“You’re welcome. What do you mean by ‘more comfortable’ behind the scenes?”
“I feel more in control.” And Isabeau did everything possible to give herself the trappings of control. Well-organized lists, binders, schedules. Anything that gave structure to an otherwise chaotic world. She’d needed those tools after her father left and her mother struggled to keep a roof over their heads. Then her anxiety had ramped up all the more when her college boyfriend decided breaking up wasn’t an option.
“Nerves?”
“You could say that.” She pushed aside thoughts of the past, unwilling to have that time in her life steal anything more from her. “I believe in some ways my anxiety makes me more empathetic to the people I’m hired to help as they search for an approach to fame that fits them.”
“Interesting viewpoint.”
She scratched a fingernail along the bottle. “I’m happy to help you, but you seem to have nearly a perfect life, and a good amount of family support around you.”
His normally assured smile fell, replaced by pain that crinkled in the edges of his eyes, the corners of his mouth. In a tight voice, his gaze too focused on the label of the bottle, he said, “No life is perfect. We all have plans, regrets, hopes.”
A strain in her heart answered. She had to touch his hand. “What are your plans and hopes for the future?”
“You mean like a bucket list?”
“Sure.”
“How about you start?”
“Okay.” She drummed her fingers along the bottle, thinking. “I want to learn a new language. It will help me with my business.”
“Pick up an instrument. My siblings play, but by the time I joined the family I was past those early years when kids usually start music lessons.”
“It’s not too late.” She found herself warming to this topic, to sharing hopes with him, the world narrowing to just the two of them. “What about the guitar?”
“Maybe. But it’s your turn...” He draped an arm along the back of the sofa, his skin brushing her shoulder, crackling the static in the air all over again.
Except she knew full well it wasn’t static snapping through her veins. Not that she could bring herself to pull away. “I want to learn archery.”
“Archery?” He picked up a lock of her hair.
She shrugged, thinking back to her love affair with the golden age of Hollywood, scenes of Robin Hood and Ivanhoe flooding her imagination. “It seems romantic.”
“What about a crossbow?”
She scrunched her nose, then relaxed. “Not for me, but it could be hot if it’s a guy using it.”
He chuckled, low and husky. “Well, that’s a distracting notion.” He tugged the lock of her hair gently. “What about your bucket list?”
There were so many things. So many things she wanted for her life. So many things she felt were out of her grasp because of her anxiety.
She released a deep exhale with the words as they took on the power of a flash flood. “Whale watching. Stomping grapes in Italy. Speaking in front of people. Riding a camel.”
“Whoa, back up.” He lifted a hand.
“Grapes. I know. Unexpected.” She clinked her bottle to his.
“I was focused more on the part about talking in front of a group. That’s surprising, given your job.” He stroked the side of her face, his hand then gravitating back to that loose lock of hair.
“I know what should be said and done. I just choke if I’m the one having to say it. So I teach others.”
He simply nodded, leaving her words there, giving her space—which somehow managed to draw her closer because he understood her. No judgment in his eyes.
She’d never known that peace and fire could coexist, but here, now, the two twined into an intoxicating blend. That, along with the whole fairy-tale day, sent her swaying toward him.
The thin sliver of space between them heated with their breaths. He lifted one hand, sketching the backs of his knuckles along her cheekbone. Her pulse quickened, her body tingling, and she tipped her head into his caress.
She swallowed, holding his gaze. Feeling the air become heavy with awareness until—yes—her lips found his. That spark exploded as she tasted him.
His hands felt like magic gliding down her back, the silk of her dress caressing her skin along with each stroke of his fingers.
With a whispery moan, she angled closer to him, the warm wall of his body a perfect fit against her. He deepened the kiss, his hold both strong and careful, the taste of him delicious. Her thoughts scrambled as Trystan’s touch drove her need higher, made her want more.
Want everything.
There was something about weddings that just made people do crazy, impulsive things. All that emotion running high with the promise of lifelong happiness.
Apparently she wasn’t immune.
She’d noted the effect of weddings on others more times than she could count during her early days as a wedding planner. Bridesmaids and groomsmen hooked up after their walk down the aisle, as if that moment had somehow made them yearn for marriage. Those feelings usually faded for at least one of the people, once endorphins from the orgasm waned.
Married couples who arrived at the event bickering and plucking at their formal wear soon got that nostalgic look in their eyes.
Others just got drunk and stupid.
Isabeau wasn’t sure what category she fell into.
None of them seemed to quite fit. But here she was, in the boathouse with Trystan Mikkelson, desire firing through her veins, both of them ditching their essential clothing. Her panties. His pants unzipped and inched down. Their legs tangled as they backed toward a wall-long bench covered in a blue canvas cushion with cute white anchors woven into the pattern. What a strange detail to notice, but all her senses were in hyperdrive.
Slim stripes of light slanted through the vents along the ceiling. The window was sealed tight and shuttered. The door closed. The dim lighting added to the anonymity of the impulsive moment.
She knew better.
And right now couldn’t find the will
