‘And you must be the groom,’ she said as he stepped forward, hand extended. He was dressed in business attire and looked to be in his early thirties.
‘Ewan Campbell,’ the man said with a faint Scottish accent. As her hand was engulfed by his larger one, her gaze locked with a set of deep hazel eyes and she felt the strangest shiver of déjà vu.
She saw the man’s expression flicker slightly—as though he too was experiencing some kind of familiarity—before Kenzie quickly withdrew her hand, still tingling from the moment of contact. She sent him a brisk smile before picking up her pen and notebook and moving across to the display table, trying to gather her scattered senses.Pull yourself together, Kenzie.
She followed the women, jotting down their preferences and making notes. Thankfully, the task required a degree of concentration, and she soon fell back into what her sister, Brooklyn, called ‘OCD mode’. She didn’t have an obsessive-compulsive disorder; she was just thorough, which made her perfect for this job.
Brook always joked that she was the family overachiever—she’d always been organised, even as a child. The sisters were as different as any two people could possibly be. Brooklyn was spontaneous and beautiful, and seemed to attract people to her like bees to honey, and Kenzie had always been secretly in awe of her confidence.
Kenzie, on the other hand, preferred working quietly behind the scenes, and was a meticulous planner—the thought of doing something spontaneous almost gave her a case of hives. The differences went beyond personality, though. Brooklyn was tall and slender and loved fashion, whereas Kenzie was shorter and had what Brook politely described as curves. Her plain, work-suitable clothes gave her a comforting air of sturdiness that people found comforting, especially in times of high stress.
Mother and daughter chattered on, cooing over the pink dahlias and debating the merits of gold versus rose gold. There was an uncomfortable moment when Ewan expressed an opinion about napkins, and Kenzie kept her eyes firmly on her notebook while his future mother-in-law frostily informed him why he was wrong before tactfully redirecting the group’s attention to the important question of coupes or flutes.
Once the table settings were decided, sadlynotthe vintage floral one, Kenzie guided the small party to the table she’d set up earlier and opened the folder to go through the other items. The menu was almost an appointment all of its own, but the bride’s parents had insisted they go through everything, possibly so Mr Delsanto didn’t have to go through all this again. These kinds of appointments were always intense, and it was her job to make the process as painless as possible. Very few people enjoyed making endless decisions about every last detail, and she found that the men often became restless. Ewan seemed to be the exception to that rule, seeming to study her face intensely.Do I know you?
She started to deliberately avoid looking at him, mindful that she needed to ‘keep her shit together’, as her sister would say. As they started talking about chair covers—Mrs Delsanto had some very firm opinions about organza—she noticed Mr Delsanto surreptitiously check his watch for the third time, so she suggested they break for refreshments.
A server brought in a tray loaded with coffee and pastries, and Kenzie took the opportunity to go over her notes, before she sensed someone standing beside her.
She glanced up.
Ewan was leaning against the table, holding a cup of coffee in one hand. ‘I’ve been trying to work out why I feel as though I know you,’ he said, wearing a slightly confused smile.
Kenzie opened her mouth to tell him she had no idea, when it suddenly hit her.
Oh. No.
She felt the colour drain from her face and then, just as quickly, rush back, flooding her cheeks and leaving a bubbling sensation in the pit of her stomach.
Fuck.
Her horror must have shown on her face, as she saw Ewan frown before she pushed her chair out and stood quickly. ‘I, uh, won’t be a minute,’ she said, forcing a smile as she addressed the others, gathered at the small buffet. ‘Please, take your time. I just need to take a call outside.’
She turned away and snatched her phone from the table, moving quickly across to the exit. Outside, she stopped beside a tall palm tree and rested her forehead against its smooth trunk, closing her eyes and praying for some kind of miracle that could save her from having to go back inside.
This was not happening. It couldn’t be. Taking a deep breath, she scrolled through her phone until she located a file labelledbudgeting and finance. Her thumb hovering over the icon momentarily before she forced herself to press it.
A photo came up on the screen, one she had managed not to look at since saving it secretly a year earlier from a friend’sFacebook memory. Staring back at her was a younger version of the man she’d never known by name. Until now.
Ewan Campbell.
The father of her four-year-old child.
Two
With shaking fingers, Kenzie scrolled through her contacts and hit her sister’s number, keeping one anxious eye on the reception room door.
‘This is Brooklyn,’ her sister’s chirpy voice informed her. ‘I can’t take your call right now but leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.’
Kenzie gave a frustrated growl and disconnected the call without leaving a message.Damn it.What was she going to do? How was she supposed to walk back in there and act like everything was fine, when she was pretty sure she was at the start of a nervous breakdown?
How was this even bloody happening? She ran a hand through her hair, pacing a small circle. After five years, how on earth did he just turn up out of the blue? They’d been strangerswho’d parted ways and had gone on with their separate lives. He was supposed to have left the country!
Kenzie’s heart began to race and her breathing quickened. Was she having a panic attack?Mackenzie Knight doesnothave panic attacks.Leaning over, she braced her hands on her thighs and forced in a deep breath before straightening and putting her hands on her hips. She had a client with a wedding to plan.
She froze as that new implication sunk in: he was marrying her freaking client! This was not happening. Only itwashappening, and she needed to deal with it—now.
It took three attempts to make it to the door and finally open it, drawing on every ounce of bravado she could muster to school her face into some semblance of professionalism.
