Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary

Chapter 10

Remind me to never be a bridesmaid again.

At the ripe age of thirty-two, I don’t know how I’ve managed to avoid the duty thus far, but as I sit here a few hours into the reception, fanning myself with a discarded dinner menu—my bare feet propped up on an empty chair—I can honestly say I’m grateful that none of my closest friends has ever gotten married yet.

Or maybe it’s just that Stephanie has kind of been a Bridezilla.

Not only did she ask us to stay super late after the rehearsal dinner last night finishing up wedding favors, but all eight of the bridesmaids (yes, eight!) had to be at her beachside hotel room at seven a.m. sharp this morning. We also each had to bring a brunch item to share. My offering of donuts was not looked upon kindly by the matchstick women serving as the other bridesmaids (so I ate three … shhh, don’t tell!).

Then, we had hair and makeup done by professionals, photos, gifts, and a thousand other little errands that I can’t recall now as a host of drunk people do the Macarena on the dance floor and I hide out at an empty table next to another occupied by Stephanie’s relatives who are too old to dance.

The hotel ballroom is exceptionally gorgeous, with an entire wall of windows facing the ocean and a balcony overlooking the beach below. Decor-wise, the coral and white accents are divine—I really can’t imagine a more beautiful wedding. Somehow, I made it through the ceremony and dinner without feeling too sorry for myself. I just tried to focus on being the bigger person, even when Stephanie snapped at me for not knowing how to properly tie up her bustle. (She promptly apologized and blamed it on the stress of her big day, so all is well now.)

And I’ve tried very hard not to miss Connor tonight. During a lull in visitors to the head table, Stephanie asked me where he was and I simply said he couldn’t make it after all. Of course, after our “chat” on Wednesday, he tried several times to talk to me about the wedding, but I went home early and then took off Thursday and yesterday to help with wedding stuff. I know he just felt bad he couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain, especially since I’ve spent so much time this last month critiquing his manuscript. But it was my call.

My heart on the line.

Not that he knows that.

I sigh and take another sip of champagne, one arm crossed over the other as I observe happy couples on the dance floor shift into a slow dance. They sway to Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight” and I have never felt so on the outside of things—so on the outskirts of love.

Closing my eyes, I let the melody wash over me. And then, someone touches my elbow. I glance up and nearly spill my drink at the sight of Connor standing there in a suit I’ve never seen before—and goodness, he looks even better than the wedding cake I devoured minutes ago.

And I want a piece of that.

“Connor?” Did I somehow summon him from the wishful depths of my heart?

He squats next to me. “Hey, Webster.” But no, that sultry voice is very real. “You’re a hard woman to track down.”

“What do you mean?”

Chuckling, he shakes his head. “You only told me the venue was at ‘a beachside hotel.’ I’ve spent the last few days calling around, trying to find the right one. And when that didn’t work, I finally got so desperate that I showed up at your house and begged Kayla to tell me. Sorry I’m late, but traffic getting up here was a beast.”

I’m still processing what he’s told me. “You went to my house?” Licking my lips, I place the champagne flute on the table. “Why would you do that?”

He snags a full champagne glass next to me and takes a swig. “A deal’s a deal, Webster.”

Oh.

“I released you from that deal.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be released from it.”

Oh!

He holds out his hand and stands. “Dance with me?”

I study him for a moment. I mean, he looks sincere. But that doesn’t mean he wants to dance with me. Maybe he’s just feeling guilty for all the time I spent working on his book, and wants to repay me somehow.

But I guess he is here. And it would be nice to dance.

Without answering, I let him help me out of this chair. But before I can slip my heels back on, he shakes his head. “I like you barefoot.” His gaze roams my whole body, taking in the A-line coral chiffon dress I’m wearing. Despite the deep-V back and slit up in front, I actually feel really comfortable in it—almost like a princess. It’s fun and flirty and pools at my feet, and I love the beaded detailing on the waistline.

Adele’s version of “Make You Feel My Love” starts to play as we approach the crowded dance floor. Connor’s hands slide around my waist and he gathers me close as I place my hands around his neck.

Then we move. And you know when a couple dances in a movie—and it’s like there’s no one else in the room?

Yup.

Same right now.

I forget where I am. I forget who is around us. I forget that I’m at the wedding of my ex and the friend who stole him from me.

All I know is Connor. The way he smells like some sort of cologne ad model. The way his fingers are warm against my sides and back. The way the prickly hairs at the base of his neck feel beneath my fingers because I can’t help but touch them.

The way Connor softly sings the words of the song for only me to hear. His lips graze my ear and I’m basically a puddle on the dance floor.

I’d let you hold me for a million years, Connor, if it feels like this.

His singing stops during the instrumental bridge, and he shifts his head slightly so that his cheek is pressed against mine. And with every second that passes, he seems to turn his neck a tiny fraction of an inch, so that eventually his lips are resting right next to the little dip at the corner of my mouth.

Before I can think of the consequences, I move the final fraction of an inch so our lips meet full on.

For a moment, he doesn’t react—I must have stunned him. But then his hand leaves my waist and cups my face, and his lips are moving with mine in a dance all their own. It’s sweet and it’s lovely and it’s everything that a first real kiss should be.

Ifit’s actually real.

But maybe for him, it’s once again for show. Because he agreed to be here with me as my “boyfriend.”

I break away from him, out of his arms. We look at each other, silent, and I realize the song has ended. The DJ is saying something about a wedding game they’re going to play with the bride and groom.

“Want some fresh air?” Connor asks.

I nod, unable to speak, my lips swollen.

He leads me out to the balcony, where a few other people linger in the darkening shadows. The ocean brushes in and out, a constant motion that calms my racing heart. We move to the edge of the balcony, facing the beach, and lean against the balustrade shoulder to shoulder. Wind teases my hair around my face.

What do I say now? No idea. So I say nothing, allowing the wash of the ocean below to skim the coast, its sound filling the night air around us.

“Hey, Evie?”

I glance at him, but he’s still watching the water. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for agreeing to this deal. I know you didn’t have to, but …” He swallows, the profile of his Grecian nose strong against the inky night sky. “I’m really glad I’ve gotten to know you better. And I’ve been so grateful for your help with my manuscript.”

The manuscript. A safe topic. My shoulders relax. “Are you about ready to submit?” It had been nearly ready when I’d dropped it off Wednesday. But I don’t want to think about that day. I want to think about this one, right here, right now, where we’re the only two people in our world.

He nods, peeks at me, his eyes bright in the starlight. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Sure you could have. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

“And I’ve decided to use my real name. Not a pen name.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His brow furrows. “It won’t make my dad happy, but that’s okay. I’m done trying to please him.” He laughs. “Well, I say that, and yet it’s probably ninety percent of the reason why I want the associate publisher promotion—to show him that I can succeed outside of his plan for me.”

He hasn’t mentioned his dad since our time at the garden. “What’s the story there?”

“Nah, I don’t want to ruin this night by talking about him.”

His sad smile prompts me to grab his hand. “Okay.”

“But …” Connor studies me, and his free hand grabs a strand of my hair. He filters it between his index finger and thumb. “What about you? Why do you want the position? Because from what I can tell, you wouldn’t get to do much editing—and that seems to be your passion.”

We haven’t talked much about the fact we’re going after the same job, but right now, I don’t feel the competition. Because he’s just a boy asking to see my heart—and I want to show him. Even if it’s painful.

I grip his hand as my lips tremble. “You know how my parents own a dairy farm?”

He nods.

“They’re stretched pretty thin and getting older. Dad’s had some health issues. Nothing overly serious, but they exist. They’ve had some financial setbacks too that come with relying on Mother Nature and the always-changing economy for their income—cow diseases, fluctuating dairy prices, that kind of thing. And I need to make more money than I do now so I can hire someone to help them out. Either that, or go home and do it myself.”

“You’d give up being an editor?”

“If I have to.” My voice trembles and I look briefly toward the horizon.

“Why does it have to fall on your shoulders?”

“I love them. It’s my duty as a daughter—the only daughter they have left.” I hesitate, breathe in a shudder. “And because I’m the reason my sister is dead.”

He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles, ever so gently, ever so patiently. “I highly doubt that. You couldn’t hurt a fly.”

A tear falls down my cheek and I push it away. “Not on purpose, no. But I trust too easily. I’ve been like that my whole life, you know? And sometimes it comes back to bite me. Or hurt those I love.” More tears fall and Connor’s thumb pushes them away.

“What happened?”

And I allow myself to go back there, to that night when I failed my sister—my whole family. “I was thirteen. My sister was seventeen, and I wanted to be just like her. She was confident, cool, and popular. Basically, my total opposite.” I try for a wry grin, but it feels wrong. “One night, I caught her sneaking out with this guy my parents had forbidden her to see. I ran outside to his car, told them they couldn’t go. But he turned to me and … I don’t know how to explain it except he complimented me and charmed me. And I couldn’t tell …” My voice wavers again. “I didn’t know he was drunk.”

“Oh, Evie.” Connor gathers me fully in his arms then. “Car accident?”

I nod and we stand there for who knows how long as the ocean does its thing—being constant, being calm, being peace itself. “So now you know why I can’t let my parents lose their farm. They’ve already lost enough because of me. And if there’s a way for me to prevent them from losing anything else, I will.”

“I understand how you’d feel that way, but you were just a kid.” His palms rub circles into my back. “You can’t blame yourself for that. Blame the idiot who drove drunk.”

“If I’d just run back inside, told my parents, they could have tracked them down before the accident. They saw him for what he was. Why didn’t I?”

“Because you, Evie Denmark, are an amazing human who sees the best in everyone.” Connor inhales a sharp breath and tightens his grip on me. “Even me.”

“That’s because there’s a lot of good to see.”

“I wish that were true. But you, Webster … you make me want to try.”

And I can’t help asking, because I have to know if I’m the only woman he’s saying this to. “Does June also make you want to try?” Ugh. I hate how small my voice sounds in this moment.

He pulls back, looks into my eyes, confusion clear on his face. “Why would you ask me that?”

I feel stupid but I need to clarify. It’ll eat me alive if I don’t. “The other day, in your office. You called her pulchritudinous.”

And then he’s grinning. “Why, Evie Denmark. I do believe you’re jealous.”

First of all, he sounds like some sort of southern gentleman—a hot one. Second of all, of course I’m jealous! But I don’t want to let him know that. I back away, out of his arms. “I just want to know your intentions.”

Oh my gosh, I didn’t just say that. What am I, a Regency-era debutante? “You know what? Never mind.” I turn to head back inside, the beautiful moment between us broken.

But he snags my elbow and spins me toward him, making my dress flare outward in a twirl. “I didn’t call June pulchritudinous. I asked if she knew what it meant. And I could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t.”

“Okay …” I still don’t understand.

“But you know what it means, Evie.”

Huh?

Now he’s chuckling and holding my upper arms. “I don’t know any other woman like you, and I love that you’re unique.”

All right, then.

“And as for my intentions”—he gives a little tug until I’m in his arms again—“I don’t really know where this is going, but I’d like the chance to find out. To get to know you.” He pauses. “Have dinner with me sometime?”

“Yes.” It’s all I can manage.

“Next Saturday?”

“Yes.”

Connor smiles. “Good. It’s a date.” Then he hooks my arm through his. “For now, let’s go kill it on the dance floor.”