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Maybe the strangest conversation I’d ever had, period. I was a Forbes list billionaire. CEO of an investment company, the details of which I tried my hardest to keep private. A man with influence and invitations to all the best social events. Strangers tended to agree with me first and ask questions later… if they bothered asking questions at all.
So maybe it was no surprise that talking with Hugh felt like a breath of fresh air.
He laughed, too, and ran a hand over his curls. “I don’t know about that. I’ve had a lot of strange wedding conversations.” I arched an eyebrow, and he shrugged sheepishly. “I get hit on a lot. Groomsmen, ex-boyfriends, elderly grandmas. It’s not that anyone’s interested in me, really, just that weddings are all about hope and harmony and good vibes, and people get high on the emotion. They fall in love with love, you know?”
“Mmm.” I imagined the reason people flirted with Hugh had less to do with a romance contact high and more to do with him being gorgeous, sexy, and effortlessly charming, but I wasn’t going to say so. That really would be flirtatious, and I wasn’t—was not—going to hook up at Wells’s wedding. Also, given the way the conversation was going, Hugh would probably offer more blistering commentary on my technique.
This idea made my lips twitch against the urge to smile.
“Well, I assure you, weddings don’t affect me that way,” I informed him. “As Vic so kindly pointed out, back when I was dating, I dated several of the men here?—”
“Half,” Hugh agreed solemnly.
“Not half.” I scowled. “Definitely not half. But the point is, I’ve never been close to falling in love with any of them. And I’m far too busy to?—”
The tablecloth on the gift table wiggled slightly, though there was no one else standing nearby, and my heart jumped. Frank. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten him for a moment.
“Speaking of busy!” I grabbed Hugh’s elbow to turn him toward the dance floor. “Here I’ve been monopolizing your evening when you have a job to do. Horribly rude of me. Not as rude as, say, critiquing a man’s flirtation skills without invitation, but still. You should go?—”
Hugh shrugged me off with another of those knowing, intriguing grins. “It’s fine. The videographer and his assistant will be capturing Conor and Wells’s arrival. Conor was very clear that he wanted me to circulate as a guest and take candids. ‘I want to get pictures of our loved ones enjoying themselves,’ he said.”
“That sounds like the sort of sappy drivel Conor would come up with.” I rolled my eyes, but some of my fondness for the man must have shown because Hugh lifted his camera and quickly snapped a picture of whatever dopey expression I was wearing.
“Hey!” I scowled. “Rude again. Don’t take pictures of people without warning. You might capture their bad side.”
The tablecloth swayed again, more noticeably this time, and a small, pink something emerged from beneath the bottom edge. I had a mental image of matronly Arabella Pfeiffer-Carmichael catching a glimpse, screaming, “Rat!” and stoking the entire assembly into a needless panic.
If this wedding got disrupted, Wells would murder me, and as his best man, I’d probably be forced to assist. No matter how intriguing Hugh was, I needed to get back to the task at hand.
I moved smoothly sideways to block Hugh’s view of the table.
“Mr. Linzee. Hugh.” I smiled winningly. “Lovely as it’s been to meet you, I really must see where my date’s wandered off to. And I do believe I see Roman Burke over by the hot hors d’oeuvres. Famous actor, you know. Quite photogenic. You should probably…” I waved a hand in that direction.
Hugh’s head tilted back, and he studied me for a long moment with those brown eyes that seemed to see far too much. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it again. “I’ll be back,” he said before scooting off toward the buffet table.
“Mmhmm,” I called after him. “Take your time.”
I let my eyes linger on him a moment longer, appreciating the view of his backside—best behavior didn’t mean a man couldn’t look—until he was swallowed by the crowd of guests. Then, I dropped to my knees and crawled under the gift table.
“Frank, you ungrateful creature!” I whispered. “You were supposed to be my date. My emotional support. How dare you abandon me this way?”
My pet hedgehog—who had once answered to the name “Oscar” also until I’d realized my family and friends might think I was talking to myself when they overheard me whispering into my pocket (rather too eccentric) instead of merely talking to the tiny animal burrowed there (utterly unobjectionable)—twitched his tiny pink nose. He didn’t seem to feel an ounce of guilt over his churlish behavior. His blond spikes stood up slightly, not quite in a full defensive position, but definitely not relaxed… and therefore not at all comfortable to grab onto.
I sighed and scooted a tiny bit closer, crossing my legs tailor-style. “All right,” I said in a low, soothing voice, holding out a hand. “I’m sorry.”
Frank twitched some more, as though questioning my sincerity. As though, perhaps, rating it no more than a four out of ten.
“Everyone’s a critic,” I grumbled. I moved incrementally closer. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I know too much noise and excitement can be overwhelming for you. But that’s why you need to stay in my pocket. You can’t just throw yourself overboard and disappear. I’ve told you before, it’s against the law to have a pet hedgehog in New York. You’re contraband, Frank.”
“Harsh,” a now-familiar deep voice said. The back edge of the tablecloth lifted, and a curly head peeked into my hiding spot a second before a whole body inserted itself into the tiny space right next to me. “Your hedgehog-luring game’s even weaker than your flirtation game, Mr. Overton. Two out of ten. Right, Frank?”
“Two? That was at least a…” I shook my head. “Wait. How did you know that I…?”
The tablecloth fell back into place, enveloping the three of us in semi-darkness. I stared at the man, sensing his smile, though I could barely see him. The clean, delicious scent of him was impossible to miss in close quarters though. He smelled like grass and leather and mountain laurel—the only good smells I associated with growing up in Texas—and for a second, I felt a wave of something almost like homesickness.
Ridiculous.
Best behavior, Oscar.
