Page 137 of Heartbeat

He chuckled, then put his arm around her and pulled her closer. The trees on the side of the road were just a blur.

Wolfgang Outen had given Liz Caldwell, the event coordinator, one directive. Turn the ballroom of the Serenity Inn into a palace, and he gave her carte blanche to make it happen. With money as no object and all of the technology of modern moviemaking at her disposal, she pulled from Camelot and castles and turned a ballroom into a night of magic.

The dance floor awaited. The room was dimmed but for the lights from the ornate candelabras, filled withhundreds upon hundreds of flameless candlesticks. The walls were draped with tapestries. The tables were adorned with silks. The cups for wine were chalices. Pewter-colored plates awaited food. And in the center of it all, the castle. A monument of cake art and sugar, a beacon as white as snow.

And then the bride and groom came through the door, and the moment they entered the room, they paused in tandem, stunned by the sight before them.

Wolf walked up behind the both of them, his hands on their shoulders.

“I never got to read you fairy stories, and you already found your prince. All I could give you was Camelot.” He gestured toward the cake. “Your castle awaits.”

Then they saw B.J. at the other end of the room, standing by the cake, and started toward him in total awe.

They looked at B.J. and then at the cake towering above them all—marveling at the size and exquisite detail of every facet of the design.

“Oh, Sean, look what they have given us! If this is Camelot, then B.J. has to be Merlin. This cake is magnificent! The ballroom is magic. Thank you, Dad, for everything!”

Sean was right behind her with praise.

“Wolf, I am at a loss for words. Little brother, you are a master at your craft. Thank you both for making this night so special.”

“I have been blessed with a daughter, and now a son. My cup runneth over,” Wolf said.

B.J. was beaming. “For me, it was a work of love. Here come the photographers. Everybody smile.”

The night became a blur of faces and names, of laughter and tears. The ballroom was packed, the hot and cold buffets constantly being refilled.

Sean led his bride onto the dance floor to share the first dance—the tall man in black, the young woman in white, dipping and swaying in candlelight, head to head, cheek to cheek, heart to heart.

And then the father-daughter dance that brought everyone to tears. What was lost had now been found.

The sight of Ella Pope dancing in Wolfgang Outen’s arms, the candlelight dispelling the years and age between them.

Sean dancing with his mother, before his brothers all cut in. He walked off laughing at the turmoil and went to find his bride.

They toasted each other with champagne from chalices and cut the cake with a glimmering sword, revealing yet another layer of magic waiting within.

The faint taste of highbush blackberry jam between one of the layers, and then almond and cherry between another, and then the sweet-sharp tang of lemon custard, and another of vanilla buttercream with fresh grated cinnamon in a sponge so feathery light it melted on the tongue.

The groom’s cake was chocolate with a dark chocolate ganache, and the wordsSean and Amalie Foreverwritten across the surface.

Amalie tossed the bridal bouquet without ever seeing where it went, and in the melee, no one noticed they had disappeared.

The party went on in the ballroom, as Sean was laying Amalie down on a bed of silk.

They made love until they crashed and then rolled up in each other’s arms and snuggled close.

Amalie’s cheek was on Sean’s chest.

She could hear his heartbeat.

The steadythump-thumppulse against her ear.

As she was falling asleep, she felt her pulse skip and then pick up to match his own.

Two souls.

One heartbeat.

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