She didn’t.
“Mr. Ford?” The pretty receptionist reappeared, a small, polite smile on her face. “If you’ll come with me?”
He didn’t see that he had a choice. He pushed himself to his feet and followed her through the doors. The back space was identical to the front. Black-and-white wedding photos lined the hall. Other clients smiling at the camera in long white gowns and black tuxes. He recognized plenty of local sites. The Hycroft mansion, Cecil Green Park House at the University of British Columbia, the VanDusen Botanical Garden. He even recognized a couple of the faces. No one he knew well, but there was an old pal from high school and a liquor distributor for the restaurant. Poor suckers.
Still, he supposed they looked happy enough in the photos and at least he wasn’t the one getting married.
The receptionist showed him into a small boardroom. The table was jet-black and glossy. No sign of fingerprints, cup rings or anything to mar the smooth surface. Padded white chairs circled the table. There was a small sideboard displaying water bottles in neat lines, a small espresso maker, demitasse cups and a china teapot. An assortment of flaky pastries, small side plates and linen napkins sat beside them. “Ms. Monroe will be along in just a moment. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I’m fine,” he told her again. Or he would be as soon as he got out of here. He still had a low-level fear that he’d somehow be coerced into giving his opinion on fabric or colors or some other wedding detail that he wouldn’t know was a big deal until he gave the wrong opinion. Perhaps Donovan’s delayed flight wasn’t wholly accidental.
“Please help yourself to anything.” The receptionist gestured to the sideboard before clasping her hands in front of her. “We’re a full-service boutique, so just let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”
“I appreciate it.” Owen remained standing after she left. No point in taking a seat as he’d be on his way soon enough. Instead, he studied the photos displayed on the walls. More locations he recognized, though he let his eyes skitter over those, uninterested in the bouquets and dresses. He stopped on a photo of a couple in front of a pond. It wasn’t flashy. There was no arbor of roses above them or a brick windmill for storied ambience. It was just a pond backed by a forest of tall evergreens. The couple wasn’t wearing the traditional white and black and there wasn’t an explosion of roses in her hand. She wore a casual dress that reached her knees in a floral pattern, while he was in cotton pants and a loose white shirt. They were looking at each other, just a tiny upturn to their lips, as though they were sharing a secret joke. As though they were the only two people there.
Which, Owen supposed, was how it should be.
The click of the door handle interrupted his perusal and he spun, turning on his smile as he did.
“Mr. Ford.” The woman who walked through the door was cool and blonde. She could have been related to the young receptionist. She wore a cream-colored suit and a lilac dress shirt and her pale hair was twisted back, not a strand out of place. Owen suspected no strand would dare to break free of the neat updo. Not if it wanted to live to tell about it. “I’m Grace Monroe.”
He moved to take her proffered hand, expecting it to be as cool and stiff as everything else in this place. Like a marble statue, beautiful to look at and smooth to the touch, but lifeless.
He was wrong.
Her fingers were warm and soft as they wrapped around his. He couldn’t help stroking his thumb across them, appreciating the velvety surface. Her eyes were dark blue, like the sky just before the sun dipped below the horizon. They widened at him again when he smiled.
She pulled her hand free, quickly and crisply, like the way she walked. “Can I offer you a beverage?”
What was it with these people and the offering of beverages? Did he look dehydrated? “No, thank you.” But he did take a moment to secretly drink her in. The smooth lines of her suit, hiding and covering everything beneath. He wondered if her skin beneath was as warm as her hand. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, but she moved away, stepping around him to lay a folder on the glossy table.
He caught the waft of her scent as she passed. The bright pop of grapefruit and the sharpness of mint. Clean and fresh. “Will your fiancée be joining you?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m not the one getting married.” Owen realized she’d misunderstood who he was. A miscommunication from the receptionist. From him. Perhaps he should have been clearer, since he did share the groom’s last name.
“I see.” Her cool eyes landed on him. “Then who would you be?”
“The brother of the groom.” He took a half step toward her just to see if he could get a whiff of her perfume again.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “And you would be here because?”
“Because my brother was unable to make the meeting and he asked if I’d come in his place.” Suddenly, the thought of leaving as soon as he’d arrived didn’t sound quite so appealing. Owen smiled at her. “Perhaps it was fortuitous.”
“How so?”
“Well, if I hadn’t come, then I wouldn’t be able to ask you out.”
“Mr. Ford.” Grace’s eyes went frosty. “This is a place of business and I do not date clients.”
Owen blinked. He’d been rejected before. Not often, but it had happened once or twice. “But I’m not a client. I’m the brother of a client.”
“Close enough.” Her fingers twitched and Owen saw her nails were painted the same pale pink as her lips. She opened her mouth, but whatever she’d been about to say was cut short by a knock at the door.
“Ms. Monroe?” The pretty receptionist entered the room. “Ms. Laurent is here.”
The frosty film in Grace’s eyes disappeared and was replaced by a look of polite welcome. “Thank you, Hayley.” Grace greeted Julia warmly, showing a spirit of effervescence that took Owen by surprise. Not quite the cool Ice Queen she tried to portray. The dichotomy intrigued him. It had been a long time since a woman had intrigued him.
“Owen?” Julia’s brow furrowed when she spotted him standing there. “What are you doing here? Where’s Donovan?”
“His flight was delayed.” Owen glanced at Grace, who was watching him with no hint of that effervescence. “And he couldn’t get in touch with you to let you know. He roped me into coming in his place.”
“Did he?” Julia couldn’t hide her grin. “How much did that cost him?”
“Just his undying gratitude.” Owen included Grace in his cheerful explanation. She didn’t smile back.
“Well—” Julia’s voice drew his attention “—I appreciate you coming, Owen, but don’t feel obligated to hang around. I’m sure you have something else to do.”
Owen continued to look at Grace, who stared at him, a small pout on her lips. Clearly, his leaving would be no skin off her back. “Actually...” He sent her his most charming smile. He’d crack her facade if it killed him. “I think I’ll stay.”
GRACE COULD FEEL irritation and something else burn up the back of her neck and warm her cheeks. This man, this charming, flirty, handsome man in his casual shorts and cartoony T-shirt, with his hair mussed and flip-flops on his feet, unsettled her. She didn’t like being unsettled.
Raised by a pair of unconventional hippies on Salt Spring Island, one of the Gulf Islands off the coast of BC, meant Grace was well aware of how unsettled life could be. It was something she’d fought against her whole life, longing to fit in, to be like the families she saw on TV sitcoms with parents who were married, who set rules for their kids and expected them to work