat. Right next to him.

As if that’s not bad enough, he’s raising his highball in my direction and shooting me a wicked smile. His piercing blue eyes fix directly on me and send a shiver down my spine. He’s giving me the hard sell, after all.

But why? Because we’re the only two single folks here tonight, except for the bride and groom? I’m more than used to holding my own in a boardroom full of hostile executives or at a press conference, facing hundreds of reporters hurling questions faster than I can field them. Surely, I can handle one man, even one with his unmistakable magnetic force and his mischievous confidence that, rather than off-putting, as it should be, seems to slither under my skin and weaken my resolve.

But two can play his game. I tug my wrap up around my shoulders and sashay over, batting my eyelashes as I picture his astonished face when I turn him down flat…again. He rises, as gracefully as a panther, his eyes raking my body as I approach, and draws out my chair for me.

“Mallory,” he murmurs, in a pleased, delicious, low tone.

“Thank you.” I take my seat and reach for the glass of ice water to wet my suddenly parched mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

But before he can say more, a server comes by to fill our wine glasses. Then, at the end of the long table, a fork clinks on a glass. Time for a toast.

“Here,” Carson whispers, dragging my attention away from the bride’s father clearing his throat and to a pen and small pad of paper, both bearing the resort logo.

My brow wrinkles. “What’s this?”

There’s a delighted glint in his eye. “A game.”

“A game?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If you’re up for it.”

My wariness meter surges into overdrive. So it's not the hard sell, but rather a different tactic. My curiosity and begrudging respect for him ticks up a notch. “What are we playing for?”

He shoots me a wounded look as if hurt that I would question his motives. “For fun.”

“For fun?”

“Scout’s honor.” He holds up a hand with three raised fingers. But not the first three. The first two and his pinkie.

The Shocker. Does he think I was born yesterday?

I level a look at him. “We both know that’s not the right sign.”

“We do?” he asks, feigning confusion and glancing from his raised hand to me and back, his eyebrows pinched together.

“We do.”

“Well, Ms. Stone,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me. “That flush creeping up your lovely skin tells me that perhaps you prefer this sign to Scout’s honor.”

Denying it would only throw fuel on the fire. Instead, I fight a smile and roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say, with a sigh. “You win. Let’s play.”

You’d think I’d just agreed to give him a hand job under the table the way he lights up with a dazzling smile that should be illegal. He uncaps his pen and draws a large square on his pad, then with a few more vertical and horizontal lines, he turns it into nine squares.

“Make your gameboard,” he says, nodding toward my pad of paper. I draw my own nine squares.

“This is Toast Bingo,” he says. “Jot down any words or phrases any loving family member or friend who stands up tonight might say. Winner is the one with the most crossed out.”

“Did you just invent this?” I ask as I fill my card.

He leans close, as if confessing a sin. “Probably like you, I spend a lot of time in boring meetings.”

The smell of him at my side, smoky with a hint of bourbon and a whiff of crisp linen, is distracting. As is the brush of his bare knee against my thigh, the wiry hair tickling in a way that reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve slept with a man.

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