The Wedding Planner. Millie Criswell

be careful, Merry. And get all of your money in advance. Don’t trust Adam Morgan.”

      Assuring her mother that she would only trust the man as far as she could spit, which wasn’t all that far—she knew that, because she and her next door neighbor Ricky Trumble used to have spitting contests when they were kids—Meredith hurried out the door and headed for home.

      PULLING INTO HER GRAVEL driveway ten minutes later, Meredith set the brake on the red Mitsubishi Eclipse and gathered up her things.

      The amber light from the front porch lamp illuminated Peter Webber’s handsome face. He was sitting on the brick steps blocking her door, holding a huge paper bag on his lap that smelled suspiciously like Chinese food the closer she approached. Her stomach, apparently forgetting the wonderful lunch she’d shared with the Morgans only hours before, roared appreciatively in response.

      “Hi, Meredith. Hope you don’t mind me darkening your doorstep without calling, but I neglected to get your business card before I left Adam’s, and I didn’t have your home phone number.”

      “If that’s Chinese food, and if you’ve brought enough to share, then you’re forgiven.” Unlocking the door, she invited him in, and they were immediately assaulted by Harrison, who was as eager to greet them as he was to rush out the door to take care of pressing matters.

      “Did you see Adam’s interview?” He unloaded the small white cartons of delicious-smelling food onto the green-lacquered table in her kitchen. Like the rest of the house, the room was cozy, which was Meredith’s euphemistic way of saying microscopic.

      “It was a last-minute thing, so I went ahead without consulting you. Hope that was all right.”

      She waved away the objection and got down a couple of plates from the cupboard, fishing in the drawer for silverware and hoping to find forks that weren’t horribly mismatched. Her housewares, like her furniture, were what Meredith referred to as eclectic, which sounded so much nicer than mishmash or garage-sale specials.

      “I’m only involved in this media blitz because Adam wanted me to be. I’m not comfortable in the spotlight.”

      Peter seemed surprised. “As pretty as you are? I find that hard to believe.”

      The unexpected compliment took her off guard, and she smiled with a great deal of uncertainty. “Give me five minutes and you’ll see just how hideous I really am.”

      Hurrying into her bedroom, Meredith tore off the uncomfortable suit and pantyhose and slipped on a pair of faded red sweats that had seen better days. Stuffing her aching feet into furry slippers that resembled white bunny rabbits whose whiskers moved when she did, she thought about removing her makeup, but decided against it. The poor man wasn’t ready for such a shock before dinner.

      Meredith emerged to find that the attorney had let the dog back inside and was now lying supine on the living room floor, trying to get the one-hundred-fifty-pound canine off his chest.

      Harrison considered anything on the floor fair game, including, and most especially, people. “Harrison, leave Peter alone. It’s time for dinner. Now go to your blanket. Shoo!”

      The dog obeyed, but not before getting in one last swipe of his tongue down Peter’s face. The attorney laughed, mopping up Harrison’s exuberance with what used to be a clean white hankie. “Guess my idea of playing and your dog’s are two different things. I’ve never been much good at wrestling. Is he always this friendly?”

      She shook her head. “No, not always. He’s very protective when the need arises, but he likes most people, especially when he finds one brave enough to crawl around on the floor with him.”

      Peter took a seat at the table situated near the window and began serving himself out of the cardboard containers. “Your attempt to make yourself ugly didn’t work,” he remarked, his grin teasing.

      Meredith choked on her eggroll and reached for the glass of iced tea next to her plate. She liked Peter, hoped they would be friends, but that instant sexual attraction required for any good relationship was missing between them, unlike the spark that had ignited when Adam Morgan first stepped into her life.

      Just her luck to be attracted to a nerdy businessman instead of a suave, handsome attorney.

      “I bet you say that to all the ugly girls,” she quipped. “Now pass the sesame chicken and tell me what evil media things you’ve conjured up for our prospective bridegroom.”

      WHILE MEREDITH AND PETER consumed gargantuan proportions of moo shoo pork, fried rice and steamed dumplings, the prospective bridegroom was having a difficult time concentrating on the paperwork in front of him.

      As he mulled over P & Ls and production-cost analyses, Adam kept seeing Meredith’s face, her incredibly long legs, her firm, lush breasts…

      “Damn!” he cursed, his erotic musings having had the predictable effect. Moving restlessly to the window, he gazed out.

      The moon was full, the stars shining brightly in a sky as black as his mood at the moment. Adam hated distractions, and Meredith Baxter was proving to be a very big distraction, if the pressure in his groin was any indication.

      Perhaps if I call her… He glanced at his watch: seven-thirty. She’d be at home at this time of evening and would no doubt welcome a chance to discuss all those annoying, trivial wedding details that women were so fond of agonizing over.

      What nonsense is this? Gazing longingly at the crystal decanter of brandy on the credenza behind his desk, he decided that liquor could eliminate the restlessness he was feeling far better than talking to an opinionated woman, who would no doubt ramble on about petits fours and champagne fountains and whatever else was found at wedding receptions. He hadn’t a clue.

      The brandy burned like liquid fire as it made its way down, but it didn’t obliterate the memory of the smile on Meredith’s face when she teased him about marrying a chimpanzee, or the genuine affection in her green eyes when she told those stupid jokes to his niece and nephew about embarrassed zebras and black-and-white newspapers. She’d left out the one about the nun rolling down the hill.

      He smiled as he recalled Andrew and Megan’s joyful laughter. The children hadn’t had much to laugh about lately, what with their mother’s death, and having to adjust to a new school and surroundings. But Meredith had managed to lighten their spirits, and had made them forget the ugliness of their situation, if only for a little while. Something he’d been unable to do.

      He’d tried, of course. He truly loved Megan and Andrew. But he was out of his element when it came to children, schoolwork and the multitude of everyday problems kids seemed to have.

      But he wouldn’t admit his shortcomings to anyone, because if the courts knew how totally inept he was at being a parent, they would remove Megan and Andrew from his care, and no amount of money he could offer would make any difference at that point. If it hadn’t been for Peter’s persuasive argument with the court and the people at social services, Megan and Andrew would already be living in a foster home.

      Over my dead body!

      Deciding that his thoughts were becoming a little too maudlin, he put down the brandy and picked up the phone, dialing Meredith’s home number before he could change his mind.

      She answered on the third ring, and his heart gave a little zing when he heard her voice. There was laughter in the background—a man’s laughter—and the sound of it knotted his gut.

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”

      “Mr. Morgan, is that you?” Meredith seemed genuinely surprised to hear from him. He felt like an ass.

      “I’ll call back tomorrow.”

      “No need. It’s just Peter. He brought over Chinese and we’ve been going over the media campaign. We’ve come up with some wonderful ideas I think you’re going to—”

      “Peter Webber is at your house eating dinner?”