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Hercules barked, and the sound made Trey flinch.
“Hush, Herc. Well!” I said brightly. “Why don’t we go wait in the showroom for your lovely fiancée and her—”
“I saw you online,” Trey blurted. “On your website, I mean. Your picture was there. With the pictures of the weddings. Gorgeous.”
My eyes widened. He meant the weddings were gorgeous, right? He must. I chose to believe he did.
“And you looked so understanding,” he went on. “I said to Marissa, ‘That’s him. That’s just the man we need.’ And she called you.”
“Wow. That’s… thank you. I work hard to make all of my events spectacular,” I said firmly, “just like I will for you and Marissa. And even though six months isn’t a very long time to plan, and I know you’re probably nervous about all the work involved, I want you to know that I’m a professional and you’re in good hands. You can count on me to take care of everything, and it’ll all work out. Okay?”
“Yes.” Trey exhaled a relieved breath and bit his lip. “I just knew I could count on you.” He shuffled his feet. “You see, when I asked Marissa to marry me at Christmas, I-I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. She’s so beautiful. So bright and kind. And I love her so much. I didn’t want to lose her.” His eyes were shiny. “But I have so many questions.”
“Well, of course you do!” I relaxed enough to smile. “Mr. Dunwoody—Trey—large-scale weddings like these are complex. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have a job. But all you need to do is love your bride and plan a wonderful honeymoon! Leave all the details to me.”
“But my question is… do I love Marissa enough to marry her? H-how can I tell?” His words came out in a rush.
My jaw dropped. “I… I have no idea,” I admitted. “Maybe you need a counselor? Or to talk to a friend?”
“Maybe…” He took a step toward me while Herc barked his head off. “It’s just…” He tripped over a box of votive candles on the floor next to my desk and lurched toward me. I grabbed him to try and keep us both upright, but we tumbled to the floor in a heap, half-hidden behind my desk.
Trey lifted his head up and stared at me. The warm breath from his frantic panting hit my face, and I could have sworn there was a semi-hard dick between us that was definitely not mine.
I tried to push him off me, but he reached up to cup my face. “Quinn…” For some crazy reason, I got the feeling he was going to kiss me, so I pushed against him.
“Get off me,” I said. “Marissa’s going to be here any minute, and I’m not interested in anything other than that.”
“No, wait. I just want to—”
“You have precisely three seconds to get the fuck off of him,” a deep, familiar—and really, really welcome—voice growled from the doorway.
Trey jumped away, eyes wide and panicked like a deer in headlights. “What? No! I was just… we were talking! About the wedding.” He jumped up and swallowed hard. “And we fell. But it was just an accident! I’m his client. Right, Quinn?”
I hesitated.
“Not anymore you’re not.” Champ folded his enormous arms over his chest and his no-nonsense tone made me shiver.
Under other circumstances, that protectiveness would have worked for me in a maaaajor way—okay, fine, even under these circumstances it was working, as the half-boner in my pants would attest—but I also really needed well-connected clients in order to build my business, and I couldn’t afford to turn them away over a single embarrassing misunderstanding.
In truth, I had no idea what was going on with Trey Dunwoody. Was he questioning his sexuality? Was he having cold feet? He wasn’t my friend, and it wasn’t my place to sort his shit. My job was to get my clients through the nerve-racking process of wedding planning and to see them walk down the aisle.
“Trey is right,” I said firmly. “He really did trip over a box of candles. As long as we all remember our roles from now on and act professionally, we shouldn’t have a problem.”
Trey nodded furiously, his cheeks pink. “That’s… yes. Professionally. Of course. Thank you. I’m sorry. I’ll just…” He coughed lightly. “I’ll just go wait for Marissa in the front room.” He made a move toward the door, and when Champ didn’t budge, he sidestepped around him. But before he left, he hesitated. “Um. Are you… do you… work for Mr. Taffet?” he asked Champ.
Champ glared down at him, and then his gaze flicked to me for one quick second and his scowl morphed into a smile that was, frankly, way more menacing. “No, I’m not Quinn’s employee. I’m his fiancé.” He leaned toward Trey until their faces were inches apart. “And if you touch him again, Trey, losing your wedding planner is going to be the least of your worries.”
