hand. “I don’t see another 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.
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