Wedding Belles. Beth Albright

I felt his large hand cup my breast and his mouth slide down inside my silk collar to the flesh of my chest.

      “We should go in, don’t you think?” I asked, breathing heavily against his neck. I knew anyone could be lurking out there, and I wanted to make sure we were seen only when and how we wanted to be seen.

      “I could take you right here, right now,” he said.

      “I know, but I wanna see your place,” I said. “Besides, we’re getting way too, um, relaxed, out here.”

      “If you insist,” he said, still kissing my neck.

      Sonny opened his front door for me and allowed me in first. Such a prince, I thought. Harry had stopped opening my door the minute we got back from our honeymoon. But this wasn’t a show from Sonny. This was ingrained behavior. He was a Southern gentleman. He had opened doors for me even in high school.

      I followed him inside and he shut the door behind me.

      Immediately, I was struck by the warmth of his home. Someone’s house says so much about who they are. His home enveloped me just like he did. I knew I was in trouble. Leaving would be very hard for sure.

      His living room was awash in the glow of walls the color of milky mocha and trimmed in shiny white, extra-wide baseboards and crown molding. Shelves floor to ceiling flanked the doorways and were crammed with books, both hardback and soft, all mixed in together.

      Some soft, vulnerable place inside me twisted, then released. I was really here.

      I walked slowly, looking along the shelves, grazing my fingertips across the crowded unorganized collection. I wanted to explore every nook and cranny of his place.

      “I’ll be right back,” Sonny said. “Make yourself comfy.” He headed off to the kitchen.

      I was fixin’ to have a seat, but my uncontrollable curiosity took over and I headed toward his bedroom, which was just to the left of the kitchen door. I thought I’d only take a peek.

      His room was dark with a cream-colored duvet and crimson blankets. His dark red mahogany dresser had a silver-framed picture of his German shepherd, Bryant, named after Bama’s legendary football coach, Bear Bryant. The coach died after retiring in 1982, and most of the town closed up for almost three days. It was one of those unreal events when you stopped in your tracks the minute you heard the news. Everyone in Tuscaloosa knows where they were the afternoon the Bear died. It was just like Sonny to try to keep a good man’s memory alive.

      Bookshelves lined these dark cream walls like in the other room. But postcards and old photos of hiking trips and scouting knives littered the cubbies. A bay window seat looking out over the front porch was overflowing with mismatched pillows. In the corner stood his trombone, balancing on its case. I was certain that’s how he developed those talented lips.

      An antique tulip sconce light was just outside the bathroom door, beckoning me inside. His closet was just to the right of the door and I found myself touching all of his things, feeling as though I was glimpsing a whole new side of Sonny—the real man underneath the slick detective’s suit. I inhaled deeply, and the scent of him filled me. His work shirts were well pressed from the cleaners, his ties hung around the neck of one hanger.

      I paused a minute, then loosened the buttons on one of his shirts, my heart racing at my bravery. Well, he did say to make myself comfy...

      I unzipped my skirt and it fell to the wood floor. I took off my blouse and pulled one of his old cop shirts off the hanger and slipped it on, leaving it unbuttoned halfway down. He hadn’t wore one of these uniform shirts since he’d become the chief investigator.

      Bare feet and bare legs, I walked back out into the living room just as Sonny appeared in the doorway from the kitchen with two Baileys Irish Creams in highball glasses. He’d untucked his shirt and looked rather relaxed...until he caught a glimpse of me. He set the glasses down on the side table and walked toward me. He was slow and deliberate. He never took his eyes off me, sauntering across the floor.

      He fingered the collar of the shirt I had on. “I do believe I prefer this new outfit to the previous one.” He smiled like a cat fixin’ to eat the canary. “It seems a little more, uh—accessible.”

      “First, you have to catch me.” I ran from him into his bedroom, and he reached down, grabbing the glasses, and chased me. I jumped on his bed, scooching up the duvet and settling into his mound of down pillows.

      He set the glasses on the dresser next to the picture of Bryant, crawled onto the bed and straddled me before taking off his white shirt. He was a big, gorgeous man, with a broad chest and strong muscular arms—every inch the sexy cop fantasy.

      He stretched out on top of me. “I do believe I’ve caught you. What’s my prize?”

      I laughed, loving the feel of his weight on me. “Accessibility. As much as you want.”

      Sonny gave me a wicked grin. “Sugar, that’s an awful lot.” He began kissing me all over my neck and chest, in between the buttons of his old uniform shirt.

      “You still have your clothes on.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He slid his pants off.

      I heard them drop, belt and all, to the wood floor. I wrapped my bare legs around him and pulled him into me. I loved knowing I was in his bed, even if part of me couldn’t believe I was here and was totally shocked at my brazen behavior. The rest of me just reveled in it.

      I was putting a pinky toe outside my predictable box, and amazingly enough, I was feeling like I was home.

      8

      I stared up at Sonny’s ceiling and let out a satisfied sigh.

      It might sound silly, but I like to think of myself as a free spirit. Okay, I know I’m not like Vivi. Few are. But I will take on an adventure here and there. Let’s say I’m a free spirit with a five-year plan. I’m old-fashioned. I’m the girl who loves to have my hand kissed on meeting a new gentleman. And I have always believed I was born in the wrong decade. That was one of the things that first bonded Vivi and me. We loved anything from the turn of the century through the 1940s. When we played dress-up as children in my grandmother Meridee’s basement, we loved to put on her dresses and listen to her old standards, like Cole Porter or Gershwin, before adding several long strings of pearls to our costumes. Then we’d dance. This love of all things vintage is what inspired Vivi’s wedding planning, and the entire reception was set to have a ragtime theme.

      Yes, I was old-fashioned, but I now had proof I was also a girl who could live on the fly. I could be unexpected. I was lying in bed, not in my own house...and not even by myself. And I was wearing a policeman’s uniform! Well, I had been wearing it. The shirt’s current whereabouts remained unknown, but it was definitely my new favorite article of clothing.

      I lay snuggled up next to Sonny, completely satisfied and utterly mussed, my appetite roaring.

      “I’m starved,” I said. “Let’s have dessert.”

      “I just had dessert,” Sonny said. “But I think I know just the thing for you, baby. You still love pound cake?” He remembered from our junior-high days.

      “You know it,” I said, not knowing what he was planning. It was 2:00 a.m. and I mean, really, was he gonna bake a pound cake right this second?

      That would be a yes.

      Sonny sauntered into the kitchen, fastening his pants as he walked.

      The kitchen was small but well-appointed with marble counters and dark oak cabinets to go with the craftsman style of the rest of the house.

      There was a farmhouse apron-front sink in porcelain-white with a sprayer nozzle faucet. The oversized island held an array of cookbooks on the shelves underneath and had an additional sink for vegetables. Was Sonny a chef? Sure looked like it with that setup. I found that really sexy.

      Sonny had prepared a dinner for me but