“It’s all under control.” She was happy to give the party line. “Your only responsibility is to enjoy yourself.”
“You sure? I am the host. I’ve got the suit and everything.”
And a fine suit it was, cut slim to show off his physique and made out of poplin. The light gray shade set off his dark coloring and he wore it with a plain white dress shirt, the top two buttons left undone.
Grace yanked her gaze away from that small patch of exposed tanned skin. She had no business thinking about that skin, wondering if it would feel warmed by the sun or if it would taste like sugar, rum and mint.
Her eyes fell to his feet and the bright green kicks he wore. The tightness banding her lungs loosened.
This was who Owen Ford was. The kind of man who not only wore bright green kicks, but also wore them with a designer suit. The kind of man who didn’t get serious. Not the kind of man she was looking for at all.
“It’s all handled,” she told Owen, drawing in a calming breath. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready.”
* * *
OWEN WATCHED GRACE glide off, noting the way her jeans clung to her long legs. What he wouldn’t give to feel them wrapped around his waist.
“Here.” He blinked when a bar napkin was shoved in his face, then saw his sister grinning. “To wipe the drool from your chin.”
Owen accepted the napkin and dabbed at his chin. “Thanks.”
Mal’s smile widened. It was good to see her laughing. She hadn’t done enough of that lately. “Of course, it’d be better if Grace would quit giving you the brush-off.”
“True.” Owen tucked the napkin in his pocket. “She does like me, though.”
“She has a funny way of showing it.”
“Grace has some funny ideas. Says she can’t get involved with me because I’m a client.”
“Does Donovan know you’re planning to steal his bride and marry her in his place? Tacky, Owen, and just when the two of you were starting to get along.”
Owen snorted because the idea of him marrying anyone was a joke. “Maybe you should tell Grace that and put in a good word for me while you’re at it.”
“No.” Mal seemed to relish turning him down. “I won’t be your wingman.”
“So you just came over here to harass me?”
She nodded. “That and to help you with your drooling issue. You are the host tonight, Owen. Show a little couth.”
“A little—” He started to laugh, long and hard. He’d missed this snarky side of his sister. Even when it was directed at him. For the past few months, she’d been muted, all her color washed away. He threw an arm around her now, wrestled her into a headlock the way he had when they were kids.
“Owen, if you mess up my hair, I’m going to kill you.” But she was laughing, too.
He grabbed a handful of strands and gave a light tug. “How’s that for couth?”
“A poor showing.” Mal extracted herself—but only because he let her—and smoothed her hair. “Very poor. See, Owen, it’s behavior like that that keeps me from acting as your wingman.”
He laughed again. “If I promise not to touch your hair anymore, will you do it?”
“No.” She took a quick step back, hands raised to deflect any further hair-touching.
“What about if I act as your wingman, too?”
Her face fell. Damn. He’d thought she was doing better, was moving past whatever had happened between her and Travis.
“My offer to beat him up still stands,” Owen said. Yes, Travis was one of his best friends, but Mal was his sister.
Mal’s eyes were sad, her voice soft. “No. I appreciate the support, but it’s not necessary. No fighting required.”
Which was good because Travis was a good two inches taller than Owen’s own six foot one and his friend outweighed him by fifty pounds, all of it muscle. So really it would have been less of a physical beating and more of an “I don’t know what happened between you and Mal, but fix it because I promised her I’d beat you up and I’d prefer not to lose a tooth.”
“You sure?” This time when he put his arm around her it was to give her a hug.
“Positive.” But she held on to him a second longer. “Thanks, Owen.”
He watched his sister go, wondering if there was something else he could do to help. But Mal was proud and refused to tell anyone what had happened.
Owen grabbed a bottle of water from behind the bar and cracked it open. Which was why he thought it was better not to get too serious when it came to relationships.
Sure, he could end up like Julia and Donovan or his own parents, but they seemed to be the exceptions to the rule. Most people didn’t last, and wasn’t it better to go into the relationship with that already in mind?
Owen sipped his water and glanced at his sister, who was talking to Stef and smiling. But the cheerful expression didn’t reach her eyes.
Yes, it was definitely better to keep things light and casual. And a hell of a lot less painful.
* * *
GRACE TWITCHED THE HEM of her silvery-gray dress into place, ran a smoothing hand over her hair and slicked on a coat of pale almost-nude lip gloss as she eyed her reflection in the mirror of her compact. It was her standard event-planner uniform. Finished off with sapphire-blue kitten heels and a discreet pair of silver hoops at her ears, she looked cool and elegantly classic.
She knew some planners preferred suits. An exhibition of power and control, a statement that they were in charge and could handle any issue, but she found the same aura could be projected without looking as though she’d come straight from the boardroom. And, in her mind, she really shouldn’t be standing out at all. She and her team should move seamlessly among the crowd, looking like every other guest, just with earpieces.
She fussed with her dress again. Something looked off or maybe it was the twin flags of color on her usually porcelain skin. Grace pressed the back of her hands to the offending warmth on her cheeks, breathing slowly until the rosiness began to fade.
Better. Now she just looked as though she’d gotten a little sun. Which she might have if she didn’t have weddings every weekend.
Not that she was complaining. It was all part of her five-year plan, of which she had one year left to complete. She’d successfully started her own business, had three employees reporting to her, planned at least twenty weddings a year and last year had bought her own condo, a gorgeous one-bedroom with soaring loftlike ceilings on the downtown side of False Creek.
Surrounded by other affluent, educated types, Grace Monroe had come a long way from her roots and was proud of what she’d accomplished, even if her family didn’t understand. They didn’t have to. She was satisfied, which was more important.
She was actually a little ahead of schedule, since she hadn’t planned to buy the condo until next year. But she’d booked a wedding of one of the local hockey players, which had gotten her front-page coverage in not just the newspapers—both in print and online—but local magazines, too. All of that would have seen an increase in her business on its own, but when coupled with the inclusion of the wedding in a national lifestyle magazine that had dedicated an issue to the country’s most popular athletes, well, she’d hired that third assistant and receptionist pretty quickly.
“Grace?” Hayley spoke through her earpiece.
“Coming out.” She’d snagged access to the assistant manager’s office for the night for storage and anything