Countdown to the Perfect Wedding. Teresa Hill

lemon bars.

      He’d taste that way, too.

      She couldn’t help the thought. It was just there. She loved those lemon bars, and it occurred to her that she’d never tasted one on a man’s lips. And she wasn’t going to let herself start now.

      She wasn’t even sure if he was just happy and having a good time, enjoying something sweet, or if he was flirting with her. Honestly, it had been that long since she’d been out in the man-woman world that she wasn’t sure.

      This could all be wishful thinking on her part, nothing but a little bit of champagne and a great dessert to him. Although he did have a look that said perhaps he shouldn’t be sitting here laughing and having such a good time while eating her food.

      She glanced down at his hand, looking for a wedding ring and finding none. Okay, he wasn’t wearing a ring. So what? Some men didn’t. And even if he was free as a bird, it didn’t mean anything.

      He took another bite of his lemon bar, still appreciating every bit, still being very vocal in that appreciation, then adding, “I mean it. Never in my life have I—”

      All of a sudden, Amy heard a hard tap-tap-tap of high heels across the hard tile floor of the kitchen. Tate obviously did, too, because they both turned toward the sound. She hadn’t heard anyone come in, had been sure they were alone.

      Now, standing just inside the kitchen door was one of the most polished, perfectly put-together women she’d ever seen—a tall, regimentally thin blonde, wearing what Amy suspected was a very expensive designer suit, a cool, assessing look on her face and a hint of fire—possibly outrage—in her eyes.

      “Never in your life have you…what, darling?” she asked.

      Amy gulped, thinking this woman might be even more frightening than the housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, and feeling as if she’d been caught red-handed and not with a mess that had anything to do with sugar.

      “Victoria?” Tate said, getting to his feet and going to her side, giving her a little peck of a kiss on her perfectly made-up cheek. “I didn’t know you were here.”

      She laughed, clearly not amused. “Obviously.”

      “I was going to say,” Tate told her, “that I’ve never tasted anything as delicious in my life as these lemon bars Amy made.”

      A beautifully arched eyebrow arched even higher at that, Victoria’s look saying she didn’t believe a word of his explanation, although her gaze had to take in the fact that he had indeed been sitting here eating a lemon bar, Amy firmly on the other side of the kitchen island, not doing anything but…

      Well, admiring the sights and sounds of him eating that lemon bar. But that was it. Everything else had been pure fantasy. Amy stepped back, clutching her dishcloth and wishing she could disappear behind it.

      Victoria turned to Tate and asked, “Where are your clothes?”

      Okay, that didn’t look so good—the fact that he was standing there in nothing but his pants.

      “They’re right here,” Amy said, grabbing the white garbage bag that contained his things. “I had a little accident with some powdered sugar, and it got all over his shirt and…the rest of his things. Sorry.”

      He walked over to her and took the clothes, mouthing “sorry” and looking like he meant it. Then he said out loud, “Thank you, Amy. I didn’t introduce the two of you. Victoria, this is Amy…I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your last name?”

      “Carson,” Amy told them both, trying to look like someone who didn’t matter at all, someone here just to cook and stay out of the way and certainly not cause trouble.

      “Victoria, this is Amy Carson,” Tate said. “Amy, this is Victoria Ryan, my fiancée.”

       Fiancée?

      “You two are the ones getting married?” she asked, smiling desperately.

      “Yes. In four days,” Victoria said coolly, nodding barely in Amy’s direction. “And you are…?”

      “House chef for the weekend. Something came up at the last minute with the man Eleanor hired, and she asked me to fill in,” Amy said, still clinging to that smile.

      Victoria gave her the once-over, much as she’d done her shirtless fiancé, a most thorough assessment, then said, “You certainly don’t look like a chef.”

      Amy felt her cheeks burn and felt decidedly bare everywhere else. “I made a mess of my chef’s coat, too.”

      And then realized it sounded like they’d had some kind of crazy food fight, which she supposed was better than what it might have sounded like, with all that moaning and groaning Tate had been doing when his fiancée walked into the kitchen.

      This was bad on so many levels.

      She looked down at the floor, at the mess she was standing in, up to the ceiling, to the wide swath of countertop between her and Ms. Perfect, the perfect companion for Mr. Perfect. And then Amy’s gaze landed on the lemon bars. Thinking she had nothing to lose, and that the silly things did tend to put most anyone in a good mood, she picked up the platter they were on and held them out to Victoria.

      “Lemon bar?” she asked.

      “No, thank you,” the woman said.

      “Well, we should let Amy get back to her work,” Tate said, then looked down at what was left of the lemon bar on his plate. Looked longingly, Amy thought, despite what had just happened.

      His fiancée saw him, too, and shot him a look that said, “You’re kidding, right?”

      He just smiled, grabbed the thing and practically shoved the rest of it in his mouth, and then led his fiancée out of the kitchen.

      Amy stood there, watching them go, not listening in but not really able to keep from hearing as they walked away, either.

      “What was that?” Victoria asked.

      “Nothing. She told you that she spilled some powdered sugar. It was like a mushroom cloud, rising up and enveloping everything in its path—”

      “Sugar? That’s what you have to say? Sugar? Tate, we’re getting married in four days—”

      Tate tried to respond. “My clothes are right here in the bag. You can see for yourself—”

      “You can’t do this now. Not now.”

      “I didn’t do anything. Nothing happened. I stopped to talk to her little boy—”

      “I didn’t see any little boy—”

      “He was a mess, too. We put him in the shower—”

      “We?” Victoria asked.

      “Yes…I mean…Victoria, I am not this guy. You know that. I am not this guy—”

      “I thought I knew that—”

      “You know it. I’m not.”

      And then Amy couldn’t hear any more.

      They were gone.

      Whew.

      The weekend—and especially the job—had to get better from here, she told herself.

      Eleanor felt a tad guilty when she saw how upset Victoria was, although it was reassuring that Victoria was at least capable of showing enough emotion to be upset. Maybe she wasn’t entirely as unfeeling as Eleanor feared.

      “See, we told you to just let it be and see what happened,” Gladdy told her, having stood there beside Eleanor the whole time and listening to the whole encounter.

      “It’s a start, I suppose,” Eleanor admitted. Still, time was so short, and she just wasn’t sure if anything could truly change the planned wedding at this late date. Tate loved plans, loved