the
refrigerator, and rounding up the servers from behind the building
where they’d gone for a smoke break and setting them to work
carrying everything out to the buffet.
Aria finished prepping the white chocolate
fountain, and started filling round serving trays with glasses of
champagne and red, white, and pink wine (because Southern women
love their White Zinfandel), while Melody worked on the sides and
Lark fired up the grill for the steak and salmon.
Three hours later, Lark was covered in a
fine sheen of sweat and smelled like a campfire, but the appetizers
and sit-down dinner had gone off without a hitch. All that was left
was to set up the desserts.
She started for the groom cakes, but Melody
stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“ Go on. Go dance with the
others,” she said, tugging at the bow on Lark’s apron. “Aria and I
can handle it from here on out.”
“ Are you sure?” Lark asked,
attempting to smooth her heat-frizzed hair back into her up-do. “I
can stay, I—”
“ Go. You deserve to have
some fun after how hard you’ve worked this week,” Aria said with a
rare smile. “And I don’t want any of you klutzes dropping my cakes.
I’ll bring them out myself as soon as Manny and George get the
fountain set up.”
“ All right.” Lark tugged
the top of her sleeveless red dress up, and decided to ignore the
tiny grease stain on the bottom of her skirt—it would be too dark
out on the dance floor to see the stain, anyway. She headed for the
kitchen door, determined to get in a few dances before she
succumbed to exhaustion.
She hurried across the
ballroom where Manny and George—her two oldest employees, the ones
who had helped her start Ever After three years ago—were setting up the dessert
tables, on through the foyer, and out into the warm Georgia
night.
Outside, paper lanterns hung laced between
the trees, casting the dozens of large tables with their
centerpieces of massive gardenia blossoms in a warm orange glow.
Dinner had been cleared awhile ago, but several of the older set
still sat in their chairs, nursing coffee and chatting, smiling as
they watched the younger generations jump up and down on the dance
floor beneath the trees.
If Lark had planned an outdoor wedding in
May, she was sure it would have rained and forced everyone to cram
into the too-small-for-three-hundred-guests historic home and the
celebration would have been ruined. But Lisa had better luck, and
her wedding had gone off without a hitch. The weather was perfect,
the ceremony was perfect, the food was perfect—if Lark did say so
herself—and everyone looked like they were having an amazing
time.
Dodging two flower girls
playing a rough game of tag with what was left of their bouquets,
Lark headed for the dance floor. She could see Lisa and Matt in the
center, surrounded by friends and family, and couldn’t wait to join
them. All the exhaustion and stress of the day began to seep away
as Celebrate Good Times cranked through the D.J.’s speakers and the people she loved
let out a whoop of appreciation.
It was possibly the cheesiest of all wedding
reception songs, but Lark couldn’t deny she loved it. She suddenly
felt ready to dance all night.
If fate hadn’t stepped in
and altered the course of her evening, she would have thrown
herself into the fray and danced for hours, singing along and
stealing Lisa from her new husband to swing her around
during Dancing Queen , their favorite best friend song.
But fate did step in, in the form of six
feet, two inches of old flame.
At first Lark couldn’t believe it was really
him, but there was no mistaking that strong jawline or the shaggy
brown hair that fell over his forehead just so. No mistaking those
wide shoulders or that narrow waist or how utterly delicious he
looked in a suit.
It was Mason Stewart, all right. Mason
Stewart, back home and brooding at the edge of the dance floor with
a beer held lightly between two fingers like he’d never left town
in
refrigerator, and rounding up the servers from behind the building
where they’d gone for a smoke break and setting them to work
carrying everything out to the buffet.
Aria finished prepping the white chocolate
fountain, and started filling round serving trays with glasses of
champagne and red, white, and pink wine (because Southern women
love their White Zinfandel), while Melody worked on the sides and
Lark fired up the grill for the steak and salmon.
Three hours later, Lark was covered in a
fine sheen of sweat and smelled like a campfire, but the appetizers
and sit-down dinner had gone off without a hitch. All that was left
was to set up the desserts.
She started for the groom cakes, but Melody
stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“ Go on. Go dance with the
others,” she said, tugging at the bow on Lark’s apron. “Aria and I
can handle it from here on out.”
“ Are you sure?” Lark asked,
attempting to smooth her heat-frizzed hair back into her up-do. “I
can stay, I—”
“ Go. You deserve to have
some fun after how hard you’ve worked this week,” Aria said with a
rare smile. “And I don’t want any of you klutzes dropping my cakes.
I’ll bring them out myself as soon as Manny and George get the
fountain set up.”
“ All right.” Lark tugged
the top of her sleeveless red dress up, and decided to ignore the
tiny grease stain on the bottom of her skirt—it would be too dark
out on the dance floor to see the stain, anyway. She headed for the
kitchen door, determined to get in a few dances before she
succumbed to exhaustion.
She hurried across the
ballroom where Manny and George—her two oldest employees, the ones
who had helped her start Ever After three years ago—were setting up the dessert
tables, on through the foyer, and out into the warm Georgia
night.
Outside, paper lanterns hung laced between
the trees, casting the dozens of large tables with their
centerpieces of massive gardenia blossoms in a warm orange glow.
Dinner had been cleared awhile ago, but several of the older set
still sat in their chairs, nursing coffee and chatting, smiling as
they watched the younger generations jump up and down on the dance
floor beneath the trees.
If Lark had planned an outdoor wedding in
May, she was sure it would have rained and forced everyone to cram
into the too-small-for-three-hundred-guests historic home and the
celebration would have been ruined. But Lisa had better luck, and
her wedding had gone off without a hitch. The weather was perfect,
the ceremony was perfect, the food was perfect—if Lark did say so
herself—and everyone looked like they were having an amazing
time.
Dodging two flower girls
playing a rough game of tag with what was left of their bouquets,
Lark headed for the dance floor. She could see Lisa and Matt in the
center, surrounded by friends and family, and couldn’t wait to join
them. All the exhaustion and stress of the day began to seep away
as Celebrate Good Times cranked through the D.J.’s speakers and the people she loved
let out a whoop of appreciation.
It was possibly the cheesiest of all wedding
reception songs, but Lark couldn’t deny she loved it. She suddenly
felt ready to dance all night.
If fate hadn’t stepped in
and altered the course of her evening, she would have thrown
herself into the fray and danced for hours, singing along and
stealing Lisa from her new husband to swing her around
during Dancing Queen , their favorite best friend song.
But fate did step in, in the form of six
feet, two inches of old flame.
At first Lark couldn’t believe it was really
him, but there was no mistaking that strong jawline or the shaggy
brown hair that fell over his forehead just so. No mistaking those
wide shoulders or that narrow waist or how utterly delicious he
looked in a suit.
It was Mason Stewart, all right. Mason
Stewart, back home and brooding at the edge of the dance floor with
a beer held lightly between two fingers like he’d never left town
in
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