The Best Man Takes A Bride. Stacy Connelly

bowl of oatmeal for you.”

      “Coffee,” he said abruptly, still trying to get the erotic images out of his mind.

      Mistaking the reason for his short response, her earnest gaze met his. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with the ponytail. My only excuse is to say it’s an occupational hazard.”

      “So, wedding coordinator, room service attendant and hairstylist?”

      “Oh, I’m not a professional stylist by any means. But in my short time as wedding coordinator, I’ve learned to be a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to last-minute emergencies. Whether it’s figuring out how to turn three bridesmaids’ bouquets into four because the bride made up with her best friend at the last second or pulling out a hot-glue gun for a quick repair to a torn hemline, I feel like I’ve already been there, done that. And now it’s like I can’t help fixing things... Not that Hannah’s broken or you need help and—I have got to learn to keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself!”

      Rory wasn’t the only one with that second problem, but it wasn’t his daughter’s hair Jamison longed to get his hands on. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly, even though it wasn’t. Her actions were innocent. His intentions...not so much. “About the ponytail thing, I mean. Anyone can see I can’t get it right. And I do mean anyone, since even Hannah tells me her hair looks funny when I’m done with it.”

      “I’m sure you’re doing fine.”

      “Are you?” The sympathy in her eyes told him he and Hannah had been a topic of conversation once they left the bridal shop. “Because I’m not sure of a damn thing.”

      He half expected some meaningless platitude, but instead she reached for the carafe on the serving tray and poured a cup of steaming coffee. “Rough night?” she asked as she handed him the mug.

      His fingers overlapped hers, the warmth seeping through coming more from her soft skin than from the hard ceramic. For a brief second, they both froze, connected by the fragrant cup of coffee. And he found himself desperate for someone to confide in.

      “Nightmare,” he admitted as Rory released the mug and took a quick step back. She set about tidying the serving tray, her lashes lowered as she avoided his gaze.

      “You or Hannah?”

      Jamison gave a quick laugh. “Hannah,” he said as if he hadn’t had more than his share of bad dreams over the past months. Not about Monica, like the dreams that had Hannah crying out for a mother who would never again kiss away her tears, but ones about the accident.

      He’d seen pictures of what remained of the run-down sedan Monica had been driving—a mangled wreck of metal Hannah had somehow survived. As if those images weren’t bad enough, his subconscious tormented him even further. In his nightmares, the car burst into flames, plunged into a river or fell from a cliff while he could do nothing but watch.

      In reality, Jamison hadn’t seen the accident, but he’d heard it.

      Worse, he’d caused it.

       Chapter Four

      “Oh, Ms. McClaren, I have to tell you we just got back from the wedding-cake tasting, and every one of them was to die for. I think all those tiny little bites added up to an entire cake by the time we made up our minds.”

      Rory smiled as the beaming, sugar-filled bride-to-be rushed to her side in the middle of Hillcrest House’s elegant, dark-walnut-paneled lobby. She had offered to take Jamison and Hannah on a tour of the grounds, but so far they hadn’t made it out of the hotel. She’d been stopped a handful of times either by guests or employees with questions about upcoming events.

      Susannah Erickson was the latest interruption. “I’m glad you enjoyed the tasting. I learned within my first few days here not to accompany brides to the bakery. Too much temptation.”

      And why, oh, why did she have to say temptation? Just speaking the word out loud had her thinking about that morning, and not about food. The image of Jamison opening the door, dressed but fresh from the shower, was seared in Rory’s mind. The scent of soap and shampoo had clung to his skin, and his damp hair had been rumpled from a quick toweling. Add to that the dark stubble he’d yet to shave away, and all she’d been able to think about was the seductive rasp of that rough skin against her own...

      Almost against her will, Rory sought Jamison out. He stood off to the right with Hannah at his side, but Rory had already known that. She’d felt hyperaware of his proximity since he’d opened the door. Telling herself in the intimate setting of the Bluebell suite, of course she would notice the overwhelming presence of a masculine, six-foot-something man.

      But even now, surrounded by guests and employees in the spacious lobby, she was still conscious of him. Of the way his gray gaze focused on her. Of the way the air crackled with electricity when their eyes met. Of the restless energy that seemed to pulse inside every inch of his broad-shouldered frame.

      As Rory spoke with the bride-to-be about menu options and table settings, her words trembled and tripped on her tongue as though she were the one experiencing a high-octane sugar rush. Fortunately, her client didn’t seem to pick up on her nerves and promised to call back and book Hillcrest for her wedding as soon as she had a chance to talk with her fiancé.

      After saying her farewells to Susannah, Rory braced herself to face Jamison again. He had taken the opportunity to shave and comb his hair during the time it took for her to return the breakfast dishes and serving cart to the kitchen. Too bad she didn’t find that strong, smooth jawline and the hint of an expensive, spicy aftershave any less attractive.

      But the clean-cut version was a good reminder of who the man was. In the suite this morning, he’d been a harried father who’d needed her. A man dealing with the heartache of raising a child on his own. A man her heart urged her to help...

      This, though, was Jamison Porter, Esquire. A businessman in control of himself and immune to his surroundings as his thumbs flew over his phone. Including, she feared, the daughter twisting restlessly at his side.

      Rory knew what it was like to be pushed aside, forgotten, ignored...

      She’d been a few years older than Hannah when tragedy struck her family. As an adult, she understood that her parents loved her every bit as much as they loved her brother, Chance, but in the weeks following his accident she’d felt like a ghost wandering the hospital halls—unseen, unheard.

      Shaking off the memories, she scolded herself for projecting her own past onto the father and daughter in front of her. Focus, Rory. Jamison Porter is part of a wedding party and dealing with him part of your job.

      Pasting a professional smile onto her face, she apologized as she joined them. “Sorry about all the interruptions.”

      “If there’s one thing I understand, it’s work.” He thrust the phone into the pocket of his slacks, but Rory couldn’t tell if he was reluctant or relieved to break the connection. “I’m good at what I do.”

      Rory frowned. The words didn’t sound like bragging as much as they sounded like...an apology? She wasn’t sure she had that right until his gaze dropped to the top of his daughter’s head and his throat worked in a rough swallow.

      Suddenly the puzzle pieces fell into place. Successful businessman, not-so-successful family man. His fingers tapped on the outside of his muscular thigh, and Rory could sense his need to reach for his phone again—tangible proof of the predictable, logical world he’d left behind.

      “Jamison—”

      “I want cake for breakfast,” Hannah cut in, her tone grumpy enough for Rory to know the little girl hadn’t totally gotten over having to eat oatmeal that morning.

      “Only brides get cake for breakfast,” her father answered quickly.

      “I wanna be a bride.”

      His