The Bride Wore Starlight by Lizbeth Selvig

ever get over losing him so early. She covered her discomfiture by teasing Alec as she ushered him farther into the apartment.
    â€œSo you never tell a lie, then, Pinocchio?”
    He chuckled. “I won’t swear that was the case early on. There may have been youthful indiscretions.”
    â€œI’ll just bet.”
    He moved without replying through her living room area, such as it was with its one love seat, one armchair, a lamp, and a tiny end table. He set the sack of food on the table in front of a ground-floor window that served as her eating area and then turned back toward her.
    â€œSo I’m sorry, Joely. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of the wedding guests.”
    Genuine surprise washed over her. “You do know.”
    â€œI know what I needed to say, and I mean every word. But as I told you, I don’t understand.”
    â€œI was upset because I got talked into doing something I didn’t want to do.”
    â€œAnd you did a fantastic job at that thing, which you didn’t believe you could do at all. So you fell.” He held up a hand to ward off her indignant protest. “I don’t mean that wasn’t a big deal. I get that it was. It’s not a lot different than getting tossed from a bronc after only one or two seconds. You feel like an idiot.”
    â€œThe difference is, you got on that bronc of your own free will.”
    â€œI didn’t force you to dance.”
    The words were so calm, so nondefensive. She didn’t even mind arguing with him.
    â€œI beg to differ. I recall being hauled out of my chair and then thanked for being a good sport.”
    He shrugged and dipped his head slightly. “Touché. You’re right. But to my credit, I did ask if you wanted to quit and sit down and you refused.” He smiled. “Not to say I wasn’t happy about it. I was having a great time.”
    She could feel the flush blossoming off her shoulders and rising up her neck. How could she admit after all her complaining and blaming that she’d been having a great time, too?
    â€œOkay. I’ll concede I got a little carried away. But that’s exactly what I don’t want to do.”
    â€œWhere are your plates?” he asked. “I’ll grab them for us.”
    Bossy and presumptuous, she thought. How did he know she hadn’t eaten already? And yet, he was so pleasant about everything, so big and present, she couldn’t help but enjoy the moment.
    She pointed. “That cupboard, bottom shelf. There’s some fruit in the refrigerator—early strawberries. I’ll grab those.”
    He didn’t say more until the table was set, and he’d found a bottle opener for the hard cider. Although he filled her apartment, he moved with effortlessness around her, never bumping into her chair, never waiting for her or getting in her path, never too big for the space. As if this were just another dance.
    â€œIt’s not a feast,” he said. “But it’s my peace offering.”
    A surprising dart of guilt pricked her conscience. “You didn’t have to do this.”
    â€œNo. But like I said—”
    â€œNo bad blood. I know. I’m sorry I made you feel there was any.”
    She picked a drumstick out of the bag of chicken and bit into it before she could think too hard about the greasy calories. She tried to be so good about her eating. Now that she was chair bound, she wasn’t in the kind of shape she’d always maintained before the accident, but she loved fried chicken. She took a big, crispy bite and sighed. It had been a long time.
    â€œReally good,” she said over her mouthful.
    He bit into his thick piece of white meat and nodded. “I’m a sucker for this stuff. I’m a sucker for junk food. There, now you know.”
    He didn’t look like any junk food junkie to her—no puffiness or extra poundage anywhere. Just a tall, lean, sandy-haired