The Best Man Takes A Bride. Stacy Connelly

Porter eyed the dress shop with a sense of dread. Early-morning sunshine warmed the back of his neck and glinted off the gilded lettering on the plate glass window. Frilly dresses decorated with layer after layer of lace and ribbons and bows draped the mannequins on display, a small sample of the froth and satin inside. All of it girlie, delicate and scary as hell.

      The forecast promised a high in the low seventies, but Jamison could already feel himself breaking into a sweat.

      He swallowed hard against the sense of impending doom and fought the urge to jump in his SUV and floor it back to San Francisco. Back to his office and his black walnut barricade of a desk, matching bookshelves lined with heavy law books, and rich leather chairs. All of it masculine, substantial—the one place where Jamison never questioned his decisions, never doubted his every move—

      He felt a tug at his hand and looked down at his four-year-old daughter’s upturned face. Big brown eyes stared back at him. “I wanna go home now.”

      Never felt so useless as he did when he was with Hannah.

      His daughter’s barely brushed blond curls tilted to one side in a crooked ponytail. Her mismatched green T-shirt and pink shorts, both nearing a size too small, were testimony to the crying fit that ended their last attempt at clothes shopping. Jamison at least took some small comfort that Hannah had been the one to leave the store in tears, and not him. Because there were times...

      Like now, when he didn’t even know which home Hannah was referring to. Back to Hillcrest House, the hotel where they’d be staying for the next couple of weeks? Back to his town house in San Francisco? To her grandparents’ place? To the house where she’d been living with her mother...

      “I know, Hannah Banana,” he said, fighting another shaft of disappointment when the once-loved nickname failed to bring a smile to her face. “But we can’t go home yet,” he added as he set aside the question of where his daughter called home for another time. “We’re here to meet Lindsay, remember? She’s the lady who’s getting married to my friend Ryder, and she wants you to be her flower girl.”

      Hannah scraped the toe of a glittery tennis shoe along a crack in the sidewalk. “I don’t want to.”

      Her lack of interest in playing a role in Lindsay Brookes’s wedding to Ryder Kincaid didn’t bother Jamison as much as her patented response did. Not because of all the things Hannah didn’t want, but because of the one thing she did.

      The bell above the shop’s frosted-glass door rang as the bride stepped outside. Dressed in gray slacks and a sleeveless peach top with her dark blond hair caught back in a loose bun, a smile lit Lindsay’s pretty face. “Hey, you made it! Not that I thought you wouldn’t.” She waved a hand, the solitaire in her engagement ring flashing in the sunlight. “I mean, it isn’t like any place around here is hard to find!”

      Ryder had told Jamison his hometown near the Northern California coastline was small, and he hadn’t exaggerated. Victorian buildings lined either side of Main Street and made up the heart of downtown. Green-and-white awnings snapped in the late-summer breeze, adding to the welcome of nodding yellow snapdragons, purple pansies and white petunias in the brick planters outside the shops. Couples strolled arm in arm, their laughing kids racing ahead to dart into the diner down the street or into the sweet-smelling café across the way.

      It was all quaint and old-fashioned, postcard perfect and roughly that same size. Jamison figured it had taken less than five minutes to see all Clearville had to offer even while obeying the slower-than-slow posted speed limit. “No trouble. Didn’t even need to use the GPS.”

      Finding the shop had been easy. Making himself step one foot inside, that was a different story.

      “Good thing,” Lindsay said with a laugh, “since cell coverage can be pretty spotty around here.”

      Jamison fought back a groan. In a true effort to focus on Hannah and leave work behind, he hadn’t brought along his laptop. But he’d been counting on being able to use his phone to read emails and download any documents too urgent to wait for his return. “How does anyone get things done around here?” he grumbled under his breath.

      She lifted a narrow shoulder in a shrug. “Disconnecting is tough at first, but before long, you find you don’t miss it at all.”

      “Can’t say I plan to be in town long enough to get used to anything,” he replied as the driver of an SUV crawling down Main Street called out to Lindsay and the two women exchanged a quick wave.

      And despite his own words, Jamison couldn’t help thinking that, back in San Francisco, had a driver shouted and stuck an arm out the window, the gesture wouldn’t have been so friendly.

      “That’s too bad. Clearville’s a great town. A wonderful place to raise a family,” she added with a warm glance at Hannah, who dropped her gaze and retreated even farther behind his back.

      So different from the adventurous toddler he remembered...

      He sucked in a deep breath as he tried to focus on whatever Lindsay was saying.

      “But why don’t we get started? I’m here for my final fitting, and I’ve picked out some of the cutest flower girl dresses. Our colors are burgundy and gold, but I think that would be too strong a palette for Hannah since she’s so fair. Instead I’ve been leaning toward a cream taffeta with a sash at the waist—”

      Catching herself, Lindsay offered a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Ryder’s already warned me I tend to go into wedding overload on even the most unsuspecting victim. The other day, I talked a poor waitress’s ear off and all she asked was if I wanted dessert. If there’s something else you need to do, you don’t have to stay—”

      “No! Daddy, don’t go!” Hannah’s hands tightened in a death grip around his as she pressed closer to his side.

      Lindsay’s expression morphed into one of sympathy that Jamison had seen too many times and had grown to despise over the past two months.

      But not as much as he hated the tears in his daughter’s eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he vowed, disappointed but not surprised when his promise didn’t erase the worry wrinkling her pale eyebrows.

      “Pinkie promise?” she finally asked, holding out the tiny, delicate digit.

      Jamison didn’t hesitate as Hannah wrapped him around her finger. Love welled up inside him along with the painful awareness of how many times he’d let her down in her short life. His voice was gruff as he replied, “Pinkie promise.”

      “Your daddy can stay with you the whole time,” Lindsay reassured Hannah gently. “I bet he can’t wait to see you try on some pretty dresses.”

      Jamison had thought Hannah might enjoy being a flower girl, but the truth was, he didn’t have a clue what would make his little girl happy anymore. Sweat started to gather at his temples along with the pressure of an oncoming headache. “Look, Lindsay, I appreciate you thinking of Hannah and wanting her to be part of the ceremony, but I don’t—”

      “Sorry I’m late!” The cheery voice interrupted Jamison’s escape, and every muscle in his body tensed. That need to run raced through him once more, but his feet felt frozen in place. Still, he couldn’t help turning to glance over his shoulder, bracing himself for the woman he could feel drawing closer.

      The wedding coordinator.

      Ryder and Lindsay had introduced them not long after he’d checked into the sprawling Victorian hotel. He’d been exhausted from fourteen-hour workdays, worn out from the long drive from San Francisco and far more overwhelmed by the idea of taking care of Hannah on his own than he dared admit even to himself.

      That was the only logical explanation he’d been able to come up with for why that first meeting with Rory McClaren had sent a lightning bolt straight through his chest. Her smile had stopped him dead in his tracks and her touch—nothing more than a simple handshake—had shot a rush of adrenaline through his system, jump-starting his heartbeat and sending