mother. Faith took her place across from the groom, and he reached for her hand. In a completely unscripted move, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her knuckles. Autumn had planned a lot of weddings in the past few years. So many that she could pretty much predict which couples were going to make it over the long haul. She knew by the way they spoke and touched each other and by the way they handled the stress of planning a wedding. She predicted that Ty and Faith would grow very old together. As everyone sat, and the minister began, Autumn lowered her gaze to the bride’s slightly rounded stomach. Just a few weeks ago, she’d received a cal from the bride requesting the champagne at the bride and groom’s table be replaced with sparkling cider. At three months, the pregnancy was hardly noticeable yet. The bride was one of those fortunate women who glowed with good heath.
Not Autumn. She’d been unable to button her jeans by month three, and her morning sickness had kicked in before she’d even known she was pregnant with Conner, turning her complexion very pale. And, unlike Faith Duffy, there hadn’t been a man around to kiss her fingers and make her feel loved and secure. Instead, she’d been alone and sick and facing divorce.
Without looking directly at Sam, she was aware of where he sat. Aware of his big shoulders in his expensive suit and the light from the chandelier shining in his blond hair. When she’d slipped into the room, she hadn’t even had to look around to know he sat in the fourth row, aisle seat. She just knew. Like the tension headache pressing against her temples. She didn’t have to see it to know it was there. But unlike her headache, there was nothing she could take to make Sam LeClaire go away.
She tapped a finger against the event folder she held in one hand. She’d known Sam would be there, of course. She’d made sure the invitation had gone out on time and had overseen the RSVPs. She’d gone over the dinner seating with the bride and placed Sam with three other single hockey players and various big-busted Playmates at table seven.
She chewed on her bottom lip. He’d no doubt be pleased.
Autumn’s earpiece beeped, and she turned down the volume as Ty and Faith spoke the traditional vows. The ceremony was short and sweet, and when the groom reached for his bride, Autumn waited. Even after al the weddings she’d organized over the past several years, even the ones she knew would fail, she waited. She wasn’t the most romantic woman on the planet. Stil , she waited for that fraction of a second. That briefest magical moment just before a kiss sealed a man to his wife for the rest of their lives.
Ty’s and Faith’s lips touched and a little pinch squeezed a corner of Autumn’s heart. She was a sucker. No matter the statistics, no matter the pain of her own divorce, no matter the cynical voice in her head, she was a sucker for the happily-ever-after. Stil .
For a fraction of a second, Autumn’s gaze lit on the back of Sam’s blond hair. Her temples squeezed a bit more, stabbing at her right eye, and she walked out of the room. For a lot of years, she’d hated Sam, hated him with a seething passion. But that kind of al -consuming hate took up too much emotional energy. After her last altercation with him, she’d decided, for the sake of their son, and her sanity, to let go of her anger. To let go of her hatred. Which also meant letting go of her favorite fantasy. The one that involved her foot, his bal s, fol owed by an uppercut to his pretty jaw. She’d never fantasized about Sam’s death, nor even long-term maiming. Nothing that involved driving over Sam with a steamrol er or Peterbilt semi. No, nothing as violent as that. Conner needed a father, no matter how crappy, and other than the foot-in-groin fantasy, she just wasn’t a violent person. Letting go of her hatred hadn’t been easy. Especial y when he made plans with Conner, then canceled. Or when it was his weekend, and he’d take off somewhere with his buddies and break Conner’s heart. She’d had to work hard at letting go of her anger and was pretty successful at feeling nothing at al , but then again, she hadn’t actual y seen Sam in twenty months, two weeks, and three days. Hadn’t been anywhere near him. Applause broke out behind Autumn as she moved down the hal and into the Cascade Room. She walked between twenty round tables set with fine white linen and red napkins folded on Wedgwood china. The lights from the chandeliers and flickering tapered candles shone within crystal glasses and bounced off polished silver flatware.
The first day she’d met with Faith, the bride had expressed a desire for understated elegance. She’d wanted gorgeous flowers, beautiful table settings, and excel ent food. Faith’s lack of a clear theme hadn’t been a problem, and she’d quickly become Autumn’s favorite kind of bride. A bride with good taste and no budget. The only real difficulties had arisen because of time constraints. Most weddings took eight months to plan. Faith had wanted everything done in three months. Looking around at the floral centerpieces of varying shades of roses and peonies interspersed with white honeysuckle, Autumn was proud of what she and her staff had pul ed together.
The only thing that would have made the wedding perfect was if Faith had consented to let the local and national newspapers splash the wedding photo al over their pages. The marriage of elite player Ty Savage, who’d quit the sport to marry a former Playboy Playmate turned hockey team owner, was big news. Especial y in the sports world. It would have been the kind of advertising that Autumn couldn’t buy. The kind that could propel her business to the next level. The kind of break she’d been waiting for, but Faith hadn’t wanted her wedding splashed anywhere. She’d wanted to keep it low-key. No photos released to anyone.
Autumn spoke into the tiny microphone in front of her mouth, and the catering staff, dressed in tuxedos, filed down the stairs from the kitchen above. Each carried trays fil ed with flutes of Moet et Chandon or hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. They moved into the wide hal and passed among the wedding guests.
Through the open door, Autumn watched the photographer, Fletcher Corbin, and his assistant, Chuck, scramble for candid photos. Fletcher was tal and thin, with a thinner ponytail. He was one of the best photographers in the business, and Autumn always booked him when he had the time, and the bride had the money. She liked working with him because she didn’t have to tel him what to do or what shots the bride wanted. She loved that about Fletcher and most of the vendors on this particular job. They knew what they were doing. They adjusted and adapted and didn’t cause drama. The bride and groom stood in the middle of the wide hal , surrounded by a knot of guests. Autumn turned her wrist over and pushed up the long sleeve of the vintage black sweater she’d found at one of her favorite boutiques in downtown Seattle. It had tiny sequins around the col ar, and she’d considered it a steal at forty bucks.
She looked at her watch and pushed her sleeve back down. Since her first job as a stager, she’d worn the face of her watch on the inside of her wrist to keep from scratching the crystal. For the past five years, she’d worn one with a large face and wide band for a total y different reason. The wedding was five minutes behind schedule. Not bad, but she knew al too wel that five minutes could easily turn to ten. Ten to twenty, and then she’d have a problem coordinating with the kitchen.
She pushed a button on the receiver hooked to her belt and walked to the far side of the room. She shoved her folio under one arm and reached for the bottle of sparkling pear cider sitting in a silver ice bucket at the bride’s table.
“I’m here,” her assistant, Shiloh Turner, said through the headset.
“Where’s here?” She tore off the gold foil from the top and wrapped her hand around the neck of the bottle.
“In the Cutter Room.”
“Any stragglers?”
“The maid of honor and best man are chatting it up by the fireplace. They don’t look like they’re in any hurry to vacate.”
The day the bride’s mother had insisted that her little yappy dog be a part of the ceremony, she’d suspected the woman might be trouble. Last night at the rehearsal dinner, the mother had shown up in pink spandex and stripper heels and confirmed Autumn’s suspicions. “Give them a few more minutes, then do what you can to move them along,” she said, and pushed at the cork until it came out with a soft pop. Tiny carbonated bubbles fil ed the air with a soft fizz as she poured the cider into two crystal flutes. There was so much to do, and she mental y ran down her list. A lot went into planning a wedding, even a smal one. Everything had to be timed perfectly, and even the smal est of mess-ups could turn a dream wedding into a wedding from hel .
Deep in her mental to-do list, Autumn shoved the bottle back inside the bucket and grabbed the glasses. She turned toward the room and almost plowed headfirst into a broad chest covered in white shirt, blue-striped tie, and navy blazer. Her leather portfolio slipped from beneath her arm as she lifted her gaze up the wide chest and passed the knot at the base of a wide neck. She looked beyond the square jaw and tan lips, along the slight curve of a crooked nose, and stopped at a pair of eyes the color of a hot summer sky.
Up close, Sam was even more handsome than from a distance. As handsome as the night she’d first seen him in a crowded bar in Las Vegas. A tal , blond-haired, blue-eyed god sent straight from heaven. The nose, the scar on
