Giving Callie’s unstable life a firm basis for the first time in her life.
Now Callie spent her days discussing calla lilies and Candia roses with starry-eyed brides, but never for one moment believing she would hold another bouquet, opening her heart a second time, believing once again that one man would be by her side forever.
Just the idea of forever made her consider heading for the hills. She’d tried it once, on a whim, and it hadn’t worked at all. Callie wasn’t slipping on that gold band of permanence again under any circumstances.
Belle gave her a grin. “We all make a good team, don’t we? The Wedding Belles.”
“Even if one of us has never been swayed to the dark side?”
Belle’s laughter was hearty. “You mean the white side of the aisle? It’s not as bad as you think over there. And one day, darlin’, I’ll convince you that falling in love and getting married isn’t the prison sentence you think.”
Ever since Belle had hired her three years ago, she’d been working on convincing Callie that marriage was an institution for everyone, sort of like a One Size Fits All suit. Callie wasn’t surprised—the gregarious owner of the wedding planner company had been married several times and had gone into the business because she loved happy endings. The other women on the Belles team echoed that sentiment—and most had already found their happily ever after.
But Callie knew better. For some people, love was an emotion best left for greeting cards.
“Belle, I already tried marriage once and it didn’t work.” Callie cut the end of the crimson satin ribbon that she’d tied in a ballet slipper style around the stems of the bouquet, then tucked a few strands of reflective wires and delicate crystal sprays into the flowers, adding a touch of bling.
“That’s called practice,” Belle said, laughing. “Second time’s always better. And if not, third time’s a charm. Or in my case, maybe the fourth.”
Callie rolled her eyes. “I’m certainly not going to get married that many times.” If at all, ever again. Her divorce was only eighteen months in the past, and if there was one thing her marriage to Tony had taught Callie—
It was that she, of all people, should never get married again.
“You know what you should do?” Belle said. “Celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Being single again. You’ve been back on the market for over a year, Callie, and you have yet to take a step out of the barn.”
“A step out of the barn?”
“And pick another stallion in the corral.” Belle winked. “There are plenty of ’em out there, honey. All you need to do is pick the one that gets your hooves beatin’ the fastest.”
“Oh, no, not me.” Callie waved off the idea, even as she laughed at Belle’s advice. “I’ll keep on working with the flowers. They don’t let me down.”
“They also don’t keep your bed toasty at night.”
“So I’ll buy an electric blanket.” Callie put the bouquet, along with the rest of the wedding party flowers, inside the large walk-in refrigerator, then turned to walk upstairs with Belle. In a couple of hours, she and the other Belles would deliver everything to the wedding party, and see one more bride down the aisle.
“Well, before you go choosing a blanket over a beau, will you run on down to O’Malley’s tonight and drop off the new invitations for his daughter’s wedding? Apparently the first time the printer changed the groom’s name from Clarence to Clarice. Thankfully we caught the mistake just before they got mailed.”
Callie eyed Belle. “Is this some way of forcing me out?”
Belle gave a suspicious up and down of her shoulders, a teasing smile playing at her lips. “Maybe.”
Audra Green, the company’s accountant, greeted the two of them as they entered the reception area of the Belles’ office. The entire room spoke of Belle’s sunny personality, with its bright yellow walls, gleaming oak floors and bright white woodwork. It welcomed and warmed everyone who entered, just as Belle herself did. “What’s Belle cooking up now?” Audra asked. “I read something mischievous in her eyes.”
“Proving to Callie that Mr. Right could be right down the street.”
“Along with the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus,” Callie deadpanned, retrieving the box of invitations from the desk.
“So I thought she should go down to O’Malley’s tonight and maybe deliver these invitations, scope out the dating scene,” Belle went on, optimistically ignoring Callie. “Get back on the horse before she forgets where the stirrups are.”
Callie and Audra laughed, then the straitlaced accountant sobered and gave Callie a sympathetic smile. “Do you want some company?” Audra asked.
“Thanks, but I won’t need it. Contrary to Belle’s matchmaking plans, I’m going to drop off these wedding invitations and nothing more,” Callie said.
“And if Mr. Right happens to be sitting at the end of the bar?” Belle asked.
“If he is,” Callie laughed at Belle’s indomitable belief in Disney endings and picked up one of the thick silver envelopes in the box and wagged it in Belle’s direction for emphasis, “then I’m sure you’ll be the first to announce it to the world.”
Jared Townsend believed in the power of proof. If something could be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, then he accepted it as fact.
His quest for proof was why he had excelled in geometry but not abstract thought. Why he’d nearly failed poetic analysis and instead discovered a home in the concrete world of statistics.
But now he found himself in the most unlikely of places, to prove the most unprovable of statistics. A bar on a Thursday night.
To prove that true love could be measured and analyzed, weighed and researched. For that reason, he had a clipboard and a pen and intended to interview at least a dozen couples before the bar closed, assuming he stayed awake that long.
A party animal, he was not. He wasn’t even a party puppy.
“Welcome to O’Malley’s. What can I get you?” A rotund bartender with a gray goatee came over to Jared, a ready smile on his face, his hand already on a pint glass. At the other end of the bar sat an older man, his shoulders hunched, head hung, staring into a beer.
“Beer sounds good.” Jared slid his clipboard onto the bar, along with a few already sharpened pencils. Raring to go.
If anything spelled geek, that was it. No wonder Jared hadn’t had a date in three months. Carry a clipboard—an instant death knell for attracting women.
The bartender arched a brow at the pencils and clipboard, apparently agreeing with that mental assessment, but kept his counsel and poured the draft. He slid the frosty mug over to Jared without a word.
A couple walked in. Jared grabbed a pencil, readying himself. At first glance, they looked perfect for his survey. Early twenties, blond girl, brunette guy, walking close, talking fast, as if they were—
Arguing.
“You’re a moron,” the girl said. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you. Seriously, Joey, my toaster has more brains than you and that’s after I burned my bagel.”
“Dude, that’s mean.”
“And