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In bold handwriting, it said, Don’t even think about it. If you want to use what was in here, you have to come fetch it. It’s in the Hawthorn Suite.
“I’ll be damned,” I whispered, smiling.
I pulled up my texts again, You’re a rascal.
He knew exactly what I was talking about. But of course he did.
I’ve noted it’s fully charged.
Plans have changed. Breakfast in the Rose Room. With you returning my precious belongings, I shot back.
Only if it’s breakfast in bed, he returned.
Such a flirt!
That can be arranged.
Go to sleep.
That’ll be hard without my friend.
I can return it now.
You wish.
I do.
My fingers work.
So do mine.
Gah! Talk about torture! I don’t know what to do with you!
Open to suggestions?
Go to sleep, Lord Alcott.
Sweet dreams, Miss Ryan.
Still smiling, I put my phone on charge, turned out the light and snuggled under the fluffy duvet on probably ten million thread-count sheets (by the feel of them, and I knew good sheets, these were the best).
And yes, my friend was awesome.
But with Ian’s kiss a ghost on my lips and visions of his chest dancing in my head, my fingers worked just fine.
I stood at the altar in my wedding gown.
There were so many flowers, you couldn’t see the church. Walls of flowers. Flowers covering the high, arched ceilings, petals ankle deep on the floor.
I looked to my groom.
It was Ian, his head turned the other direction.
I looked to my bridesmaids.
They consisted of Virginia, Dorothy, Joan and Margery, and they all wore mourning black, defiling the beauty of the flower-festooned sanctuary.
When I turned back to Ian, I saw he had one groomsman. But I couldn’t see his face. It was moving. Blurred. Like it was in perpetual motion, his head vacillating side to side so quickly I couldn’t make out his features.
