A Bride Until Midnight / Something Unexpected. Wendy Warren
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“I think we’ve done all we can do until morning,” Chelsea said. The official wedding planner, she closed her laptop.
The others gathered up their things, too.
Leading the little entourage out the door, Chelsea said, “We have the church, the reception hall, the caterers, the gown and the guest list. We still have to talk about music, flowers, table favors and Madeline’s vows, but we’re in good shape. Don’t you agree, Madeline?”
Summer wondered when Chelsea would notice that Madeline wasn’t listening. She wasn’t even following anymore. She’d stopped in the center of the courtyard and, as she often did, lifted her face to the dark sky.
“I want apple blossoms on the altar and no gifts,” she said. “I want a simple wedding.”
From across the courtyard, Chelsea said, “Apple blossoms on the altar will be lovely, and we can request no gifts. But a simple wedding with three hundred guests?”
“Two-hundred-ninety-eight,” Madeline said, blinking up at the starless sky. “Riley spoke with his brothers. They don’t see how they can possibly get out of their commitments on such short notice. They’ll both be out of the country for the wedding.”
“Two of the most eligible bachelors on the guest list aren’t coming?” Abby asked.
“Shoot,” Chelsea said at the same time.
It was all Summer could do to keep the relief from bubbling out of her. Kyle Merrick was Riley’s older brother and had grown up in Bay City on Michigan’s gold coast. He’d caused quite a stir when he’d gotten kicked out of his Ivy League college, but it was his exposé of a professor’s wrongdoing that gained him real notoriety. He’d accepted the formal apology from the university but turned his nose up at their invitation to return. With an attitude like his, it wasn’t surprising he’d become a nationally acclaimed journalist. As a newspaperman, he’d likely caught her exclusive the day she’d made the front page of the society section of every major newspaper on the eastern seaboard.
He wasn’t coming to his brother’s wedding. Summer couldn’t contain her happiness about that. It was all she could do to keep from performing cartwheels across the courtyard.
“Before you go,” Madeline called. “I want all three of you to close your eyes.”
Abby was the first to do as Madeline asked. Although Chelsea complained, she closed her eyes, too. Summer was still smiling when she finally acquiesced.
“Take a deep breath,” Madeline continued in her quiet, lilting voice that for a moment seemed almost otherworldly. “Now, slowly release it and draw in another. Relax. Breathe. With your eyes closed, picture the man of your dreams. Do you see him? Maybe he’s rugged and moody, or shirtless and sexy, or brainy and pensive.”
An image sauntered unbidden across Summer’s mind. No matter how many dates she accepted, or how much she enjoyed the attention of the rugged, earthy men of Orchard Hill, her fantasy man wasn’t clad in faded jeans or chinos. He was loosening the button on a fine European suit.
Champagne taste on a beer budget.
“Believe your paths will cross, and they will,” Madeline said. “I’m living proof. Now open your eyes.”
All four of them opened their eyes at the same time. They were still blinking when lightning flashed across the horizon. As if in answer, the lights in the inn flickered.
“The universe just sent us a sign,” Madeline whispered in awe. “Your lover is on his way.”
Summer didn’t know if Chelsea and Abby believed in Madeline’s prediction, but they got in Chelsea’s car without disputing it. Madeline had always been intuitive and romantic. Since she’d discovered wealthy architect Riley Merrick and had proceeded to fall in love with him, she’d become even more wise and serene. She believed in destiny and positive thoughts manifesting into positive results. And she believed the flickering lights were a sign.
Summer believed in the cantankerous electrical system in her inn. If that storm came any closer, a fuse would blow, and her lights would go out. There was nothing magical about it, she thought, after Madeline left, too. And the balmy breeze fluttering the loose gathers in her dress’s bodice wasn’t a prelude to a lover’s touch.
It was just the wind.
Tall and muscular, the man crossing Summer’s threshold watched her watching him. Although she couldn’t see his eyes clearly, she saw his bold smile.
Bold with a capital B.
There were times when a woman didn’t appreciate such over-confidence. This wasn’t one of them.
His chest was bare. Why, she didn’t know. He didn’t seem to care that he was dripping on an impeccably tailored, white shirt lying on the floor. He kicked it aside with the toe of one worn boot. Summer knew there was something incongruous about his attire, but this was her dream, and she was enjoying it too much to rouse herself enough to analyze the inconsistencies.
Thunder rolled, ever closer, the sound moving through the darkness, approaching as rhythmically and steadily as the man. And what a man—a long, lean paradigm of natural elegance, honed muscle and masculine intent. Apparently unaffected by the fury of the storm, he smiled as he leaned over her. She held her breath as she waited to be awakened with his kiss.
Thunder cracked right outside the window, and Summer jerked awake. She blinked. Floundered.
Where was she?
Rain pelted the windowpanes, and thunder rumbled again. As she ran her hand over the cushion beside her, her memory gradually returned. She’d curled her feet underneath her at one corner of the settee in the central foyer to wait for the last guest to arrive. She must have fallen asleep. Had she been dreaming? The details of the fantasy escaped her, but there was a yearning in her belly that reminded her how long it had been since she’d known a lover’s touch.
Darn Madeline and her silly predictions.
Summer squinted into the darkness. Darkness?
The lights had been on when she’d curled up with her magazine. The power must have gone out. Luckily she’d anticipated the likelihood of that and had put her candle lighter and hurricane lamp on the registration counter soon after Madeline, Chelsea and Abby left.
Now that she had her bearings, she padded barefoot to the desk where she easily located the lighter and removed the glass chimney from the hurricane lamp. She was in the process of lighting the wick when a fist pounded the door behind her.
She spun around, the lighter still flaming. Lightning blazed across the sky just then, outlining the dark figure of a man on her portico.
She reeled backwards.
“I’m here for the room,” he said, water sluicing off his rain slicker.
K. Miller, the missing carpenter, she thought. Of course.
With her heart still racing, she took her finger off the lighter’s trigger then turned down the wick of the lamp. “The power’s out,” she called, after replacing the globe.
“It went out with that last streak of lightning as I was pulling in,” he said loudly enough to be heard through her front door. “I don’t need electricity. All I need is a dry corner to crash until morning.”
She unlocked the door. Leaving him space to enter, she slipped behind the counter where she normally greeted guests.
There was something oddly familiar about the way he stepped over the threshold. Which was strange, because she was sure she didn’t know him.
Wet, his hair was the color of her favorite coffee, dark and rich and thick. His eyebrows were straight and slightly lighter than his hair, his eyes too shadowed for her to discern their color from here. A drop of water trailed down his cheek before getting caught on the whisker stubble darkening his jaw. He hung his jacket on the coat tree next to