One More Night. Jennifer McKenzie

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СКАЧАТЬ his meeting, and he didn’t feel like putting on pants and a dress shirt. He’d have to change later for work, but until then Owen was content to stay in his khaki shorts and Green Lantern T-shirt. They were clean, which would have to be good enough.

      The sun beat down on the back of his neck, making little beads of sweat rise up along his hairline. He was glad to reach his destination, the frosted-glass front door adorned with elegant black script. Grace Monroe Weddings.

      Classy. Elegant. Boring.

      Owen pushed open the door and stepped into the cool, hushed environment. He blinked as his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside, smiled when he saw the young female receptionist at the long glass desk. The carpet was plush, the walls were icy blue and there was a glittery chandelier that provided a low, comforting glow.

      “Hi.” He strode forward, hand out. “I’m Owen Ford. I’m here for the Ford-Laurent three o’clock meeting.”

      “Of course, Mr. Ford.” The receptionist shook his hand politely. She wore a wide fabric headband in black velvet and a pale gray dress. With her pale blond hair and light-colored eyes, she suited the style of the office. Owen couldn’t help but wonder if that was why she’d been hired. It was almost as though she’d been cast in the role, the perfect front woman. “I’ll let Ms. Monroe know you’re here. Can I get you anything while you wait? Water? Coffee? Tea? A glass of champagne?”

      Since Owen hoped to stick around no longer than it took to give Julia Donovan’s regrets, he didn’t see the point. “I’m fine, thanks.”

      He took a seat on the dark pink L-shaped sofa that stretched along two walls. It was the wildest thing in the place, which didn’t say much. He drummed his fingers on his knees while the receptionist escaped through a pair of black doors into the back. He hoped Julia would show up before he had to go back there, too.

      She didn’t.

      “Mr. Ford?” The pretty receptionist reappeared, a small, polite smile on her face. “If you’ll come with me?”

      He didn’t see that he had a choice. He pushed himself to his feet and followed her through the doors. The back space was identical to the front. Black-and-white wedding photos lined the hall. Other clients smiling at the camera in long white gowns and black tuxes. He recognized plenty of local sites. The Hycroft mansion, Cecil Green Park House at the University of British Columbia, the VanDusen Botanical Garden. He even recognized a couple of the faces. No one he knew well, but there was an old pal from high school and a liquor distributor for the restaurant. Poor suckers.

      Still, he supposed they looked happy enough in the photos and at least he wasn’t the one getting married.

      The receptionist showed him into a small boardroom. The table was jet-black and glossy. No sign of fingerprints, cup rings or anything to mar the smooth surface. Padded white chairs circled the table. There was a small sideboard displaying water bottles in neat lines, a small espresso maker, demitasse cups and a china teapot. An assortment of flaky pastries, small side plates and linen napkins sat beside them. “Ms. Monroe will be along in just a moment. Is there anything I can do for you?”

      “I’m fine,” he told her again. Or he would be as soon as he got out of here. He still had a low-level fear that he’d somehow be coerced into giving his opinion on fabric or colors or some other wedding detail that he wouldn’t know was a big deal until he gave the wrong opinion. Perhaps Donovan’s delayed flight wasn’t wholly accidental.

      “Please help yourself to anything.” The receptionist gestured to the sideboard before clasping her hands in front of her. “We’re a full-service boutique, so just let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

      “I appreciate it.” Owen remained standing after she left. No point in taking a seat as he’d be on his way soon enough. Instead, he studied the photos displayed on the walls. More locations he recognized, though he let his eyes skitter over those, uninterested in the bouquets and dresses. He stopped on a photo of a couple in front of a pond. It wasn’t flashy. There was no arbor of roses above them or a brick windmill for storied ambience. It was just a pond backed by a forest of tall evergreens. The couple wasn’t wearing the traditional white and black and there wasn’t an explosion of roses in her hand. She wore a casual dress that reached her knees in a floral pattern, while he was in cotton pants and a loose white shirt. They were looking at each other, just a tiny upturn to their lips, as though they were sharing a secret joke. As though they were the only two people there.

      Which, Owen supposed, was how it should be.

      The click of the door handle interrupted his perusal and he spun, turning on his smile as he did.

      “Mr. Ford.” The woman who walked through the door was cool and blonde. She could have been related to the young receptionist. She wore a cream-colored suit and a lilac dress shirt and her pale hair was twisted back, not a strand out of place. Owen suspected no strand would dare to break free of the neat updo. Not if it wanted to live to tell about it. “I’m Grace Monroe.”

      He moved to take her proffered hand, expecting it to be as cool and stiff as everything else in this place. Like a marble statue, beautiful to look at and smooth to the touch, but lifeless.

      He was wrong.

      Her fingers were warm and soft as they wrapped around his. He couldn’t help stroking his thumb across them, appreciating the velvety surface. Her eyes were dark blue, like the sky just before the sun dipped below the horizon. They widened at him again when he smiled.

      She pulled her hand free, quickly and crisply, like the way she walked. “Can I offer you a beverage?”

      What was it with these people and the offering of beverages? Did he look dehydrated? “No, thank you.” But he did take a moment to secretly drink her in. The smooth lines of her suit, hiding and covering everything beneath. He wondered if her skin beneath was as warm as her hand. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, but she moved away, stepping around him to lay a folder on the glossy table.

      He caught the waft of her scent as she passed. The bright pop of grapefruit and the sharpness of mint. Clean and fresh. “Will your fiancée be joining you?” she asked.

      “Oh, I’m not the one getting married.” Owen realized she’d misunderstood who he was. A miscommunication from the receptionist. From him. Perhaps he should have been clearer, since he did share the groom’s last name.

      “I see.” Her cool eyes landed on him. “Then who would you be?”

      “The brother of the groom.” He took a half step toward her just to see if he could get a whiff of her perfume again.

      She raised an eyebrow at him. “And you would be here because?”

      “Because my brother was unable to make the meeting and he asked if I’d come in his place.” Suddenly, the thought of leaving as soon as he’d arrived didn’t sound quite so appealing. Owen smiled at her. “Perhaps it was fortuitous.”

      “How so?”

      “Well, if I hadn’t come, then I wouldn’t be able to ask you out.”

      “Mr. Ford.” Grace’s eyes went frosty. “This is a place of business and I do not date clients.”

      Owen blinked. He’d been rejected before. Not often, but it had happened once or twice. “But I’m not a client. I’m the СКАЧАТЬ