Once Upon a Wedding, Page 2

  Her hand felt so tiny in his, but it wasn’t soft as he’d expected. She worked with her hands, and it showed in the tiny scars from previous nicks and cuts. He lifted his gaze from her hand to her face, catching those brown eyes that were dreamy more often than not. They weren’t dreamy now. They’d gone wide and very, very aware.

  Denver realized he still held her hand and was all up in her personal space. “Sorry,” he muttered, releasing her and taking a step back.

  “I…uh…I’m just gonna go wash this and get some antibiotic ointment.”

  He had the distinct impression she was retreating as she headed back through the curtained doorway into what he presumed was a storeroom and work space. Feeling more than a little bit bull in a china shop, Denver shoved his hands into his pockets and stayed where he was. That’s when he noticed the old dog curled up on a bed in the corner. It was a little thing, a ball of black fur, with pointed ears that trembled as she snored quietly. A Pomeranian mix, maybe. Gray around the muzzle.

  “Who’s your friend?” he called.

  “That’s Moxie. She was a rescue.”

  At the sound of her name, the dog cracked open an eye and peered up at him. Denver hunkered down and offered the back of his hand. Looking imperious, Moxie stretched forward just a bit and sniffed. Her little black nose twitched, then she rose and stretched, worming her way under his hand with a sharp little yap that clearly said, “Pet me, damn it!”

  Misty came back out, her hand sporting a couple of fresh band-aids. “I got her when I moved to Eden’s Ridge because I was finally somewhere I could have a dog.”

  Following orders, Denver stroked along her little spine, giving the old girl a good rubdown. “Didn’t want a puppy?”

  “Oh, I love puppies. But seniors need homes too, and I thought it would be easier to keep an older dog with me all the time. Less rambunctious.”

  It took a special kind of person to choose an older dog, the ones who were usually neglected and first up on the chopping block at overcrowded shelters. He admired the hell out of that.

  “Seems like she makes up for that with sass,” he observed.

  “Hence Moxie,” Misty agreed. “Do you have a dog?”

  “Yep. Big old mutt. What my dad used to call a Heinz 57 dog. His name’s Oscar.”

  “As in Meyer or The Grouch?”

  Denver straightened. “The latter. Though it was because I found him in a dumpster as a pup, not because he’s grumpy.”

  Misty’s face twisted with sympathy. “Poor baby.”

  “He came out all right. And he’s sure as hell not a baby anymore. He’s a ninety-pound bed hog.”

  Misty grinned at that and his brain emptied of everything but Wow. She had a helluva smile.

  They lapsed into silence, Misty watching him expectantly. For his part, Denver was trying to remember what the hell he was doing here. Oh yeah.

  “So, about this arbor,” he began.

  “You really don’t have to do this. I can come up with something on my own. Cayla can be a steamroller, at times.”

  A steamroller who’d given him the in he hadn’t managed to come up with on his own. “I’m in it now. Plus, she’ll owe me one. Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking?” He listened as she described what she had in mind. Spying a sketchpad on the counter, he nodded toward it. “You mind?”

  Misty nudged it toward him.

  In swift strokes, he sketched out what he imagined, based on her description, thinking he knew just where to get the wood. “Something like this, maybe.”

  Misty took the pencil from him and began to add to the sketch, refining some details in the carving.

  “Are those their initials?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Intertwined in a sort of Celtic knot, symbolizing the whole unity of marriage. Can you do that?”

  Angling his head, he studied it, seeing how it would work. “Sure.”

  She continued, drawing out the flowers she’d add. Denver had to admit the overall effect was beautiful.

  “Kennedy will love it,” Misty declared.

  “Well, all right then.” Their business was officially concluded. But he was here, in her shop, actually talking to her, and he didn’t really want to stop. “We should probably check out the barn, talk measurements and stuff. I expect that would make a difference to how many flowers you’d need, how big I should make the thing.”

  “You make a good point. I close at five-thirty most days, and I’m closed all day on Sunday and Monday.”

  “How about Sunday afternoon? Say, four o’clock?”

  “That works for me.”

  Denver fought back the automatic, It’s a date. He didn’t quite manage to cap the grin as he told her, “I’ll pick you up.” Then he hightailed it out before he made an idiot of himself.

  ~*~

  Wear pants.

  Wear pants?

  Misty stared down at the text from Denver. What the hell was that about? But she did as he’d asked, unearthing some well-loved jeans that seldom saw much use in the summer. And since she’d gone that far, she paired them with some hand-tooled leather cowboy boots that had seen many, many years’ love. The sleeveless, cream peasant blouse made her feel more appropriately summery. Why was she even worrying about what she wore? It’s not like this was a date. They were looking at a barn for heaven’s sake. It was a…business arrangement, really.

  Except he hadn’t looked at her like he was thinking about business. She didn’t actually know what he’d been thinking, but those gunmetal gray eyes had seemed to look into her—beyond the polite and the surface she’d limited herself to. How could a look be both disconcerting and appealing?

  And he’d told her to wear pants.

  Misty finally understood why as she stepped outside her shop at four o’clock on Sunday and saw him cruising down Main Street on a motorcycle.

  Oh my…

  Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” started up as a soundtrack in her head as he pulled up to the curb and shut off the engine. Despite the summer weather, he wore a dark brown leather jacket that hugged his bulk and accentuated that incredible shoulder to waist ratio. There were racing stripes down the sleeves, which seemed to fit with the lines of the motorcycle between his muscular thighs, currently clad in faded jeans. She couldn’t see his face for the helmet, but she knew it was Denver—it wasn’t the first time she had noticed the bike, or the biker. Behind the visor, she had the sense he was grinning at her.

  Roll your tongue back in, girl.

  When he tugged off the helmet, her tongue nearly fell back out of her mouth because, holy hell, Denver Hershal’s smile was lethal.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she managed.

  His gaze skimmed her from head to toe and nodded in approval. “You wore boots, too. Good.” He swung his leg over and dismounted—is that what it was called getting off a steel horse like this?

  Misty had never really had an interest in motorcycles, but with this bike, and, more likely, Denver and his leather standing in front of it… That could change. “That doesn’t look like any motorcycle I’ve ever seen. It’s way more—” She searched for the right word, and almost said “more” again. “—classy looking.”

  “That’s probably because you’re used to seeing nothing but Harleys and crotch rockets.” Denver ran one big hand lovingly over the dark green tank. “This here is Roxanne. She’s a 1981 BMW R100RT, one of the greatest of the airheads.”

  Misty had no idea what that meant. “Most women wouldn’t appreciate being called an airhead.”

  That deadly grin flashed again, and she felt her internal temperature rise a few more degrees. “It means the engine is air-cooled as opposed to oil- or liquid-cooled, like more modern vehicles.”

  Misty made a face like that meant something to her, then gave up. “It’s pretty,” she offered.

  He laughed. Serious, monosyllabic Denver Hershal actually laughed. “Yes, yes she is. My dad and I rebuilt her together back when I was in high scho
ol.” It was obviously a good memory for him. “She’s perfect for a Sunday afternoon ride and the weather’s beautiful. You game?”

  She eyed the seat, which didn’t seem to leave a lot of room at the back end. “Is there room for two people?”

  “Sure. Gotta get you suited up first, though.” He stripped off his jacket and held it for her to put on.

  Wait, did she really want to do this?

  “What about you?” His t-shirt would hardly provide good protection in the event of a crash.

  “We’re not going far or fast. I’ll be fine.” He waited until she’d slipped her arms into the jacket—the sleeves came down past her wrists—and zipped her in. It smelled of leather and man. Misty was still absorbing that, when he unstrapped a second helmet from the back of the seat. He eyed the baby roses in her hair. “Sorry about the flowers. They’re gonna get squished.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing I own a florist shop.” She reached out for the helmet and slipped it on.

  Denver crouched down, shifting, tugging, and adjusting straps, until he was satisfied the helmet fit properly. “All right. You ready?”

  Her nerves jumped. “Is that rhetorical question?”

  “Ever been on a motorcycle before?”

  “No.” She shook her head for emphasis and felt like a bobblehead doll from the extra weight.

  “You have the easy job. Hang on to me, lean when I lean. That’s it. Easy as pie.”

  “Pie,” she repeated. “Right.”

  “I’ll get on first, then you swing on behind me.” He put his own helmet back on, kicked up the stand, and swung one long leg over the back.

  There really didn’t look like enough room on that seat for two people. As if sensing her reluctance, Denver scooted forward a bit.

  Pie, she thought again, and swung her own leg over, using his shoulder for balance. She was right. There really wasn’t a lot of room on the seat. Left with the choice of leaving her butt hanging precariously off the back or snuggling up against Denver’s back, she chose the snuggle, scooting forward until the insides of her thighs bracketed his ass. It was a very fine ass.

  Oh boy.

  “You’re gonna want to hold on,” he said, his voice muffled by the helmet.

  Misty closed the face shield and lightly gripped his waist. He cranked the bike and smoothly pulled away from the curb. This wasn’t so bad. Nice and easy, as he’d said. Then he shifted gears with a little jerk that had her clenching her hands tighter. When he leaned into the turn off Main Street, and onto the country road that would take them out to The Misfit Inn, she yelped and banded her arms around his waist, plastering herself to his back.

  “Relax!” he shouted, laying a hand over hers, where she was probably squeezing the life out of him.

  She forced her muscles to ease a fraction. As the bike gained speed, she tried to focus on something other than the terrifying sensation of not being surrounded by anything. What she focused on was him and the curious intimacy of riding behind him. Pressed close, she felt every shift of his body, every flex of his muscle. He didn’t have any of her tension. He was a man in complete control.

  And Misty liked it. She also liked the defined ridges of abs she felt beneath her palm. This man was in shockingly good shape for a guy who worked in a bar, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit, she wouldn’t mind getting to know the rest of him a little better. She wondered if this had been his plan.

  The ride was over too soon.

  A handful of cars were in the gravel lot behind the inn. Denver bypassed them and pulled right on up to the barn, to a patch of pavement. At his signal, she slid off, using his shoulder for balance again and feeling a little rubber-legged as she stood on her own. He swung his leg off the bike and put down the kickstand before tugging his helmet off.

  She did the same. “That was amazing.”

  There went the grin again. “I thought you might like it. There’s nothing like feeling the buffet of the wind and the freedom of the open road.”

  The feel of the wind. Yeah. Let’s go with that instead of the feel of your abs.

  Feeling her cheeks heat, Misty looked back toward the house. “Do you think we should go let them know we’re here?”

  “I talked to Kennedy at work. She already knows we’re coming. Said to do whatever we needed to do.”

  Of course he had.

  Misty took off the jacket and laid it over the seat. They hung the helmets on the mirrors and strode inside. He turned all business, pulling a tape measure out from somewhere and getting her to hold the other end as he measured the space, tapping the details into his phone. They discussed placement and height, even lighting. And all the while, Misty watched the easy flex of those shoulders in his T-shirt and remembered the look of him as he’d vaulted over her counter like it was nothing. When was the last time she’d been this aware of a man?

  The sensation didn’t abate as they rode back to town. She enjoyed the return trip more, feeling confident that they weren’t going to end up as smears on the pavement. And she saw what he meant about the feel of the wind and the open road, though his body served as an effective windshield for her. She toyed with a question in her mind. By the time they pulled back up in front of her shop, she’d made a decision.

  She wanted to know more.

  Dismounting with more grace than she’d managed the first time, she pulled off the helmet and shook out her hair like she’d seen in the movies. When the baby roses, now crushed, rained down like some kind of floral dandruff, she figured that had ruined the effect. But it didn’t curb her intent.

  “Thanks for the ride. It was a lot of fun.”

  He sat astride his steel horse—Bon Jovi, eat your heart out—and rested his forearms across the handlebars. “Glad you enjoyed it. I’ll be getting started on the arbor tomorrow.”

  Can I come see your workshop? Would he think that was a euphemism? She really did want to see his workspace and how he brought his vision to life. She’d toured more than a dozen different spaces of the artisans whose work she carried. Customers loved hearing little details about how a piece had been created. But this wasn’t about her shop. She really just wanted to get to know more about him. So she took a different tack.

  “Would you like to come to dinner?”

  “I like food,” he said equably.

  Misty’s lips twitched. “Then how about you tell me what night works for you, and I’ll introduce you to some of mine.”

  “Pick any night.”

  “What about your shift at the Tavern?”

  A flash of humor lit his eyes. “I’ve got an in with the boss. You let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.”

  She did a quick mental review of her calendar. The early part of the week was slammed, but by midweek she’d be done with the flowers for the monthly Pilot Club ladies’ luncheon. “Wednesday? Say seven?” That would give her time to get home after closing, do some last minute cleaning, and get whatever she was cooking going.

  “Sounds good.”

  Misty gave him her address. “You should bring Oscar. I’ve got a fenced yard. There’s room for him to romp with Moxie.”

  One brow quirked up. “Does Moxie have enough energy to romp?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Denver nodded. “All right, then. Oscar and I will see y’all on Wednesday.”

  Misty lifted her hand in a wave and waited until he’d cranked the engine again before saying, “Can’t wait.”

  ~*~

  “Pretend you have manners, okay? We’re trying to impress these ladies.”

  Oscar plopped his butt down on Misty’s front stoop and, tongue lolling, tipped his head back to look at Denver, as if to say, See, I got this. One ear flopped over his eye, making him look a lot more like trouble than a canine gentleman. With a little prayer that the mutt remembered his training, Denver held out the gift bag. Oscar clamped the handle between his teeth and turned back to the door, his baseball bat of a tail wagging so hard, it swept the fro
nt stoop.

  Man, he hoped this wasn’t a mistake. He’d wanted to make a good impression. His grandmama had hailed from Georgia, and, during the formative years she’d helped his father raise him, she’d impressed upon him proper company etiquette. It wasn’t something he’d been called on much to use in his line of work, certainly wasn’t something he or Dad had worried about after her passing. But Denver had heard her voice in his head, telling him he’d best not show up to a woman’s house for dinner empty-handed. He’d wrestled over that. What the hell did you bring a florist? Surely not flowers. And that felt too date-like. For all he knew he’d misread things and this was meant to be a playdate for the dogs. So he’d taken a different tack and hoped it was the right one. Gripping the other hostess gift in his hand, and feeling like an idiot, Denver rang the bell.

  Misty answered the door a few moments later, barefoot, with Moxie tucked under one arm and her hair flowing loose around her shoulders.

  He said the first thing that sprang to mind. “No flowers?”

  “Huh?”

  “In your hair.”

  “Oh, no.” She raked a hand through it. “I do that as my own form of free advertisement. Since I’m done with work for the day…”

  He wondered what today’s flowers had been, but didn’t ask. Instead, he held out the tiny parcel in his hand. “This is for the lady of the house.”

  Seeming a little flustered, she took it. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

  Denver nodded to Moxie. “Pretty sure the queen there will disagree and anyway, Oscar brought yours. Oscar, say hello.”

  Oscar angled his head and lifted a paw to shake.

  “Well, aren’t you the cutest.” Misty bent and shook, then accepted the bag. “Ooo, wine. Thank you, Oscar. This will go great with dinner.”

  Bullet dodged.

  His dog gave a joyful bark and offered up what couldn’t be termed as anything other than a broad, flirtatious, canine smile. She grinned back before lifting her gaze to Denver. “Y’all come on through. We’ll let the dogs out back to get to know each other, and I’ll see what you’ve brought us.”