A Beaumont Christmas Wedding. Sarah M. Anderson

what to expect at this point. The majority of her interactions with Matthew ranged from outright rude to surly. But then, just when she was about to write him off as a jerk and nothing more, he’d do something that set her head spinning again.

      Like right now. He walked up to her and held out his hand, as if he were asking her to dance.

      Even in the cramped dressing room, he was impossibly handsome. But he’d already muddled her thoughts—mean one moment, sincere the next. She didn’t want to let anything physical between them confuse her even further.

      When she didn’t put her hand in his, he said, “Just to step up on the dais,” as if he could read her thoughts.

      She took his hand. It was warm and strong, just as his arms had been. He guided her up the small step and then to the middle. “Ah, shoes,” he said. Then he let her go.

      “No—just the zipper,” she told him, but he was already back by the shoes, looking at them.

      Lord. She knew what was about to happen. She was all of five-four on a good day. He would pick the four-inch heels in an attempt to get her closer to Jo’s height. And then she’d either have to swallow her pride and tell him she couldn’t walk in them or risk tripping down the aisle on the big day.

      “These should work,” he said, picking up the pair of peep-toed shoes with the stacked heel only two inches high. “Try these on.”

      “If you could just zip me up first. Please.” The last thing she wanted to do was wobble in those shoes and lose the grip she had on the front of her dress.

      He carried the shoes over to her and set them on the ground. Then he stood.

      This time, when his gaze traveled over her, it didn’t feel as if he were dismissing her, as he had the first time. Far from it. Instead, this time it was almost as if he was appreciating what he saw.

      Maybe.

      She felt him grab the edges of the dress and pull them together. Something about this felt...intimate. Almost too intimate. It blew way past possible flirting. She closed her eyes. Then, slowly, the zipper clicked up tooth by tooth.

      Heat radiated down her back, warming her from the inside out. She breathed in, then out, feeling the silk move over her bare flesh. Matthew was so close she could smell his cologne—something light, with notes of sandalwood. Heat built low in her back—warm, luxurious heat that made her want to slowly turn in his arms and stop caring whether or not the dress zipped at all.

      She could do it. She could hit on the best man and find out what had been behind that little conversation they’d had in private last night. And this time, she wouldn’t trip.

      Except...except for his first reaction to her—if she hit on him, he might assume she was out to ruin his perfect wedding or something. So she did nothing. Matthew zipped the dress all the way up. Then she felt his hands smoothing down the pleats in the back, then adjusting the sheer shoulder strap.

      She stopped breathing as his hands skimmed over her.

      This had to be nothing. This was only a control freak obsessively making sure every detail, every single pleat, was perfect. His touch had nothing to do with her.

      She felt him step around her until he was standing by her side. “Aren’t you going to look?” he asked, his voice warm and, if she didn’t know any better, inviting.

      She could feel him waiting right next to her, the heat from his body contrasting with the cool temperature of the room. So she opened her eyes. What else could she do?

      The sight that greeted her caused her to gasp. An elegant, sophisticated woman stood next to a handsome, powerful man. She knew that was her reflection in the mirror, but it didn’t look like her.

      “Almost perfect,” Matthew all but sighed in satisfaction.

      Almost. What a horrible word.

      “It’s amazing.” She fought the urge to twirl. Someone as buttoned-up as Matthew probably wouldn’t appreciate a good twirl.

      The man in the reflection grinned at her—a real grin, one that crinkled the edges of his eyes. “It’s too long on you. Let’s try the shoes.” Then, to her amazement, he knelt down and held out a shoe for her, as if this were some backward version of Cinderella.

      Whitney lifted up her skirt and gingerly stepped into the shoe. It felt solid and stable—not like the last pair of fancy shoes she’d tried to walk in.