Rich sighed. “Look, you’re going to like her.”
Maybe. Probably not.
But Tristan would refrain from saying more until he got to know her. That was one reason he’d given the couple a photoshoot around town as a wedding gift—to spend time with the woman who’d made his friend want to take the leap into domesticated hell, aka marriage.
“Give me some time to get used to the idea.” Tristan stared at his blond-haired best friend. “I hate the idea of hitting the town without my wingman. That firefighter shtick you’ve got going is a real babe magnet.”
“If it’s any consolation, Jayne’s friends are really hot,” Rich said. “You might get lucky after the wedding.”
Tristan wanted Rich to be the lucky one. He hoped his best friend’s marriage turned out better than his had. Love, the forever kind at least, was as rare as a photograph of a rainbow’s end. Rich’s parents had found it, but few others. Tristan forced a smile. “That would be good.”
“You mean great.” Rich’s cellphone rang. He glanced at the number. “I need to take this. I’ll meet you by the fountain in the Rose Garden.”
With a nod, Tristan grabbed his camera pack, exited the truck and entered Balboa Park along with a busload of German-speaking tourists. The park was home to museums, several gardens, and the San Diego Zoo.
He crossed the footbridge to the popular Rose Garden.
A breeze blew. The sweet scent of roses wafted in the air.
Tristan preferred taking pictures of people, not scenery. Faces, and especially eyes, told a story in a way landscape couldn’t. A photographer took pictures of nouns—persons, places or things. A photojournalist captured verbs—action verbs—in a single image.
But the bursts of color coming from the circular tiered flowerbeds had him reaching for his camera anyway. His mother loved roses. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity to take pictures for her, especially with her birthday next month.
As he moved toward the fountain, Tristan zoomed in on a nearby blossom—a lush orange rose that reminded him of the sky at sunset.
Satisfied he’d captured the image, Tristan looked around. An arbor covered with white roses. A gray-haired couple holding hands next to a yellow rosebush. And…
Pink.
Tristan did a double-take.
A tall, graceful figure stood among the full round blossoms. Her shirt was the same pale pink as the petals. She should have faded into the background, but she didn’t. If anything, she seemed to be an extension of the flowers.
The play of light and shadow had him composing a long shot.
And what a shot.
Waist-length chestnut hair gleamed beneath the sun’s rays like oiled teak, a complete contrast to the soft, warm shapes and pastel colors surrounding her.
Captivated by the scene, he took picture after picture.
She seemed oblivious to him, so he moved to shoot her from different angles. He drew closer for a medium shot, but that wasn’t enough.
Tristan zoomed in on her face.
Large blue eyes framed by lush lashes focused on the delicate petals of a single rose. His pulse kicked up. He snapped a picture.
Full, pink-as-a-rosebud lips curved into a wide smile. His mouth wanted a taste of hers. He pressed the shutter button.
She bent to smell the rose. The scooped neckline of her shirt fell away, giving him a tantalizing view of ivory flesh and a white lace bra.
Nice—very nice.
And hot.
She straightened and smoothed her above the knee skirt.
Great long legs, too.
He widened the shot, squeezed off more photos and moved to intercept her. No way would he let this opportunity escape him.
Forget about asking for a model release. He wanted her.
“Hello,” Tristan said.
Not exactly the most memorable of lines, but she’d rendered him speechless and short-circuited his brain. Rare feats. Ones he hadn’t experienced in over a decade.
“Hi.” Her sparkling blue eyes nearly knocked him off his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Great line. Tristan didn’t believe in love at first sight, but lust at first sight was another story. He curved his lips into a devastating grin—one that usually got him whatever he wanted. “I’m Tristan MacGregor.”
“It’s so nice to meet you.” She stepped toward him, extended her arm and clasped his hand with hers. A burst of heat shot through his veins. “I’m Jayne Cavendish. Rich’s fiancée.”
Chapter Two
Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, please…
Sunday afternoon. Jayne tightened her grip on the phone receiver. She wanted to talk to someone about what had happened at the teahouse yesterday, but hadn’t been able to reach any of her friends yet.
She paced across the living room.
How could she have not seen Rich for who he was?
But Jayne knew the answer. She’d let her desire for a happily-ever-after cloud her judgment. Never again.
Still, the familiar feeling of being a crumpled aluminum can tossed in the recycle bin was back. She’d been discarded, replaced by something else—someone better. If only she hadn’t been so trusting, so naïve
The line clicked. Thank goodness.
“Hi. This is Molly. I can’t get to the phone right now…”
Jayne’s heart dropped to the tips of her bare feet.
No, no, no, no, no.
She didn’t want to hear Molly’s recorded voice. Jayne had already listened to Alex’s cellphone message two hours ago. And she knew Serena was busy today.
A beep blared.
“Hey, Molly, it’s me. Jayne,” she added, as if one of her best friends and former roommate could have forgotten her name.
She winced. What a loser.
“Um. Call me when you get this. If…you know…you have time.”
Jayne hit the “off” button and slammed the receiver in its charger.
Okay, that was totally pathetic. Nothing new, but pathetic just the same.
What was wrong with her?
Too bad Jayne knew the answer.
She needed to get out more. She needed to make new friends. She needed to get a life.
A twenty-eight-year-old woman needed more to fill her days than checking off items on her “To Do” list. Not that there was anything wrong with being home, but too much time alone wasn’t good for her. Today was a prime example. She’d already organized her sock drawer, clipped the Sunday coupons and played enough games of Spider Solitaire to make her eyes cross. If she weren’t careful, she’d wind up like her next-door neighbor, grandmotherly Mrs. Whitcomb, who loved to eavesdrop as she sat on her porch, and offered cookies to passersby in order to learn the latest gossip.
Jayne bit her lip.
Maybe she needed a hobby or a pet. She missed being welcomed home by Rocky, Molly’s dog. A puppy would be too much work with Jayne’s job, but a rescue dog—a housebroken one—might be a better choice. The yard was fenced. She’d have to talk with Molly, since this was her house,