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  Like right now.

  Michael couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about. He’d gotten distracted by how good she looked in her Bloomers T-shirt and khaki shorts. She’d been cute enough in high school but now . . . she was even better.

  Men were visual creatures and he was certainly no exception. And he liked what he saw when he looked at her. Short dark hair, soft to the touch. Creamy skin, soft to the touch. A full mouth, soft to the touch.

  He was definitely seeing a pattern here. She still got to him.

  “Go away,” she told him.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because I asked you to. No, wait. Silly me. Since when do you do what I ask you to?”

  “Since now. If you want me to leave I will.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m going.” He reached out and caressed her mouth with his thumb.

  He was gone before she could bite him.

  Then he was right back again. “There’s just one more thing . . .”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Now what?” Pam didn’t have time for this. She had tons of work to get done. She didn’t have a minute to breathe let alone to shoot the breeze with an ex-lover who had the manners of a hyena.

  “You’re not mad, are you?” Michael had the nerve to ask. “Because you seem mad.”

  “Mad?” she repeated. “About what?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I think you’re the one who’s mad, as in a few pancakes short of a stack. Several seats short of a minivan. Go away!” She placed her hands on his chest and shoved. If she’d been thinking clearly, she’d have realized it was a pointless endeavor with about as much chance of success as moving the tall columns in front of the court-house. “Go! Vamanos. Au revoir.”

  He pounced on her French. “Aha, so you did go to Paris. You said you’d get there someday.”

  “What’s going on here? Is there a problem?” her older brother Harry demanded in his booming voice. With their parents on a two-week Mediterranean cruise celebrating their thirty-fifth anniversary, Harry was promoted from assistant manager of the nursery to head honcho of all he surveyed.

  At six-foot-six, Harry loomed over most people—including six-foot Michael.

  “No problem,” Michael replied. “Your sister and I were just talking.”

  Harry eyed him suspiciously. “And you are?”

  “Michael Denton. Pam and I went to high school together.”

  Harry nodded and relaxed his stance a bit. “Right. I heard you were stepping in at the last minute for a wedding this weekend.”

  “That’s right. Weddings aren’t really my thing. I try to avoid them as much as possible,” Michael confessed man-to-man.

  Harry nodded again. “I hear you.”

  And bingo, her brother went from protective mode to buddy mode. That fast. Pam was amazed at the speed of the transformation and at Michael’s skill in orchestrating it all.

  The look she blasted his way indicated that she knew damn well what he was up to and that she wasn’t buying anything he was selling.

  “My brother is happily married,” Pam informed Michael.

  “Yeah, but we eloped,” Harry said.

  She frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It means he avoided the dog-and-pony show,” Michael explained. “But not the ball and chain.”

  Pam waited for her brother to defend himself, but instead the moron just laughed and slapped Michael on the back as if they were long-lost friends suddenly reunited.

  “I find that comment offensive,” Pam said on behalf of all womankind.

  Both men rolled their eyes at her.

  She narrowed hers at them and pointed to the exit. “Out! Both of you!”

  They turned and left. But not before Michael gave her one more departing grin. “I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t bother!”

  Hardly a brilliant parting comment on her part. In fact, Pam spent the next hour trying to think of any number of things she - could have said. Something brilliant, something dripping with sarcasm, something guaranteed to shoot his ego down in flames.

  Unfortunately nothing came to mind. Except the memory of him, naked, in bed with her, licking his way from her throat all the way down to her thighs.

  “Adele, when are you going to dump this place and run away with me to Chicago?” Michael demanded before kissing her hand.

  “Oh stop, you!” The talented cook at Maguire’s Pub giggled, displaying her slightly crooked front tooth. Affection gleamed in her warm brown eyes. She was his mom’s friend and he’d known her since he was a kid. “You’re just after my sweet potato fries, like all the other men.”

  “Other men?” Michael repeated with horror, placing his hand on his chest as if deeply wounded. Hey, he hadn’t been in Drama Club in high school for nothing. “I thought you only made these for me!”

  “You and a few thousand others. Did I tell you they’re on the menu permanently now?”

  “Yes. Tell me, how does it feel to own Maguire’s?”

  “I’m only one of the owners. Along with Luke and Tyler.”

  Michael was familiar with Luke Maguire, a tough kid who’d left Serenity Falls the instant he’d gotten his high school diploma. He’d heard that Luke had returned to temporarily take over the pub after his father’s death, before taking off again. But Tyler was a new name for him. “Who’s this Tyler guy?”

  “He’s real nice.”

  “He from around here?”

  “No.”

  He waited for more, but she didn’t add any additional information. Instead she said, “I heard you were over at the flower shop to see Pam.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mabel. And as the town gossip, I figured she had the story right. Didn’t she?”

  “This is why I moved to the big city. To avoid small-town gossip.”

  “Oh please.” She rolled her eyes. “You moved to make big bucks. Which I hear you’ve done. Your mother tells me that you’re very successful.”

  He shrugged. “You know how moms are.”

  “I certainly do. She asked me to keep an eye on you while you’re in town.”

  “She what?” Michael almost spewed his beer all over the table.

  Adele calmly handed him a napkin. “You heard me.”

  “Since when do I need a keeper?”

  Adele shrugged. “She’s your mother. She’s way out in Arizona and she worries.”

  “Come on,” he scoffed. “What’s there to be afraid of here in Serenity Falls?”

  No sooner had Michael asked the mocking question than he heard the answer blaring inside his head. Not a what. A who—Pam. Ball-and-chain temptation. That was what there was to be afraid of here. Very afraid. More terrifying than anything Wes Craven could come up with.

  Not because of Pam, but because of Michael.

  He had a plan, and it didn’t involve settling down until he was thirty-five and owned a penthouse condo on Lake Shore Drive and had a twenty-two-foot sailboat docked in Monroe Harbor.

  That was when he’d consider getting married.

  Maybe.

  “Why did I think I wanted to get married?” Annie Weiss demanded, grabbing hold of Pam’s right arm and yanking her down into the chair beside her. “Tell me, what was I thinking?!”

  “That you love your fiancé.” Wincing, Pam released herself from the bride-to-be’s desperate grip. They were seated in the gazebo area of the store, amid silk floral displays and albums filled with photos of various arrangements of fresh flowers. Pam usually scheduled three or four meetings with her clients in the months leading up to their big day and used e-mail or phone calls to confirm any last-minute things.

  Annie, a high school classmate of Pam’s though not a buddy, had just come barreling in without any warning—but with a wild gleam in her eyes. “We could just live together. Lots of people do. We don’t have to get married.”

  Pam wasn’t e
xpecting the usually calm Annie to go this ballistic. “Are you saying you want to cancel your wedding two days before the event?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying!” Annie moaned, shoving her gorgeous long hair away from her face.

  Pam didn’t envy Annie her perfect blonde hair or the fact that she’d won the class president election their senior year instead of her . . . by a mere ten votes. But Annie was willowy and tall and Pam did have a hard time forgiving her for that. Still, this was business.

  So she tried to be reassuring. “You know, it is normal to be nervous. I mean, this is a big day.”

  “Everyone will look at me.” Annie placed a hand to her forehead à la Scarlett O’Hara. “It’s freaking me out!”

  Yeah, so? You’re a perfect size eight. And tall. So everyone looks. Get over it! I have no pity for you!

  Before Pam could formulate a more politically correct answer, bridal diva Joy Lewin marched in. “You’ve got to do something!” she wailed.

  Only able to handle one meltdown at a time, Pam said, “I’ll be with you in just a moment—”

  “No!” Joy actually stomped her feet, drawing Pam’s attention to the really cute pair of raspberry kitten-heel mules the twenty-three-year-old was wearing. Hadn’t Pam seen those on the Nordstrom website and lusted after them? “Not in a minute. Now!”

  “She’s talking to me now,” Annie declared, two spots of angry color marking her cheeks as she stood up.

  Joy refused to back down. “Not about anything important.”

  “About my wedding,” Annie said.

  Joy waved her words away. “That can wait. My wedding is bigger than yours, so that gives me top priority.”

  Two outraged Bridezillas. One tall. One short. Both overwrought. A recipe for disaster.

  Joy pushed. Annie pushed back. The petite Joy landed on her butt with her capri-clad legs draped over the silk blue hydrangea display that she’d knocked over. A white wicker side table and small plant stand were victims of the ensuing domino effect, creating instant havoc.

  “You assaulted me! Call the police!” Joy hysterically ordered Pam. “I want her arrested!”

  Remind me again why you thought five weddings in one weekend was a good idea? the inner Pam demanded.

  “Shut up,” she muttered to herself.

  “What?” Joy’s outrage was now aimed at Pam, too.

  “I said, I’m sure we can work something out . . .”

  But Joy was already dialing 911 on her cell phone. Three minutes later, Sheriff Norton strolled in. “So, girls, what’s going on here?”

  “It’s all just a big misunderstanding,” Pam began.

  Joy pointed a finger at Annie and yelled, “She attacked me!”

  Annie pointed and yelled right back. “She attacked me first!”

  “Why is there a police car out front?” Harry demanded over the shouting match. “It looks bad for business.”

  “Forget business,” Michael said from right behind him. His stormy-gray-not-blue-like-he-said eyes sought out Pam. “Are you okay?”

  No. She wasn’t okay. How could she be, with two brides-to-be fighting in her gazebo? She’d been a stunned witness to the battle of the bizzaro brides.

  “Quiet!” Sheriff Norton bellowed over the increasing din.

  Pam shot him a grateful look. That gratitude didn’t last long when he added, “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  It took her a second to realize he was speaking to her, not the two combatants.

  She pointed to her chest as if to say “Who me?”

  The sheriff nodded, as if silently confirming, Yes, you, missy. The idiot who overbooked this weekend and had hot sex with Michael Denton at your high school reunion last month.

  “I . . . I, uh, don’t know what to say,” she mumbled.

  He opened an official-looking notebook. “Just tell me the facts.”

  “Well, Annie was talking to me about some last-minute concerns regarding her wedding.”

  “What kind of concerns?”

  Pam exchanged a look with Annie, whose visual message was Mention my cold feet and I will come after you with a very sharp object.

  “Uh”—Pam groped for words—“concerns about the uh . . . the groom’s . . . his, uh, boutonniere.”

  “Is Pete having trouble getting his boutonniere fired up?” Mabel Bamas, the town gossip, stepped out from behind a stand filled with African violets. She had a record of showing up in the middle of things. “Tell him to get some Viagra. He’s a doctor, he should know these things.”

  “Pete is not having trouble getting anything up,” Annie quickly assured the assembled group. “Or keeping it up.”

  Sheriff Norton sighed. “Ladies, if we could leave the subject of Pete’s erectile function and return to the incident here.”

  “Right,” Pam eagerly agreed. “So Annie and I were speaking—”

  “Where?” the lawman interrupted her to ask.

  “Here in the gazebo.” Which now looked like a herd of hippos had trampled through it.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Joy came in, demanding to speak to me. I told her I’d be with her in a minute—”

  “Where’s my daughter?!” Enter Joy’s overindulgent mother, Louise. “What’s going on here?! Baby, are you okay?” She grabbed Joy and fiercely hugged her.

  “That lunatic attacked me,” Joy tearfully said.

  Annie hurriedly stepped behind the sheriff. Pam couldn’t blame her. No one wanted to clash with Louise Lewin. Local legend had it that a few years ago she’d taken off her shoes and smacked her sister with them right in the middle of Main Street. Luckily they - weren’t stilettos and there hadn’t been much traffic at the time.

  “Hold on there,” the sheriff warned Louise as she leaned down to remove her shoe. Apparently he’d heard the stories about her footwear weaponry as well. “It appears to me that both these females are equally to blame for this incident. Is that right?” he asked Pam.

  “I, uh . . .” What, you want me to upset both clients and have them both stiff me with a roomful of unpaid flowers? Thanks a lot, Sheriff.

  Luckily, he didn’t wait for her reply but made his own observations. “Seems to me that both of you females need to go on home now and settle down. Any more trouble from either of you and you’ll spend your wedding day in a jail cell. Is that clear?”

  Annie and Joy nodded, although Louise looked like she wanted to argue . . . and remove at least one shoe to emphasize her point. But in the end she did neither.

  When everyone finally cleared out, Michael remained. “I had no idea the flower business could be so . . . exciting. It’s even better than professional wrestling on pay-per-view.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pam had the strangest urge to kiss Michael. Which clearly meant she was losing her mind. She didn’t even register what he’d said.

  She had to be in shock from the aftereffects of the battle of the ballistic brides. That had to be why she kept staring at his mouth as if mesmerized.

  She remembered the way he’d tasted a month ago, the feel of his lips on hers, his tongue doing a seductive tango with hers.

  Was he dying to kiss her, too?

  He moved closer.

  She swayed toward him.

  Her eyes fluttered shut in preparation for THE KISS, which had gained capital-letter proportion in her mind now. The anticipation was huge.

  Now? Now? Yes . . . his hand was on her shoulder . . .

  Instead of tenderly embracing her, he abruptly shoved her in a chair and pushed her head down between her knees. “Do not faint! Take deep breaths.”

  Dazed by this sudden turn of events, Pam stared at her legs. This close up, she could see a bit of stubble. She needed to shave them. Maybe that was why he wasn’t on the same romantic wavelength with her. Maybe if she’d shaved her legs, he’d have been as turned on as she was. He’d have been overcome with the desire to kiss her.

  His hand was on the back of her head
like a giant paperweight. She could feel his fingertips against her scalp, moving through her hair. She closed her eyes as memories washed over her . . .

  “Are you fainting?” Michael impatiently demanded from somewhere directly over her head. “Do not faint! I told you not to do that! Stop it right now! No fainting!”

  She sighed. He was totally ruining her fantasy.

  Reality often had a way of doing that.

  A second later, a trickle of cold water running down the back of her neck had her jerking upright with startled outrage. “What are you doing?”

  Michael stood there with a vase full of water in his hands. “Preventing you from fainting.”

  “By pouring water down my back?”

  “Hey, I’m not a doctor like my cousin, okay? I’m not an expert at first-aid stuff.”

  “No kidding. Give me that.” She yanked the vase away from him, ending up sloshing water on them both.

  Michael seemed particularly intent on her all of a sudden. Looking down at the wet T-shirt plastered against her breasts, she - could see why. Her nipples were like two beacons eagerly signaling “Here I am, big boy, come get me!”

  She quickly folded her arms across her chest.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed and his eyes glazed.

  Now what? She looked down and realized she hadn’t placed her arms correctly. Instead of covering the affected area, she’d lifted her breasts higher as if to bring them even more to his attention, the same way those sexy corsets in the Victoria’s Secret catalogs did.

  Not that Pam had that kind of a figure. Those models were tall and thin and looked “smokin’ in a swimsuit,” according to her brothers. She’d never been described as smokin’ in her entire life.

  She was short and squat. Models were willowy. They were dainty roses. She was a shrub. A shrub with nipples. Beacon nipples.

  She covered them and glared at Michael. “I think you’ve done enough damage here for one day.”

  “Me? I’m not the one who participated in the wedding wars.”

  “Is this a bad time?” a woman asked from a few feet away, staring at them both as if they were alien life-forms on a first-name basis with E.T. or Yoda.

  “Depends who you ask,” Michael drawled.