Wooing the Wedding Planner Read online

  No more wedding marches for her!

  Wedding planner Roxie Honeycutt can make happy-ever-after come true for anyone except herself. Freshly divorced and done with love, she’s okay with watching clients walk down the aisle. What’s not okay? Sharing a charming Victorian house with accountant Byron Strong. He’s frustratingly sexy and seemingly determined to keep her confused.

  Roxy thought Byron’s expertise was numbers, yet somehow he sees her for who she really is. Somehow he understands the hurt she hides behind a trademark smile. Suddenly romance is tempting again, even if it means risking another heartbreak.

  What was wrong with the old Roxie?

  His words had stuck with her. And his kiss.

  It was difficult to forget a kiss like that, especially coming from someone...well, someone like Byron. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit trying not to think about the kiss—about how sweet it was. She’d forgotten kisses could be so sweet. She’d tried extra hard to forget how his lips had lingered. And how in lingering he’d awakened starbursts inside of her. Small starbursts of eternity.

  Roxie frowned deeply now. Being touched... It had been so long since she had really been touched. The hollowness in her had turned into a resounding ache, and for a few moments, she’d thought about bringing Byron’s mouth back down to hers. For a few moments, she’d craved more than his companionship. She’d craved the contact. The promise of heat that came with it.

  But had she wanted it—had she wanted him—for the single reason that heat could erode loneliness? There was trust there. There was affection. For those small starbursts of eternity, there had been longing and the promise of flame. It had been too long since she’d felt the sheer, electrical pulse of new chemistry.

  Why did it seem like so long since she’d felt the flame? The passion?

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to Roxie’s story! Or is it Byron’s story? In the grand scheme of things, it’s really both. This in fact was my plan, or scheme, all along, you see—to get these two kids together. They both may hate me for how it all came about—the deep-rutted forays they had to scale to get to the first page of Wooing the Wedding Planner. Can you lose sleep over the fate of people who live solely in your imagination? Why, yes. I’m convinced that all my characters hate me at some point, which is why I push, cajole...sometimes drag them to that place they reach at the end of their journey, as we see it—the completion of their story and the happy ending they deserve.

  We all have people in our lives who have been through their fair share of tribulations and deserve nothing less than a happy-ever-after. Or perhaps just peace. For me and everyone who knows and loves them, in fiction and reality, Roxie and Byron are two such people. And it’s my profound pleasure to say that they do find happiness and peace in the end...after, of course, plenty of pushing and cajoling from their sadistic plotter—that’s me!

  Wherever it does find you—on a subway bench, riffling through pages in a bookshop, on your lunch break or simply tucked up in bed after a long day—I hope you enjoy Roxie and Byron’s journey. Look for more books in my series with Superromance coming soon!

  Love,

  Amber Leigh

  AMBER LEIGH

  WILLIAMS

  Wooing the Wedding Planner

  Amber Leigh Williams lives on the US Gulf Coast. A Southern girl at heart, she lives for beach days, the smell of real books and spending time with her husband, Jacob, and their two young children. When she’s not keeping up with rambunctious little ones—and two large dogs—she can usually be found reading a good romance or cooking up something new in her kitchen. Amber is represented by the D4EO Literary Agency. Learn more at www.amberleighwilliams.com.

  Books by Amber Leigh Williams

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  A Place with Briar

  Married One Night

  His Rebel Heart

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  To my tribe—those who fall asleep reading and those who dream in pages. Wishing you a sea of endless books to sail and soothe you through this life.

  And to those who waited for Byron’s story. Cheers!

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EXCERPT FROM MOLLY’S MR. WRONG BY JEANNIE WATT

  CHAPTER ONE

  MONDAYS SUCKED ENOUGH without the grim implications of Valentine’s Day.

  Byron Strong thought seriously about calling in sick. Then he remembered what had happened the last time he’d done just that. Not a half hour after he’d vetoed the workday, he found his father, mother and two sisters on the threshold offering him a bevy of pity food and head patting.

  Byron cringed. No. Not the head patting. The idea chased him from the seductive warmth of flannel sheets and into the shower, where he confronted the scalding spray, head up and shoulders back.

  His ritual morning routine helped dull his unmotivated subconscious. He made himself a double espresso with the top-rated espresso machine he’d splurged on—money very well spent. Meticulously, he did all the things any other sane man in his shoes would’ve liked to skip today of all days—shaved, brushed, flossed... He checked the weather before choosing khaki slacks, a black tie and a black sports coat. He stuffed his dress shoes in his briefcase before donning his favorite Nike running shoes and an overcoat and hoofing it to work.

  If the hot shower hadn’t shocked him awake, the chill whistling through the streets of Fairhope, Alabama, did. It was a brisk five-block walk to the office, mostly uphill. In the spring, it seemed everyone who lived close to downtown strolled to work in the mornings. In winter, usually only those who needed the exercise or a swift wake-up call ventured out without transport. Byron had memorized the cheery bright storefronts, quaint shops, charming courtyards, alleyways and French Creole architecture that were all trademark to Fairhope’s appeal.

  Fairhope was nothing short of spectacular in the spring—like something from a book or a dream. By June, the weather was hot enough to melt plastic. By August, only the brave walked the scalding pavement. The rest—the wise—remained behind cool glass and central air. Winter weather didn’t show up until late November. Maybe. It rarely snowed, and when it did it came down more wet than fluffy, coating everything in ice.

  The few months of cold made the residents of the bay-front village wish for their blistering summers that melted plastic and tarmac and made even the hummingbird mosquitoes fight for shade. Ducking his head, Byron kept his face out of the wind and prayed the office coffeepot had already punched in.

  Grimsby, Strong & Associates was on Fels Avenue. Byron entered through the back door of the small accounting firm, which was his baby. He lifted the cross-body strap of his briefcase over his head.

  The scent of coffee hit him. He almost groaned in relief and made a
beeline for it.

  Tobias Grimsby, his brother-in-law, planted his six-feet-seven-inch frame in the kitchen doorway and brought Byron up short. “Dude. You know what day it is. Right?” Wariness coated every inch of his espresso-toned face.

  “I’m a human popsicle,” Byron muttered. Desperate to get to the coffee, he ducked under Grim’s arm. “Out of my way.”

  Grim stayed on his bumper. “You want to go home?” he asked in his deep Kentucky baritone. “Go if you wanna.”

  Byron tried not to dive for the pot. It was a near thing. He poured a mug to the lip, drank it straight. Refilled. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Stepinsky at nine. Your appointment with the Levinsens isn’t until eleven. You didn’t have to come in early.”

  “But it’s Valentine’s Day,” Grim proclaimed with all the gravity of a general briefing his troops on a mortal campaign.

  Byron offered Grim as deadpan a look as he could manage. “Damn. Sorry, man. I didn’t get you anything.”

  Grim tilted his head slightly, measuring Byron’s face. “So...you’re okay?”

  Byron jerked a shoulder and eyed the box of croissants their secretary, Kath, had picked up from the bakery. Yeah; he could do fifty extra sit-ups if it meant chowing down on one of those bad boys. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another Monday.” He sipped his coffee and clapped Grim on the arm. “Relax. You’ve got the Carltons today at two?”

  “Two thirty,” Grim corrected.

  “You’ll be lucky to get out of here before your hot date tonight.”

  “Ah,” Grim said, reaching up to scratch the underside of his chin. “About that. I was thinking we could do a guys’ night. Just us.”

  The mug stopped halfway to Byron’s mouth. He narrowed his eyes on Grim’s innocent expression. “This is your first date night with ’Cilla in weeks and you want to spend it with me?” He frowned. “Is this some half-cocked scheme the two of you cooked up?”

  “There’s no scheme,” Grim said with derision that didn’t quite ring true. “Maybe ’Cilla’s sick of me. Maybe I’m sick of her. The further along she gets, the crankier she is.”

  “It’s a mother-effing pity party with ’Cilla’s prints all over it,” Byron said, pointing at Grim. “And denying it further will only insult my intelligence.”

  Grim’s eyes rolled briefly before he sighed, his shoulders settling into a yielding line. “I told the woman it was a bad plan. You can spot a lie miles offshore. She doesn’t listen.”

  The sound of the phone in his office drew his attention. Byron snatched a croissant. “Do me a favor. Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

  “It’s probably your mother,” Grim warned.

  Dear God, he hoped not. They couldn’t be starting this early. Not all of them. Byron walked through the first door on the right. He set his briefcase behind the desk and settled into the rolling chair before reaching for the phone. Bringing it to his ear, he answered, “This is Byron Strong.”

  “Byron. It’s your mother.”

  Byron closed his eyes. He reached for his temples, where a headache was already starting to gnaw. “Hi, Ma. Happy Valentine’s.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m calling—”

  “So you got the flowers,” Byron interrupted smoothly. “I told Adrian orchids.”

  “Yes,” Vera stated. “They’re beautiful. You did good.”

  “My mitéra deserves nothing less.” He tapped his knuckles on his desk calendar. “Hey, listen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got an early meeting. Can I call you back?”

  “No, you may not,” Vera said, undeterred. “I called to invite you to dinner this evening.”

  Byron rolled his head against the chair. “Ma...”

  “No, no. It’s all planned. We’re doing chickens. Your father wants to try his hand at roasting them.”

  “That’s...tempting.” Byron fought a grimace as he recalled the last time his well-meaning yet culinarily deficient father had tried to roast something. His stomach roiled. “Yeah. I’m gonna pass.”

  “And why is that?” Vera asked, tone sharpening to cleave.

  “Because I’ve already fielded one pity party this morning,” he explained, frowning at the door to Grim’s office across the hall. “Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”

  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  Byron’s gaze fell on the framed black-and-white photo on his desk. It was the five of them—Byron; his father, Constantine; his mother, Vera; and his sisters, Priscilla and Vivienne—standing on the beach in Gulf Shores. On Christmas Day, they always drove to the coast to sit shoulder to shoulder in the sand, drink eggnog out of flasks, wrap themselves in woolen blankets and watch the waves charge and thunder into shore. He scanned one smiling face and then another before closing his eyes again and pinching the skin between them. Nosy. But well-meaning. Every single one of them. He lowered his voice as he spoke again. “It’s been six years.”

  “Six years today,” she reminded him.

  “I’m aware,” he told her.

  “So you won’t change your mind about dinner?”

  Byron’s mouth moved into something like a smile. “I want you and Pop to go out. Find a Greek place. Drink a bottle of ouzo. Make out in front of somebody other than me.”

  Vera gave a quiet laugh. “Well. I suppose we could do that. But only if you promise—”

  “I won’t spend the night at home in my bathrobe,” Byron said quickly. “Gerald hosted a poker night at his place over the weekend and I lost, which means I’ll be picking up his wife’s shift at the tavern, since she’s still on maternity leave.”

  “And after that?”

  “I just got the new season of Game of Thrones on DVD,” Byron assured her. “With that and a six-pack of Stella in the fridge, Valentine’s Day couldn’t end any better.”

  “Hmm.”

  Byron went another route, a sincere one. “Hey, Ma? I love ya.”

  Vera sighed. “I love you, too. You’re my only son.”

  “I know,” Byron replied. “And I mean it—happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Call me later.”

  “Will do. Bye.” Byron hung up the phone. He eyed his coffee. Cold now. With a frown, he turned toward his computer monitor to switch it on. “Hey, Kath,” he called. “Can you bring me another cup of coffee, please?”

  No sooner had the computer hummed to life than the sunny voice of Constantine Strong filled the room. “No need, darlin’. I got what our boy needs right here.”

  “Jiminy Christmas,” Byron muttered, exasperated.

  “Christmas was a month and a half ago,” Constantine stated as he folded his tall, skinny frame into one of the guest chairs on the other side of the desk. With his too-long legs spread wide in a comfortable slouch, the effect was very praying mantis. “Wake up, son. It’s nearly Mardi Gras.”

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” Byron asked suspiciously as his father set one of the go cups he carried onto the desk.

  “Oh, just a little rocket fuel for my space pirate.” Constantine grinned, a reminiscent gleam in his eye that took Byron back to his childhood obsession with the final frontier.

  He eyed the cup. Great. Now they were going after his weakness for controlled substances. This put last year’s cheese basket to shame. “I’m fine, damn it.”

  The mantis eyed Byron through rose-tinted lenses. There weren’t too many lines in Constantine’s face, although his long hair, pulled back into his typical man bun, had gone gray a decade before. He sported snug mustard-hued pants, a red shirt and a navy blue peacoat, and had a silver loop on his left lobe, where a black shark’s tooth dangled. He looked absurd, off-the-wall and somehow together and completely at ease—one with the earth. An aging hippie who refused to be anything but himself. “Go on,�
� he said finally, gesturing to the go cup. “You know you want it.”

  Byron reached for it. Hot. Mm, yeah. Just the way he liked it... “Only if we play a round of ‘Guess Who’s Not Coming to Dinner.’”

  Constantine’s face fell. “How did you know?”

  “Your offerings are well-placed but transparent,” Byron told him.

  “Your mother called.” Constantine checked his wristwatch. “Should’ve known. She starts earlier than Christ and she’s always twelve steps ahead of me.”

  “You both should really start texting,” Byron suggested as he logged in to the office system. “It’ll save time and confusion. Plus, you two would tear up some sexting. Not that you’re hearing it from me.” He took a sip from the go cup and his brows came together as he swallowed. He eyed the logo on the front. “What the—”

  “Ah.” Constantine quickly lifted the cup from his knee and switched it for Byron’s. “I believe that’s mine.”

  “Sprinkles and whipped cream?” Byron asked. “You’re approaching sixty.”

  “What do I always say to you kids about aging?” Constantine asked, his eyes sage behind wire frames. “‘We don’t grow older, we grow riper.’”

  “That was Picasso, not you, pappou. And if by riper you mean the charred remains of those chickens you were going to roast me and Ma tonight, for once I’ll agree with you.”

  Constantine barked a laugh. He slapped his knee and leaned forward, his natural geniality flowing warmly into the room. It sieved its merry way through the defensive pall Byron had donned automatically that morning. A true smile spread across Byron’s face. For a moment, the two men just looked at one another. Byron heard the silent message his father transmuted with a softened grin—you’re okay. Gratitude filled Byron until he nearly swelled at the seams. He lifted the coffee and took a long sip. The dark roast slid down his throat, enlivening. “That’s the stuff,” he muttered appreciatively.

  “Told you,” Constantine said, crossing his ankle over his knee. Now he looked like a dandied-up cricket ready to break into a toe-tapping reel. “I’ve always got what my boy needs. And speaking of...” He pulled something from the breast pocket of his jacket and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it Byron’s way.