Page 3 of Icing on the Cake

The wedding planner signals the DJ to announce the bouquet toss. A group of hopeful, eager women gather around the bride. As I move to the side, a flash of red distracts me from the tittering ladies around me.

Red, high-heeled pumps move quickly around the cake table, a striking contrast to the draped white linens. The woman’s floral dress hits a little lower than mid-thigh, showing off her toned, muscular thighs. Crisp white apron strings tied into a bow around her waist are the only indication she’s working rather than here as an invited guest. Her long locks are pulled back into a sleek, professional knot as her hands move quickly, tidying the table.

She shifts, turning her head to glance at the group of women vying for a chance to catch the coveted bouquet. My pulse quickens when I catch a glimpse of her face. Eisley. She’s the one. The stunning brunette from the holiday mixer.

Eisley caught my eye the moment I arrived at the party that night. I know most of the small business owners in town, but she was a newcomer to the annual party. While I like to think of myself as a one-man welcoming committee, my desire to meet her had nothing to do with business and everything to do with personal interest. I made my way toward her, shaking hands and offering Christmas well-wishes to the sea of local merchants who stood between us. My pulse quickened, much like now, sparking a chain reaction of nervous energy and eagerness racing through my veins.

The mistletoe she stepped under was sheer luck, paving the way for an excuse as old as Father Time.

I sidestep the growing group of ladies and head straight toward Eisley. She ducked out of the party before I had a chance to circle back around to her that night. I won’t let history repeat itself this time.

A collective countdown begins as Grace prepares to seal some lucky man’s fate. I don’t bother looking, but if I had to guess, I’d say Kylie’s determined to make the bundle of flowers her own.

Eisley turns when the collective countdown registers three. Our eyes meet, and her cheeks brighten to a lovely shade of pale pink. I continue toward her on a mission to get more than her first name. At two, a grin spreads across her face. It’s the cutest smile and adds a bit of glittery mystery and mischief to her eyes. My heart thunders against my ribs. Three steps, and I’ll be close enough to touch her and hear her voice.

One.

Squeals of delight, shuffling feet, and rustling fabric fill the reception hall, drowning out the music playing overhead. Eisley’s eyes waver from mine, darting upward. Her grin flattens, and panic overtakes her features. She darts forward as the bride’s bouquet flies overhead.

Eisley lunges for the airborne missile, her knees buckling in front of me. She snags the bouquet in one hand and gropes into the air for something to cushion her fall. I surge forward to catch her when a collective gasp fills the air. I’m thrown off balance when I’m struck from behind. My knee hits the carpet as Eisley crashes into my chest, knocking the wind from my lungs.

I wrap my arms around her and roll, shielding her from carpet burns, bruises, and possible wardrobe malfunctions. My shoulder catches on a white linen ruffle before hitting a table leg. The fabric strains as it gets pinned between my arm and the floor. Plates and silverware rattle as the table shakes. A clip holding the tablecloth in place pops off the corner, and a woman shrieks as the cloth begins sliding over the edge.

I tuck Eisley’s head under my chin and hope for the best while bracing for the worst. Things are about to get sticky and messy.

CHAPTER 2

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Eisley

My hands shake as I gather tiny snippets of greenery from the linen tablecloth, knowing Beau is mere yards from where I stand. I resist the urge to turn around and seek him out in the crowd. What if the kiss we shared meant nothing to him, and he’s forgotten about me? What if he felt nothing at all?

The wedding planner corrals the giddy women and directs the groomsmen to stay put for the garter toss. They’re outdated traditions that some find squirmy for the attention they draw to those who are single by choice or circumstance. Even so, I wouldn’t mind a little romance and good fortune thrown my way. Goodness knows I could use the help.

I glance at the group of women, getting caught in their excitement as they count down from ten to the moment of bouquet liftoff. I catch sight of the groom in my periphery, standing close to his bride as she practices her swing before the toss. Goosebumps shimmy up my spine, tickling and prickling my senses. Beau is so close I can feel him in my bones. I inhale a deep breath and hold it to calm my nerves.

Three, the women chorus, and I dare to turn around. I’m momentarily stunned to find Beau walking toward me, eyes fixed on mine. He remembers. My body reacts the same as it did months ago when I saw him for the first time. My core temperature rises with each step he takes. I smile nervously, feeling heat climb from my chest to my cheeks.

Two. My pulse quickens, and I break out into a mini sweat. My insides turn to mush.

One. Beau’s close enough to...

The same as the night we met, outside forces keep us from connecting. Well, we connect. Collide, in fact. Everything happens so quickly, it’s surreal, straight out of a made-for-TV rom-com.

The bride throws the bouquet overhead. A bridesmaid struggles forward with her arms outstretched as she launches herself into the air on one foot. The best man appears panicked. He leaps forward, reaching high into the air, and tips the flowers as they hurl through the air on a collision course for the cake table. I lunge forward, grasping into the air for the floral missile. The groomsman hits Beau in the back on his downward descent. Beau and I collide with a breathtaking thud. Beau wraps his arm around me and tucks me into his chest as his knees buckle. I wince and clamp my eyes closed, bracing for the moment we hit the floor.

We roll a few feet and stop in a tangled mess when Beau’s back hits the cake table. He groans and I lift my chin for a peek at the damage. Beau drops his shoulder, pulling the tablecloth with it. Something snaps, and someone yells. Beau covers my head with his hand and tucks me under his chin, protecting me from the wedding cake disaster of a lifetime.

“Hold still,” Beau commands.

“Grab the cake,” someone yells as people crowd around us.

Dishes and flatware clatter as the tablecloth slips another inch. A pile of paper napkins falls from the table, fluttering to the floor. In another minute, it’ll be the cake.

“Roll on top of me, away from the table.” I struggle to free my face from Beau’s chest. It’s a lovely, muscular chest that I wouldn’t mind burying myself in, but there's a bride’s day to save. “You’re pulling the tablecloth with your weight.”

“Kent, get off your ass and steady the table,” A man barks orders above us. “Grab that end.”

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