shoulder and her smile widened. “Well, look who’s come calling!” And Emory’s stomach bottomed out. She knew immediately, before he stepped closer, before she turned and looked, before Gwen said, “Hello there, guitar man. Are you hungry?”
He stepped into Emory’s field of vision and her breath caught like it did every time she saw him in person. On television and in YouTube videos, he always looked smaller and paler, less alive. Sometimes she even tried to convince herself he had shrunk and his eyes weren’t that amazing shade of sage washed around the edges with bright, silvery gray.
But no. Now the truth stood before her—nearly six and a half feet of rock-hard pure male. A man who was so lean and powerful at the same time was truly the eighth wonder of the world. Maybe the ninth, too. Though bandaged from the injury he’d gotten during the fire, the arm that snaked around to hug Gwen was muscular and strong. It was an arm that could make the guitar slung low on his hip laugh and cry all night long without ever getting tired. He’d cut his hair. Maybe it had gotten singed in the fire and he’d had to. Regardless, it suited him, made him look younger, more like he had that first summer she saw him—though his body had come into its own since then. The edge of the tattoo that barely peeped out of the left sleeve of his black t-shirt and the thin, braided leather bracelet on his left wrist were the only things that hinted that he didn’t make his living investing bonds in the most conservative bank in America.
An old feeling came over Emory. It had been so long she barely recognized it as desire. It didn’t surge and take hold like it had in more innocent, more ignorant days. Rather, it drifted in and settled in place like a cloud that wasn’t sure it was welcome. Small wonder; that feeling hadn’t been welcome in a long time. Could be it had settled in now only because the object of her desire was more likely to kill her than kiss her. A little excitement was fun when it was wrapped in safety.
He smiled as he and Gwen bantered in the way old friends did—though Emory couldn’t have reported what they said. She just stood there holding a tray of tomato tarts, wanting what she was never going to have.
Only she didn’t want him. She didn’t want
anyone.
She should take her tarts and go. She would drift into the crowd and then—
“Emory.” His voice was smooth whiskey and water but there was no warmth in it now and certainly no warmth in those silver-sage eyes. “A word, please.”
“Let me, Emory.” Gwen took the tray. “Go on and help Jackson settle in. I’ll radio you if anything happens.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, never doubting that she would follow. He pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket as he walked and jammed it on his head. She would probably have never looked at his butt if he hadn’t called attention to it that way—though it was a butt for the ages.
He stopped a distance away from the catering tent. “What in the hell is going on here?” he demanded, and not in a nice way.
Hmm. What to do, what to do? Lie? Stand up to him? Run? Running wouldn’t do. He’d take her down like some kind of a big jungle cat with babies who needed meat. Dead meat. Standing up to him wasn’t out of the question—it was just out of the question right now. That left lie.
“A wedding. A wedding is what is going on here. Or I guess I should say what
did
go on here. Now a reception is what’s going on. Would you like some cake? It’s white amaretto, with toffee crunch filling and Italian buttercream frosting. It might not be strictly traditional but it’s the best one June makes. You know June, from Eat Cake. I’ll go get you some.”
“Emory.” His jaw was clenched. Maybe she should run her hand over it to make sure he didn’t have lockjaw.
“You haven’t stepped on a rusty nail have you?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I do not want any