Wooing The Wedding Planner. Amber Leigh Williams

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      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.

      Byron swiped the key ring out of the air. “What’s this?” he asked, studying the two silver keys dangling from the hoop. He frowned at the address written on both in permanent ink.

      77 Serendipity.

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