But Kerry had never fantasized about men like Adam Sullivan. She’d never believed the romantic myth that reformed players made the best husbands. Not when both her mother and her sister had shown her just what a terrible, painful myth that was.
“Promise me you’ll wait for Mr. Perfect,” was what her mother, Aileen, had made Kerry vow again and again in the years after their father had left them alone, a mother and two small girls with no money and no prospects. Nothing but unpaid bills and desperation. Kerry had been too young to remember much about her father, but according to her mother, he’d been Seattle’s bad boy. One Aileen’s own mother had warned her to stay away from, but had been foolishly unable to resist.
What Kerry did remember was how hard her mother had worked to give her and her sister, Colleen, a great childhood in one of the best neighborhoods in Seattle. Her mother had taken back her maiden name of Dromoland and started Dromoland Weddings & Events twenty-five years ago with a laser-focused purpose: to build the best wedding-planning business in Seattle. But even back when she’d been scrambling for new clients, Kerry’s mother had refused to work with any couples who she didn’t believe were actually in love. She never wanted anyone to end up in a marriage like hers, where one had loved and the other had played. As a result, out of all the weddings her mother had planned during the twenty years she’d run the business, it was amazing just how few divorces there had been among her clients.
And yet, even though Kerry had never been the slightest bit tempted to break her vow to her mother, here she was fighting the urge to drool over the gorgeous player standing before her.
Especially when he smiled and said, “That’s me. Are you Kerry Dromoland?”
He said her surname perfectly—Drum-oh-land—as if he’d spent some time in Ireland, and also managed to infuse it with searing heat. It was, she had to admit, an impressive feat. Even to a woman like her, who refused to be impressed or to fall for his sexy game.
“Yes, I’m Kerry.” She forced herself to smile and move toward him with her hand outstretched. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
He quickly ate up the distance between them with his athletic stride. He clasped her hand in his at the same moment that he said, “Your eyes...” Had anyone ever looked at her so closely? “They’re not emerald. Not jade, either.” The longer he looked, holding on to her hand all the while, the drier her mouth became. “They’re so much prettier than either stone could ever be.”
More than one person had complimented her on her green eyes before, but never quite like that. She wouldn’t have called his words poetry. How could she when there was such an unabashed sexual undertone to them? But at the same time, she couldn’t dismiss the surprising eloquence of them. If only she could stop herself from blushing, her pale skin giving away the effect he was having on her.
Carefully drawing her hand back—she couldn’t allow herself to be rude to her client’s brother—she said, “Please join me in my office.”
As she led the way, with every step she took she could feel his dark eyes on her. She’d been taught by her mother at an early age how to look elegant in every situation. But despite the fact that she hadn’t intended her outfit to come across as sexy, she was suddenly extremely aware of the slightly translucent nature of her silk shirt, the way the waist dipped in to accentuate the flare of her hips, and the fact that the height of the heels she preferred wasn’t at all modest.
Her office was a large, bright room with a plush seating area, a glossy, round mahogany-topped table with three chairs, and her desk. It had never felt too small.
Until today.
When she was tempted to put a little space between them by sitting behind her desk rather than joining him on the couches, Kerry decided enough was enough and gave herself a silent talking-to. She was just in a weird mood, likely because she’d stayed up way too late watching bad reality TV the previous night and had started the day before the sun had even risen.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? A glass of wine? Or a beer?”
“You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”
For everything but you.
“That’s my job,” she said with a smile that she hoped masked her uncharacteristic nerves. “As is guessing that you’d probably go for the beer. I’ve got a locally brewed pale ale or a Guinness.”
“It’s five o’clock,” he said with a grin, “so why not? And since I’m always up for celebrating my Irish roots—and yours, too—I’ll have a Guinness. Have you visited Dromoland Castle in County Clare?”
“It’s on my bucket list,” she said with another smile before she got up to get him his drink. Again, she felt his gaze follow her across the room. She brought one for herself as well, even though she wasn’t planning on having more than a sip.
He lifted his glass and once she’d raised hers, he said, “To Rafe and Brooke.”
His simple, and very sweet, toast to his brother and his brother’s fiancée made her smile. It also made her forget to keep her guard up as she clinked her glass to his, saying, “And to giving them a perfect wedding.”
The drink was refreshingly cold in a room that had gone too hot from the moment he’d stepped inside and sent her every sense reeling in a way she’d never experienced before. The one small sip she’d planned to take wasn’t nearly enough. Not when she could definitely use something to take the edge off.
Still, she put down her glass and picked up her tablet from the side table. “It’s very nice of you to come to meet with me in Rafe and Brooke’s place. I don’t know how much they’ve told you about our wedding plans?”
“They’ve told me plenty.”
His tone made it clear that he had clearly hit wedding-discussion fatigue. Working to keep from smiling at his obvious discomfort, she said, “I’d appreciate it if you could let them know that everything we’ve already discussed is well in place for their big day. However, there is one additional element that I would like to incorporate into the vows and then the reception.”
She swiped her finger across her tablet and pulled up a picture she’d drawn of a gazebo, with the blue lake and green mountains behind it and climbing vines up the sides. “I’m envisioning having this structure in the middle of the beach for their vows. And then for the reception, I would like to move it off to the side as a perfect place for their guests to have photos taken that will be ready for them to take home at the end of the night in their gift bags.” When he didn’t say anything, but just continued to stare at her drawing, she added, “If you’re worried about the added expense, please don’t be. I know a good, reasonably priced carpenter who can build the structure—”
“I’ll build it.”
She was surprised by his sudden offer. It wasn’t that she didn’t think he could build a great gazebo for the wedding. It was that he was one of the most sought-after architects on the West Coast. How could he possibly have time to do something like this?
“Your overall design is good,” he continued, “but I’ll want to change the roof line and the stairs a bit.” Before she could even try to protest that he didn’t need to build it, he said, “Did you draw this?”