That’s a generous thing to say. Some of the tension fades from my shoulders. "For the record, I only chose the pub because it was close to the Town Hall. Also, it was within my budget.”
"You sure?"
"I am."
He searches my features and must be satisfied with what he sees, for he nods. “Arthur suggested we have it as his place in Primrose Hill. He has a beautiful garden with views of London.”
I smile. "I think it’s a great idea.”
His features soften. “Arthur will be pleased. I am the last of his grandsons to get married. He’d love to host us.”
He reaches over and takes my hand in his. “Thank you.”
Goosebumps snake up my skin. His every touch seems to ignite this fierce desire in me. And this handsome hunk of manliness is going to be my husband. I swoon a little. Then recover long enough to croak, “For what?”
“For suggesting that we move the reception. This entire sequence of events can’t have been easy. Yet, you’ve handled it with a lot of grace.”
His voice is soft, but his blue-gray eyes flare with something like heat. His gaze drops to my lips, and I know he’s remembering that very hot kiss from yesterday.
And when he leans in. So, do I. Our breaths mingle. Our lips almost touch.
“I want to taste your mouth again, but if we do, we’ll be sidetracked, and I want to make sure this wedding is planned exactly how you want.”
His chest seems to swell.
With a grimace, he straightens. Disappointed in a way that leaves a hollow feeling at the bottom of my stomach I slowly mirror his movements.
Without breaking the connection between our eyes, he calls out to the wedding planner, “We’re ready for you.”
24
Brody
The cards whisper against the felt as James deals. He has that usual smug look on his face. The one which indicates he thinks he’s in control. Typical chef.
After dropping Lark at her home yesterday I was unable to switch off my mind. I ended up working from my home office. Then decided to work from home today so I could put some distance between us. I need to think through the idea that came to me while talking with Lark yesterday. Timing is everything. Like in poker.
I keep my face blank, eyes on my hand. I can’t reveal my cards yet.
James tosses a chip into the pot like he’s seasoning a bloody steak. “Call,” he says, then fans his cards out with a grin. “Full house.”
Toren Whittington, a close friend and CEO of the Whittington Group of companies, groans and throws his hand down. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
James’ grin widens. “Still think I was bluffing?”
“Yeah,” Toren mutters. “Right up until you weren’t.”
Adrian Sovrano, another friend, stacks his remaining chips with precision. “You never learn, Toren. He plays you every time.”
I glance at Toren. “He’s right. You read James wrong every damn round.”
“Don’t start, Davenport.” Toren cracks his neck. “Not everyone’s got ice in their veins.”
James nurses his whiskey. “Some of us know how to read a room. Or a table.”
I study him for a moment and let him enjoy his win. Let him think he’s got it.
Adrian’s gaze sharpens, cutting through James’s bravado. “Overconfidence gets men gutted."
