And with her whole heart, she wanted all of that. She wanted to believe they really could do this.
But there was one thing she needed to know first.
“So, I have a question.” She looked Vaughn right in the eyes, for once not trying to hide her vulnerability. “What does it mean when a guy who has spent years avoiding commitment says he’s suddenly changed his mind? Is it a fluke thing he’s going to regret in a couple of months, or is it the real deal?”
His hand caressed her cheek, his voice husky with emotion. “It means he’s found the one woman who makes him want to be a happily-ever-after type. So bring on the damn singing birds and woodland animals.”
Sidney smiled, tears filling her eyes. “Good answer.” She reached for him and pulled his mouth down to hers. He cupped her face between his hands, kissing her tenderly, and then slowly deepened the kiss. When they finally pulled apart, he gave her a no-nonsense look.
“I think it goes without saying that you will be un-inviting Two-Minute Tyler to this wedding.”
“Two-Minute Tyler got nixed two weeks ago,” she said.
Vaughn looked unmistakably pleased, hearing this. “Why?”
She slid her arms around his neck. “Because when he kissed me, I pictured you instead.”
“Well, I hope you soaked it up, Sinclair. Because that was the last first kiss you’ll ever have.” He bent his head, his voice low and possessive. “All the rest are mine.”
Thirty-four
ADMITTEDLY, HE WASN’T the biggest expert on such things. But from what Vaughn could tell, the Sinclair-Roberts wedding was a huge success.
Standing by the bar in the corner of the room, he surveyed the elegant scene before him. Guests mingled among candlelit ivory-linen-topped tables decorated with centerpieces of roses and orchids. The band played Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” as couples danced on the ballroom floor, and through the open French doors he saw more guests on the terrace, laughing, talking, and admiring the view of the lake.
Even a few minor blips hadn’t dampened the spirits of the evening. Uncle Finn’s impromptu—and slightly slurred—toast in which he’d rousingly asked everyone to raise a glass to “Simon and Annabelle.” A slightly awkward moment in the receiving line when Vaughn’s grandmother got on her pedestal about the high divorce rate among “kids these days” while talking to Isabelle and Sidney’s thrice-remarried father. The mild pouting by Cousin Anna, who—after clinking her champagne flute nearly nonstop during the salad course—had returned from the restroom to find her stemware mysteriously replaced by plastic.
Vaughn’s gaze drifted to the left, toward the foyer, where he saw Sidney heading up the wide, curving staircase behind her sister. In one hand she held the train of Isabelle’s dress—there appeared to be some sort of wardrobe malfunction, although they were both laughing as they walked up the steps. Down on the main level, the photographer scurried into action to capture the moment, while Vaughn tried to decide what was more captivating: Sidney’s smile, or the strapless champagne-colored dress that skimmed over her every curve. Between that, the siren-like waves of her auburn hair, the smoky eyeliner, and the strappy heels, he’d barely been able to tear his eyes away from her since she’d walked down the aisle during the wedding ceremony.
Yesterday they’d made the decision to keep the situation between them on the down-low, not wanting to detract anything from Isabelle and Simon’s big night. Although there’d certainly been a lot of long, intimate looks during the rehearsal dinner, they’d otherwise proceeded as usual, playing their roles of best man and maid of honor and not doing anything overt to out themselves as a couple.
Then, during last night’s toasts, when the two of them had been seated next to each other at a table with their families, Sidney had delivered the bad news.
“I can’t wait to get you alone tonight,” Vaughn had said in a low voice, speaking in Sidney’s ear as everyone laughed while Simon told a funny story about his groomsman Kimo.
“Oh . . . I forgot to mention: I’m not going home tonight,” she said. “I’m spending the night in a suite with Isabelle at the Four Seasons. We thought it would make things easier in the morning, since the church is right across the street from the hotel.”
No.
“This wedding is starting to become a serious burr up my ass,” Vaughn growled.
Sidney laughed, squeezing his thigh reassuringly under the table.
“Not helping the situation here, Sinclair.” But he winked at her, clapping along with everyone else in response to Simon’s toast, of which he hadn’t heard one word.
An hour later, after Simon and Isabelle had been updated on the fact that, yes, Vaughn and Sidney were officially a “we”—the two couples said their good-byes at the Four Seasons hotel. Not wanting to intrude on their siblings’ farewell in the lobby, Vaughn stayed outside with Sidney to have a private moment of their own.
The night air was warm as they stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by the twinkling lights of the city. Vaughn bent his head to give Sidney a kiss, struck by how much he didn’t want to let her go. “I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow, at the end of that aisle.”
With one hand resting against his chest, she pressed her lips softly against his in good-bye. “Probably, this would be a really great time to tell you that I love you, too.”
• • •
VAUGHN SMILED AT the memory, checking his watch after Sidney disappeared from sight at the top of the stairs. Only two more hours left to go with this wedding, and she’d be all his.
“I assume that look means I can skip the lecture on what a fool you’d be to let that one walk away,” said a voice to his right.
Yep, nothing quite so awkward as being caught ogling a woman by one’s own mother.
“Mom. Hi,” he said, turning. “I was just . . . admiring the chandelier.”
“I certainly hope you have a better poker face than that when you’re working undercover.”
Vaughn laughed. “Okay, fine. Yes, you can skip the lecture. As a matter of fact, I planned to talk to you tonight about Sidney. And . . . why are you smiling at me like that, as if you’re not surprised by any of this?”
“Surprised?” She smiled cheekily. “No, I’m not surprised. I’ve had a feeling about you two for a while.”
Vaughn pulled back. “Since when?”
“Oh, ever since I found a bunch of my New England Asters smooshed in the clearing that weekend after you kids visited. Almost as if somebody, or two somebodies, had rolled on top of them.”
Instantly, Vaughn flashed back to a memory of picking purple wildflowers out of Sidney’s hair.
Oops.
“Must’ve been Simon and Isabelle. Those crazy kids,” he said.
His mother snorted. “Please. That poor girl was so sick that weekend, she wasn’t rolling around anywhere.”
Vaughn shot his mother a look. Um . . . what?
She smiled. “Ah, yes. The other big secret I’m not supposed to know anything about.” She winked. “Don’t tell your brother I know. I’ve been practicing my surprised face for weeks.”
“I . . . have no idea what you’re talking about, Mom,” he said carefully.
She patted his cheek. “Of course, you don’t.” Then she went back to the original question. “Now, about Sidney. You said you wanted to talk to me about her tonight. So, let’s hear it.”
“Do we need to have a Kleenex handy before I answer that?” Vaughn teased.
She cocked her head. “I think that depends on what you’re going to say next.”
He paused at that, trying to decide how best to put it into words. In the end, it came down to one thing. “I’m crazy about her, Mom.”
His mother said nothing at first, then unzipped her purse and pulled out a Kleenex. “Yep. That’ll do it.”
• • •
&
nbsp; UPSTAIRS IN THE bride’s changing room, Sidney checked out the bustle on Isabelle’s gown. “All the hooks are intact. It looks like two of the fastenings just slipped out.”
“Someone stepped on my dress when I was dancing,” Isabelle said, as Sidney made the adjustment. “That’s probably when it happened.”
After slipping the second fastening onto its hook, Sidney arranged the back of the dress, making sure all the folds fell neatly into place. “There. Good as ever.”
She stood next to the mirror, looking her sister over with a slight smile as Isabelle touched up her lipstick.
“Am I showing? It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Isabelle said.
That wasn’t the reason Sidney had smiled. Just . . . memories. “Honestly, you can’t tell at all with that dress. You look beautiful, Izz.”
Isabelle tucked the lipstick into their mother’s purse and snapped it shut. She moved closer to Sidney and put her arm around her. “So do you. You’ve had this glow about you all day,” she said teasingly.
“I’m sure I have. They put about five pounds of bronzer on me at the salon.”
“Uh-huh.” Isabelle’s expression said she wasn’t buying that for one second.
They both looked at their reflection in the mirror, and Isabelle rested her head against Sidney’s shoulder. “So here’s a thought: if you marry Vaughn and take his name, would that make us the Roberts sisters?”
Sidney thought about that. “Nah. I say we’ll still be the Sinclair sisters.”
Isabelle smiled in agreement. “Always.”
• • •
A FEW MINUTES later, Sidney returned to the ballroom with Isabelle. She spotted Vaughn talking to one of his cousins—there were twenty-three of them; she couldn’t keep track of all their names—and made a point to cross the room within his line of sight. She looked over her shoulder, caught his gaze, and then kept going toward the terrace.
Once outside, she took the staircase down to the path that cut across the grounds. The moon sat low in the late-summer sky as she followed the trail of lights along the walkway to the gazebo. Her heels clicked softly against the wood as she stepped inside and headed over to the railing.
She looked out at the clubhouse, watching the guests mingle on the terrace. A light breeze brushed over her shoulders, and she listened as the beginning strains of Etta James’s “At Last” drifted down to the gazebo. She heard footsteps, then felt Vaughn’s arms circle her waist.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against his chest.
His voice was low in her ear. “Isn’t there some tradition that says the best man and maid of honor have to dance together?”
She smiled. “I’m not sure about a tradition. But I like the idea in this case.” She turned around and slid her hand into his.
They began moving slowly together to the music, their bodies close.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” Vaughn said, with a teasing look in his eyes.
“I bet you have.”
“Not that. Well, yes, that, but something else, too.” He studied her. “Your reaction in the church garden, when I got down on one knee . . . When the time comes, is that going to be your answer? A panicked, ‘Oh my God, what are you doing?’”
Sidney shifted even closer to him, her thumb stroking over the backs of his fingers. “That wasn’t panic, that was shock. Ten minutes before that, I’d been worried you’d spent the night with another woman.”
“Hmm.”
When he said nothing further, she watched him with a coy smile.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m just waiting for your eye to start twitching after the reference to you getting down on one knee ‘when the time comes.’”
Instead of answering, he simply began humming along with the song as they danced. Not an eye twitch in sight.
“You do realize that getting down on one knee generally refers to a proposal, right?” Sidney continued. “A marriage proposal?”
His eyes, a warm green-gold, daringly held hers as he softly sang the next line of the song. “‘You smiled . . . and then the spell was cast.’”
Okay, he pretty much just melted her heart right there.
Still, she’d never been one to back down from a challenge from Vaughn Roberts. “All right, if that doesn’t get you all twitchy, how about this? I had a random thought earlier today, that if we have kids, they’ll probably look freakishly similar to Isabelle and Simon’s.”
The song was on its final lyric—At last—and Vaughn took her hands and wrapped them around his neck.
“Kids, Roberts,” she said, just to be clear. “I have fertile eggs in me, and I’m talking about having babies.”
She waited for the eye twitch. Or hell, even a tiny twinge.
Instead, with a smile, he pulled her in for a kiss.
Keep reading for a sneak preview of another irresistible contemporary romance from Julie James
Practice Makes Perfect
Available now from Berkley Sensation
One
THE ALARM CLOCK went off at 5:30 A.M.
Payton Kendall lifted a sleepy hand to her nightstand and fumbled around to silence the god-awful beeping. She lay there, snuggled in amongst her cozy down pillows, blinking, rousing. Allowing herself these first, and last, few seconds of the day that she could call her own. Then—suddenly remembering—she jumped out of bed.
Today was the day.
Payton had a plan for this morning—she had set her alarm to wake her a half hour earlier than usual. There was a purpose for this: she had observed his daily routine and guessed that he got to the office every morning by 7:00 A.M. He liked being the first one in the office, she knew. On this morning, however, she would be there when he got in. Waiting.
In her mind she had it all worked out—she would act casual. She would be in her office, and when she heard him walk in, she would just “happen” to stroll by to get something from the printer. “Good morning,” she would say with a smile. And without her having to say anything else, he would know exactly what that smile meant.
He’d be wearing one of his designer suits, the ones Payton knew he had hand-tailored to fit him just so. “The man knows how to wear a suit,” she had overheard one of the secretaries say while gossiping by the coffeemaker in the fifty-third-floor break room. Payton had resisted the urge to follow up the secretary’s comment with one of her own, lest she reveal the feelings about him that she had fought to keep so carefully hidden.
Moving with purpose, Payton sped through her morning routine. How much easier it must be to be a man, she reflected not for the first time. No makeup to apply, no hair to straighten, no legs to shave. They didn’t even have to sit to pee, the lazy bastards. Just shower, shave, wham-bam, out the door in ten minutes. Although, Payton suspected, he put a little more effort into it. That perfectly imperfect, mussed-just-right hair of his certainly required product of some sort. And, from what she had personally observed, he never wore the same shirt/tie combo twice in the same month.
Not that Payton didn’t put some effort into her appearance as well. A jury consultant she had worked with during a particularly tricky gender discrimination trial had told her that jurors—both men and women—responded more favorably to female lawyers who were attractive. While Payton found this to be sadly sexist, she accepted it as a fact nonetheless and thus made it a general rule to always put her best face forward, literally, at work. Besides, she’d rather hang herself by a pinky toe than ever let him see her looking anything but her best.
The “L” ride into the office was quiet, with far fewer passengers riding this early in the morning. The city seemed to be just waking up as Payton walked along the Chicago River the three blocks to her law firm’s offices. The early morning sun glinted off the river, casting it in a soft golden glow. Payton smiled to herself as she cut through the lobby
of her building; she was in that good of a mood.
Her excitement grew as the elevator rose to the fifty-third floor. Her floor. His floor. The door opened, revealing a dark office hallway. The secretaries wouldn’t be in for at least two hours, which was good. If all went as planned, she had a few things to say to him and now she would be able to speak freely, without fear of the two of them being overheard.
Payton strode with confidence down the corridor, her briefcase swinging at her side. His office was closer to the elevator bank; she would pass it en route to hers. Eight years it had been since they had moved into their respective offices across the floor from each other. She could picture perfectly the letters on the nameplate outside his office.
J. D. JAMESON.
My, how the mere mention of that name made her pulse quicken . . .
Payton rounded the corner, grinning in anticipation as she thought about what he would say when—
She stopped cold.
His office light was on.
But—how? This couldn’t be. She had gotten up at this ridiculous hour to get in first. What about her plans, her big plans? The casual stroll by the printer, the way she was supposed to smile knowingly and say, Good morning, J.D.?
She heard a familiar rich baritone voice behind her.
“Good morning, Payton.”
Payton’s pulse skyrocketed. She couldn’t help it, merely hearing his voice had that effect on her. She turned around and there he stood.
J. D. Jameson.
Payton paused to look him over. He looked so quintessentially J.D. right then, with his suit jacket already off and his classically cut navy pinstripe pants and yes, that perfectly styled rakish light brown hair of his. He looked tan—probably out playing tennis or golf over the weekend—and he gave her one of his perfect-white-teeth smiles as he leaned casually against the credenza behind him.