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      FOR A GUY WHOSE PARENTS named him after the male lead in the seventies’ sobfest Love Story, Barrett Sutton was not at all romantic. He could be if the situation called for it, but he had a talent for avoiding those kinds of situations.

      Unfortunately, weddings were exactly those kinds of situations and Barry currently couldn’t avoid them, not after being busted from crime reporter to the society section or “Lifestyle” section as the staff there liked to call it. Whatever they called it, it was now his job to report every little freaking detail about society weddings. And in Dallas, Texas, the society types had big, detail-filled weddings.

      He hated it. Even worse, he was good at picking just which details to write about. Really good at it. And why not? He was a professional. A professional who’d grown up with sisters. However, if he didn’t start misspelling some names or messing with the bridal-gown descriptions, he would never get back to reporting crime for the Dallas Press.

      But this wedding wasn’t the place to start misspelling anything. This wedding was the Shipley-Hargrove wedding. Yeah, the bride was party girl Sarah, better known as Sally, Shipley—and try saying that three times fast. The society reporters had gone into mourning. Their favorite photo-op princess was settling down. Even worse, over the course of the year-long engagement, her posse of party-girl friends was settling down, too. Skirts were longer, tops were opaque, men were sober and parent-approved. Apparently this was round two for Miss Shipley, who'd actually been jilted before. Nobody was taking chances this time.

      Barry hadn’t been reporting society doings during the Sally heydays so there was considerable resentment when he’d drawn her wedding and the rehearsal assignment.

      Yes, his life had sunk to this: professional jealousy over writing about lace, flowers and cake.

      Hang the self-respect, he had to get his old job back before he lost all his contacts. It had taken him years to slide into a world where informants would trust him enough to talk. Now, instead of spending his nights buying rounds of the hard stuff in bars, he drank warm leftover champagne and tried to think up fresh ways to describe wedding cake and white dresses.

      As he drove through Dallas, he gripped the steering wheel and allowed himself a moment of regret for the days of not so long ago, when a Saturday morning would find him finishing a story of murder and mayhem from the night before, and then heading home to sleep. Sure, some Friday wedding parties ran late, but stories about bacon-wrapped shrimp and “extravagantly massed nosegays of buff roses”