good as. The accident happened a year ago last week here in New York.”
Wynn had believed Grace when she’d said that their night was a one-off—that she’d never gone home with a man before on a whim. Now the pieces fit. On that unfortunate anniversary, Grace had drowned out those memories by losing herself in Wynn’s company. He wasn’t upset by her actions; he understood them better than most. Hadn’t he found solace—oblivion—in someone else’s arms, too?
“She puts on a brave face.” Brock threw a weary glance around the room. “But being here at one of her best friends’ weddings, in front of so many others who know... She should have been married herself by now.” Brock squared his heavy shoulders. “No one likes to be pitied. No one wants to be alone.”
Brock wished Wynn the best with his make-believe meeting in the morning. Wynn was almost at the door when the music stopped and the DJ announced, “Calling all eligible ladies. Gather round. The bride is ready to throw her bouquet!”
Wynn cast a final glance back. He was interested to see that Grace hadn’t positioned herself for the toss; she stood apart and well back from the rest.
A drumroll echoed out through the sound system. In her fluffy white gown, the beaming bride spun around. With an arm that belonged in the majors, she lobbed the weighty bunch well over her head. A collective gasp went up as the bouquet hurtled through the air, high over the outstretched arms of the nearest hopefuls. Over outliers’ arms, as well. It kept flying and flying.
Straight toward Grace.
As the bouquet dropped from the ceiling, Grace realized at the last moment that she was in the direct line of fire. Rather than catch it, however, she stepped aside and petals smacked the polished floor near her feet. Then, as if wrenched by an invisible cord, the bouquet continued to slide. It stopped dead an inch from Wynn’s shoes. The room stilled before all eyes shot from the flowers to Grace.
The romantically minded might have seen this curious event as an omen. Might have thought that the trajectory of the bouquet as it slid along the floor from Grace to Wynn meant they ought to get together. Only most guests here would know. Grace didn’t want a fiancé.
She was still grieving the one she had lost.
As he and Grace stared at each other, anticipation vibrated off the walls and Wynn felt a stubborn something creak deep inside him. An awareness that had lain frozen and unfeeling these past months thawed a degree, and then a single icicle snapped and fell away from his soul.
Hunkering down, he collected the flowers. With their audience hushed and waiting, he headed back to Grace.
When he stopped less than an arm’s distance away, he inspected the flowers—red and white roses with iridescent fern in between. But he didn’t hand over the bouquet. Rather, he circled his arm around Grace’s back and, in front of the spellbound crowd, slowly—deliberately—lowered his head over hers.
Two
As he drew her near, two things flashed through Grace’s mind.
What in God’s name is Wynn Hunter doing?
The other thought evaporated into a deep, drugging haze when the remembered heat of his mouth captured hers. At the same instant her limbs turned to rubber, her fingertips automatically wound into his lapels. Her toes curled and her core contracted, squeezing around a kernel of mindless want.
This man’s kiss was spun from dreams. The hot, strong feel of him, the taste...his scent...
From the time she’d left his suite that night, she had wondered. The hours she’d spent in his bed had seemed so magical, perhaps she’d only dreamed them up. But this moment was real, and now she only wanted to experience it all again—his lips drifting over her breasts, his hands stroking, hips rocking.
When his lips gradually left hers, the burning feel of him remained. With her eyes closed, she focused on the hard press of his chest against her bodice...her need to have him kiss her again. Then, from the depths of her kiss-induced fog, Grace heard a collective sigh go up in the room. With her head still whirling, she dragged open heavy eyes. Wynn’s face was slanted over hers. He was smiling softly.
In a matter of seconds, he had made her forget about everything other than this. But the encounter three nights ago had been a mutually agreed upon, ultraprivate affair. This scene had been played out in front of an audience. Friends, and friends of friends, who knew what had happened last year.
Or thought that they knew.
Grace kept her unsteady voice hushed. “What are you doing?”
“Saying goodbye properly.” With his arm still a strong band around her, he took a step back. “Are you all right to stand?”
She shook off more of her stupor. “Of course I can stand.” But as she moved to disengage herself, she almost teetered.
With a knowing grin, he handed over the bouquet, which she mechanically accepted at the same time the DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers.
“How about that, folks! What do you say? Is that our next bride-to-be?”
The applause was hesitant at first before the show of support went through the roof. Grace cringed at the attention. On another level, it also gave a measure of relief. Anything—including a huge misunderstanding—was better than the sea of pitying faces she’d had to endure that day.
“If you want,” Wynn murmured, “I can stay longer.”
With her free hand, she smoothed down her skirt—and gathered the rest of her wits. “I’m sure you’ve done enough.”
His gaze filtered over her face, lingering on her lips, still moist and buzzing from his kiss. Then, looking as hot as any Hollywood hunk, he turned and sauntered away.
A heartbeat later, the lights faded, music blared again and Amy Calhoun caught ahold of Grace’s hand. As Amy dragged her to a relatively quiet corner, out of general view, her red ringlets looked set to combust with excitement.
“Who was that?” she cried.
Still lightheaded, Grace leaned back against the wall. “You don’t want to know.”
“I saw you two dancing. Did you only meet tonight? I mean, you don’t have to say a word. I’m just curious, like friends are.” Amy squeezed Grace’s hand. “It’s so good to see you happy.”
“I look happy?” She felt spacey. Agitated.
In need of a cold shower.
“If you want to know, you look swept off your feet.” The plump lips covering Amy’s overbite twitched. “I actually thought that’s what he’d do. Lift you up into his arms and carry you away.”
Amy was an only child. She and Grace had grown up tight, spending practically every weekend at each other’s places on Long Island—dressing up as princesses, enjoying the latest Disney films. Amy still lived and espoused a Cinderella mentality; a happily-ever-after would surely come if only a girl believed. An optimistic mindset was never a bad thing. However, with regard to this situation, Amy’s sentimental nature was a bust.
“Wynn
