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1
GWENDOLYN
Posture.
That was what my mother had been mouthing to me when I passed her on my way up the aisle at my big sister’s wedding. I didn’t get it, so I kept moving even when she repeated the word over and over again, mouth widening into an “O,” lips pursed and tongue practically spilling out of her mouth with the second syllable.
“Mind your posture.” It was something she’d said to me and my big sister from the time we were old enough to walk—maybe even when we were still crawling around as infants. My memory didn’t go back that far.
“Men love a woman who exudes confidence,” she’d say. “Class and beauty. That’s what it takes to get the right kind of husband.”
It worked for my big sister, Ashley, who was marrying the son of one of Nashville’s wealthiest couples, and it would work for me. My father had invited the very man he intended me to fall in love with to make sure of it.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
With that announcement, my sister’s self-absorbed creep of a husband hauled her toward him in a kiss. The crowd cheered while my stomach turned.
I looked out over the crowd, skimming past my mom, my gaze finally landing on the gardens just beyond the outdoor events section of the Rosewood Ridge Retreat Center. There stood a man—a tall, muscular man with a shovel. Maybe a hoe or a rake—all I could see from here was the handle.
Was that the gardener? And why did he seem to be staring directly at me?
“I now present Mr. And Mrs. Jameson,” our family preacher announced.
He said more, but it sounded like nonsense to my ears. All I could think about was the gorgeous gardener who was definitely strong enough to lift me and carry me out of here.
The harp started up again, joined by the string quartet, and my sister and her new husband took off down the aisle as rehearsed. That meant it was my turn to slip my arm through the arm of the best man. He was the older, married brother of the groom, and he’d whispered his room number into my ear last night at the rehearsal dinner.
I still felt the gardener’s eyes on me as I neared the end of the aisle. Did anyone else see him? He was far enough away that people might not notice him—besides, the photographer was directly in front of us snapping pictures. Most people would be too focused on posing to pay attention to anyone behind him.
Still, as I stepped off to the side, splitting up from the best man, I looked back over my shoulder and saw no sign of the gardener. Had I imagined him?
I tried to get my mind off him as we posed for pictures and headed inside for the reception. But my parents sat me at a table next to Jonathan Monroe—the guy they wanted me to get to know. I couldn’t help but compare him to a man I’d never even met—a certain gardener who’d grabbed my attention in a way no guy ever had.
“Excuse me,” I finally said to nobody in particular.
Jonathan had lost interest within a few minutes and turned his back to me to talk to the bridesmaid seated on his other side. My dad was caught up in conversation with one of his country club buddies and my mom was micromanaging the photographer.
Yes, this was a perfect opportunity to sneak out. Maybe get some fresh air.
I could tell myself it was all about fresh air, but immediately my gaze flew right to the area where the gardener had been standing. No sign of him near the entrance to what was essentially acres of flowers and trees. The path invited guests to take a stroll, but I hadn’t had the chance in the two days we’d been here.
But now, that was exactly what I did. First, I whipped off the ugly hat I’d been wearing and kicked off my shoes, leaving them on the ground with the hat. I wanted to feel the grass against my bare feet and the wind whipping through my hair.
This was freedom. This was what I’d been missing by being under my parents’ rule all my life.
My parents had always controlled everything, including my friends. When I tried to date, they shut down every possible guy, insisting on fixing me up with one approved suitor after another. Each was more self-absorbed and arrogant than the last.
But here I was at my sister’s wedding, rebelling. I was walking through the gardens, getting the bottoms of my feet filthy and letting the wind send my thick, dark hair flying in every direction. My mom would be horrified. My dad might force me to go to my hotel room and hide for the rest of the reception.
If only I could be so lucky.
Vroom-vroom.
The sound of a motor slowed my steps. I scanned the area in front of me, flattening my hand above my eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun. I’d seen enough horror movies to know motorized tools could be used for murder—or at least to scare twenty-something women like me into running away, screaming.
I should turn back, but that was silly. The sound signaled the possibility that the gardener might be out here. Gardeners used power tools, didn’t they?
I picked up my pace as the motor was replaced by a different sound. Chip-chip-chip-chip. That was definitely a gardening sort of sound. And who else would be back here making noise this time of day?
