Wooing The Wedding Planner. Amber Leigh Williams

had seen the flash of Bertie’s gold signet ring move too quickly. He’d seen the guy’s arms wind too hard around Roxie. He’d seen his body close in on hers and the hard lip-lock that came close on the heels of the not-so-nice embrace.

      That’s not the way, Byron had mused. Not with a woman like Roxie. Slow and smooth was more what a lady of her caliber deserved. Hell, it was what she’d need after everything she’d been through. The warmth over his sternum had hardened into a big, black ball of volcanic rock. The back of his neck had turned to fire as it always did when he felt the old anger, the ire, rising up from the black. He moved in, loosening his tie when Roxie’s quick attempt at a punch failed and Bertie kept coming at her.

      Was the choke hold really necessary? she’d asked after.

      Byron had seen her fear and embarrassment, and the trampled strength behind it.

      Yes, damn it, it had been necessary. A part of him still wished Bertie had taken the second option so Byron could’ve implemented a lesson with his fists.

      He noted the place of her hand. Right over his sternum, where the warmth for her had built and shied and then built again. It was the same hand she’d plowed into Fledgewick’s face. The same fist she’d given Byron nearly a year ago. The edge of his mouth curved as he touched it.

      “Mm.” She winced. The fingers stiffened under his.

      Byron gentled his hold. Gingerly, he turned her knuckles toward the light and saw the bruising. “You should’ve let me hit him.”

      “What would that have solved?”

      “Nothing. But it would’ve felt damn good.”

      “Didn’t feel so great to me.”

      “Because you aimed for the face,” Byron explained. “Suppose he’d raised his chin or you’d struck his jaw. Your hand would be flat broken.”

      “He was drunk,” Roxie reminded him. “I wanted to sober him up.”

      “Next time, aim for the liver.”

      “I’m no good at this,” she admitted as he caressed her knuckles. “I miss marriage.”

      His hand stilled on hers. “You do?”

      “Yes. I miss the security of it. The comfort of knowing that I’m safe from all this, from the uncertainty.”

      “But that’s all.” Byron frowned. “Right?”

      She paused. “I don’t know.”

      Byron tried to read her. “Rox. The man failed you. He knowingly failed you.”

      “I know he did.” She tipped her chin up and confronted him with a cool expression. “Trust me. I was there. But we were together so long... I don’t know anything else. You and Dani were together a long time. You said learning to live without her unraveled you.”

      “It’s apples and oranges,” he noted.

      “I know that, too,” she said, tensing.

      “Wait a minute,” he said, straightening. She sat up in response. He took a good look at her. “You’re not still in love with the guy, are you?”

      Her mouth parted and her eyes glazed in thought. “I don’t know.” She lifted her hands. They were empty. “I know I hate being alone. I know that when it was good, I loved the relationship, and not just the security of it—I loved the unit we built. I know how much of ourselves we put into it. And I know that Richard’s sorry.”

      “He told you that?” he asked. “He got down on his knees and begged?”

      “No, he didn’t get on his knees,” Roxie dismissed. “But he did try to say he was sorry. The mess was so fresh, the hurt, I couldn’t listen even if he was sincere.” Before Byron could say anything, she quickly added, “What he did was disgraceful, and I haven’t forgotten how it made me feel. But you said it yourself—you pledge your life to someone. Your whole life.”

      “He quit his vows,” he said heatedly. “He quit you the second he jumped on her.” When her eyes rounded in shock, he cursed. “I’m sorry. Damn it, I’m sorry.” He pushed off the couch and left the room, taking his glass into her kitchen. He’d had enough to drink. Under the light of the stove, he rinsed the glass then used the tap filter to fill it. He tipped it up and downed the water quickly.

      He was a damn fool.

      Byron set the glass on the counter and braced his hands on the edge. Leaning into it, he ducked his head and breathed until he felt the heat in his neck subside. Why was the anger rising again? Was it Richard or was it pride?

      Either way, he couldn’t go back to her with ire. Even if it was his pride, she’d been through enough without him piling his bruised ego on the proverbial heap.

      The small window above the sink drew his attention. He looked out on the listless bay. The lights of Mobile flickered far beyond the inky black waters broken only by the small bits of light from the tavern and the inn. The watery peaks were brushed with hushed gold filigree.

      He did his best to absorb the calm and lulling placidity those waters brought with their small, whispering waves. This was why he’d gravitated to Fairhope in the wake of Dani’s death—the serenity.

      Calmer, he eyed the dishcloth beside the sink. He grabbed it, balled it up and ran it under cold water for several seconds. He wrung it out and walked slowly back into the living room, where Roxie sat on the settee.

      He extended the rolled-up cloth to her. “Here.”

      She narrowed her eyes on it as her hand lifted. Questioning, her gaze rose to his.

      “Your hand,” he said. He took her wrist and wrapped the cold cloth around her injured knuckles himself.

      She sucked in a breath. A line dug in between her eyes.

      After a moment, he asked, “Better?”

      She gave a nod. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Do you...do you think that there’s one great love for everyone? Just one?”

      Byron lowered back to the settee. He reached up and loosened his tie, still a touch too warm. He thought about Dani. He thought about the doomed attempts at reconnecting with women since. The Strong family creed. “Yeah, I do,” he answered truthfully. “And I believe you shouldn’t settle for anything less than the extraordinary. Not when it comes to the rest of your life.”

      She fell silent and contemplative once more.

      “Have you talked to Richard about this?” he asked.

      “No,” she said. “He’s been away, somewhere. His parents say he’s ‘working on himself.’” She used air quotes. The line was still entrenched between her eyes.

      Byron weighed himself. He weighed her, their friendship. “Maybe you should contact him. Talking to him might give you the clarity you need.” When she looked to him, he added, “You don’t seem sure. And you need to be sure, duchess. Absolutely sure.”

      She nodded. Her chin lifted. He saw the poise, a shade of the confidence that had drawn him to her in the first place. “I will.” She pressed her lips together. “How will I know if he’s the one, do you think?”

      “I only have one frame of reference,” Byron admitted, “but I’m pretty sure when you love someone, you’ll just know it.”

      Her mouth tipped down uncertainly again. “But if I love him, really love him, shouldn’t I already know whether or not I want him? Do I really have to see him to be sure? Or is it just—”

      It was impulse. Complete and utter impulse. But chances were, he’d never get to do it again.

      He leaned in. She stilled. Her mouth stopped moving, her eyes went round. As he lessened the gap, he saw them begin to close. There, he thought.

      His hand found its