Page 3 of Chase Me

This woman wasn’t the first newlywed to freak out at the reception and she wouldn’t be the last. Ciara had a long track-record of calming them down and helping them focus on what was important, their happily ever afters. Wesley called her the bride whisperer.

Ciara put a hand on the bride’s arm and sent all the happy calming positive thoughts she could muster. They took a deep breath together.

“You can do this. Everything is going to be fine.”

The bride nodded, looking a little dazed and repeated Ciara’s words. “Everything is going to be fine.”

A few hours later, the bride and groom had more than made up. The bouquet was tossed, the champagne chilled and toasted, the candles blown out, all topped off by the perfect sunset.

At two in the morning, Wes escorted the last of the drunken groomsmen to the limos they’d arranged to drive the non-sober home and Ciara collapsed into the nearest chair.

If she took her shoes off now, they were never ever going back on, but she’d limp home barefoot rather than take one more second in her not-so-high heels.

A lonely uneaten piece of wedding cake had been calling to her ever since she saw the fit groomsman walk away from it several hours ago. After that marathon wedding and reception, she needed a good sugar fix.

“Stop right there, thief.” The deep rumble of a male voice halted the fork midway to her mouth. Sounded like he was back for his dessert. Oh God. How embarrassing.

“I'm just doing a bit of quality control. Have to make sure the cake is up to Willingham Weddings standards.”

Please don't let him mention the fact that the wedding was over. Ciara turned to give the groomsman her best don't mind me I'm just the chubby, dateless, wedding planner stealing a piece of leftover cake smile. The man-slash-movie-star-slash-romance novel cover model standing three feet behind her had his arms crossed and a mad as hell glare on.

He wore a tight black t-shirt, dark jeans and a beautiful bright green crystal on a cord around his neck, so he wasn't the groomsman, or any other guest of the Ketcher-Fast wedding. She’d remember all that fantasy material.

He glanced down at the glowing charm at his throat and stilled. He faltered for a second and had to grab on to a chair to keep his balance.

Great. Another drunk guest and all the limos were gone. No way was she driving him home herself. Hmm. Well, maybe. He was awfully sexy and all those daydreams she’d had about Wes all night suddenly starred this magnetic stranger.

Until he growled at her. “I don't give a damn about the cake, unless that is where you've hidden my goods.”

“Your goods?” The only goods Ciara could comprehend at the moment were six, or maybe eight, of the most beautifully defined abdominal muscles in the whole Four Corners.

He crossed the scant yard between them in two strides, hauled her up out of the chair, and got so far into her personal space bubble she could smell his cinnamony breath. A zing whipped through her from every place he touched and strangely, she really wanted to stand up on her tippy toes and press her lips to his, taste that spice, lick up every essence of that erotic flavor.

She might have too if he'd held her for a second longer. But after searching her eyes, he released her and began pacing, prowling around her, his eyes roving her from head to toe.

He might have the body of a god and she the body of a cupcake, but she would not be intimidated by wandering eyes. “First of all, you have to tell me what brand of toothpaste you use, and second, back up out of my business, buster.”

“Do not try to beguile me with your talk of hygiene products, your hair of gold, and your body made for sin. Where have you hidden my Wyr relic, witch?” He stopped circling and stared straight at her butt.

Body made for sin? Was he kidding? Body made of sins, maybe. Namely the sins of Swiss meringue buttercream, chocolate ganache, and too many I Love Lucy reruns. “Stop staring at my tuchis. Whatever you're looking for ain't in there.”

She wiggled her backside to emphasize her point. That made her intruder damn irritated, probably that her rear wasn’t dropping any evidence of wrong doing based on the growl rumbling from his chest and his eyes glued to her ass.

“Stop enticing me with your curves, thief. You cannot distract me from what is mine.”

Ciara cleared her throat, gently at first, but when that failed to bring his eyes up to hers, she about gave herself a sore throat trying to get his attention.

“Are you ill? I won't have you dying before you tell me where the statue is hidden.”

What an asshat. A cute one, but a real douche canoe nonetheless. “I think maybe we've gotten off on the wrong foot here.” Ciara extended her hand to him. “I’m Ciara Mosley-Willingham.” Her hand hung there for a full count of ten. “And you are?”

He recoiled from her hand. “Wondering what kind of spell you're trying to work on me. Whatever it is, I assure you a Wyvern is immune.”

“I was trying to be nice, but I've had a very long and tiring day, so my patience is wearing thin. I don't have your thingy,and I don't know what a why Vern is. I thought for a minute I might help you try to find it, but I'm done now.” Ciara turned and began looking for her torturous heels. It would be much more fun to stomp off if there was some clack.

“As am I. If you won't return what you have taken from me I will be forced to bring you before the AllWyr council.”

“What the hell?”

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