Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

It was his fault, really. He’d broken every single personal rule, starting with one of the most basic . . . I work alone.

Followed only by: I don’t make promises.

He’d forgotten, however: Don’t give away your heart.

“You’re wanted for pictures in the parlor,” Conrad said, coming up behind Jack where he stood in the dining room, staring out at the lake.

No, staring out at memories. Or maybe not memories but the pictures he’d drawn of Harper and himself, building an imaginary life inside his head.

“Right.” He drew in a breath.

Conrad stepped in front of him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Whatever. I don’t know what game she might be playing, but fool me once, on her. Twice, that’s on me.”

“She didn’t know about the blog.”

Jack frowned at him.

“I showed her in the limo. She looked pretty freaked out.”

“I don’t care how it got posted?—”

“You just care that . . . what? I’m not seeing the sin here.”

“I’m the hero in a freakin’ romance novel!” Jack hadn’t meant to raise his voice. He lowered it. “Listen. Private stuff shouldn’t be . . . public.”

“You’re embarrassed.”

Jack caught a glimpse now of the bridal party gathering in the parlor. “Of course I’m embarrassed.”

“Get over yourself. So what it’s true? So what you lost your heart to Harper?—”

“Except, all that time, she was writing a torrid romance about me.”

“It’s hardly torrid. It’s sweet and maybe a little sappy, but hardly even PG-rated.” Conrad leaned in. “The real issue is that you’re scared.”

Jack’s eyes flinched.

“Dad was right. You’re scared you’re going to screw it up. That you’re going to fail her?—”

“I’m not?—”

“Just like you did Sabrina.”

Jack’s mouth pinched.

“I was there. I don’t care what you say—you had a little thing for her. And she had a thing for you. And you never acted on it. Why?”

He swallowed.

“I’ll tell you why. Because you were secretly in love with Harper . And that horrified you.”

“I barely knew she existed until that spring break.”

“And then you really knew, until you told yourself she was off-limits.”

“She was.”

A beat.

“Okay, yes. I knew she had a little hero worship going when she was young. And I might have liked it—but she was a child, so . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “And then she showed up, and yes, I didn’t realize it was her . . . Bee. Pigtails. Whatever. I fell for her. Hard. She was fun and smart and easy to be around, and she listened to me, and I felt brilliant and like maybe I hung the moon in her eyes— because I did. And then I kissed her—and found out who she was—and all I could think was . . . I took advantage of her and that hero worship, and yes, I was ashamed of myself.”

“But you never forgot her.”

“I should have forgotten her.”

“You did nothing wrong, bro.”

Jack ran a hand behind his head. “But don’t you see—I’m still that guy. The guy she crushed on—Mr. Hero Worship. And she’s writing a novel—and now I’m Mr. Romance!”

“Novel, or memoir. Sounded pretty real.”

Jack looked away. It was. Oh. He turned back to Conrad. “Yes, I’m embarrassed. But I’m also pretty sure that she’s in love with a version of me that is not me.”

“Despite your efforts to clue her in to the truth?”

“Yes.”

Conrad laughed. Full-out laughed. “Seriously? Mr. I Promise I’ll Find Your Friend? And Save Your Life Along the Way? Yeah, you’re doing a bang-up job of making her see the truth.”

Jack shook his head, made to push past Conrad, but his brother stopped him, his hand on his arm.

Jack stiffened.

“So what?” Conrad said.

Jack frowned.

“So what that the whole world knows you love her. And so what that she finds out that you’re not really Big Jack. Or that you are but you are also Sometimes I Get It Wrong Jack. This woman loves you. And that is a rare and beautiful thing, bro.” He let Jack go.

“I feel naked.”

“You can choose how you feel. You might consider feeling honored, Fabio.” Conrad winked and walked away.

Fabio?

Whatever. Jack followed him out to the parlor. The photographer had already finished taking shots of the ladies, and now she directed them to stand with their processional partners. He walked up to Harper.

She smelled good. Like flowers or something. And frankly, looked downright stunning in that V-necked dress, the fabric soft under his hand as he put it on her shoulder, as directed.

She stiffened.

Aw. “This woman loves you.”

Maybe not so much.

Boo and Oaken took their spots, and Jack forced a smile, holding it for about twenty more minutes as the photographer repositioned them.

“We need to talk,” he said to Harper at one point, bending down to whisper in her ear.

She ignored him.

The photographer had the men high-five, the women raise their bouquets in triumph as Boo and Oaken kissed, then she dismissed the women.

“Men, I need you with the bride and groom.”

“I need a moment,” Boo said and headed out of the room, her dress trailing after.

Jack took that moment to catch up with Harper as she walked toward the door. He grabbed her wrist.

“Can we talk?”

She drew in a breath, and only then did he notice her reddened eyes. It tempered his words, just a little. “I read the blog.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He still had hold of her wrist and now pulled her into the center of the home, by the stairs, near the bathroom.

He kept his voice low. “Why did you post it?”

She exhaled. Shook her head. Then she jerked out of his grasp. “Leave me alone?—”

“No.” He took her hand, and this time directed her toward the door on the opposite side, under the stairs.

The one that led to the family wine closet.

They stepped in and he let go, the chill of the room catching his breath. A wall of wine penned them in on all sides, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“What were you thinking?”

She stared at him. “I didn’t submit it on purpose! It was a mistake. I don’t know how, but I uploaded the wrong file.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Fine. It was from . . . a novel I was working on.”

“With me as the hero.”

“Yes, okay. Yes.”

“It felt pretty real.”

She lifted a shoulder, and then her eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Why would you write all that down?—”

“Are you kidding me right now? Because that was . . . that was the best week of my life—despite how everything turned out.”

“It was just a kiss.”

“It was . . . hope. It was . . .” She shook her head, then looked at the bouquet she held. Sighed. “You don’t know what it’s like to want something so much you dream it into existence.” She looked up at him. “I wanted to be a Kingston more than anything in my entire life. And yes, I had a terrible crush on you. But more than that, I wanted what I thought you wanted. A family. A home. This. I wanted this.”

He stared at her, nonplussed.

“My father walked away from me and never looked back. My mother . . . she would rather be with her clients than listen to her own daughter. And that was all fine because your mother listened. She loved me more than mine ever did?—”

“So, what—you wanted to be my sister? Great. Now I feel gross?—”

“Don’t be a jerk. Of course not. But that night, when you kissed me, I thought . . . I thought I belonged. I thought you wanted me.”

He raised an eyebrow, hating the memory those words dredged up. Because yes . . .

“In your life.”

Right.

And then she took a breath. Sighed. Looked up at him, and he saw in her eyes the woman he’d discovered this week. Smart. Brave. Determined.

“I’m sorry you’re embarrassed. But I’m not sorry that I kissed you. Then, or this week. I’m not sorry that I have an overactive imagination or that I wish for big things. Frankly, I thought I made you sound pretty good.”

Then she turned and pushed through the door.

The cool breath of the wine cellar followed her out. He stood for a moment, then spotted Boo emerging from the bathroom across the hall.

Fine. He’d talk to Harper later.

He had sounded pretty good.

He returned to the parlor, followed the instruction of the photographer, Harper’s words running over him.

“I wanted what I thought you wanted. A family. A home. This. I wanted this.”

He did too. He just didn’t know how to find it, to land it.

His dad found his thoughts, wandered around as Jack posed with the groomsmen. “He’s waiting for you to come to Him, to stop running and discover peace.”

By the time they’d finished, country music spilled out from the third-floor ballroom, down the winding stairs, into the foyer where guests started to arrive. Jack met a few of Oaken’s posh friends, trying to keep an eye out for Harper, but he didn’t see her.

He glad-handed his cousin Dodge, from Alaska, catching up for a moment on his family—Echo and baby Chase—and then met Noemi, the wife of Range.

Jack finally went upstairs. Round tables filled much of the room, with a band set up at the front along with a dance floor. Oaken and Boo’s sweetheart table sat alone at the front of the stage.

The wedding party sat at one table, Oaken’s family and Boo’s SAR team at another. Jack took a seat next to Austen. “Where’s Harper sitting?”

She picked up a name card next to her. “Here.”

He frowned, again looked around for Harper. Most of the tables were filled, the band playing music in the far corner, the smell of dinner wafting up from the kitchen.

“Where’s Penelope?”

Austen picked up her napkin, frowned at him. “Um, I think I saw Harper and her talking earlier, out on the porch.”

“Outside?”

“Yeah. Wait—you don’t think she left do you?”

He pushed his chair out, got up. “I don’t know.”

She put her napkin down. “You need us to find her?”

He looked at her. “No, but if I do, I’ll let you know.” He put a hand on her shoulder, then wove his way through the crowd.

He headed down to the second level, but the guests’ doors were closed, so he descended to the first floor. Empty parlor, empty dining room. He pushed through to the kitchen, to the scent of roasted chicken—no, quail, given the golden-brown birds on the counter. Staff plated the food, then covered the plates and loaded them onto a dumbwaiter that lifted to the third floor.

He spotted his mother talking with another woman. Oh, Oaken’s mother . Pretty woman. Blonde and tan.

“Mom, have you seen Harper?”

“Not recently. She and her friend Penelope were outside talking to some man earlier. Not a guest, but Penelope seemed relieved to see him. She gave him a hug.”

A hug?

“I think Boo and Oaken are about to head in—you two better get upstairs.” Jack brushed past them outside.

The sun had started to set, the wind stirring the breeze, creaking the trees. The parking lot was jammed full of cars.

He stood there, his hands in his pockets. Oh, Harper, please don’t leave ? —

A moan lifted—deep and pained—and the sound landed in his chest, stirred?—

He went to the edge of the porch and stilled.

Penelope lay in the snow, her face bloodied, her dress torn. “Penelope!” He scrambled down the steps, scooped her up. “Are you okay?” He started up the stairs, carrying her. “Where’s Harper?”

He pushed into the house. “Mom, I need help!” He burst into the kitchen as his mother rounded the corner.

She took a breath at the sight of the wounded woman. “Not near the food. C’mon.” She directed him to the nearby bathroom, just off the entry.

He set Penelope down, and his mother had already wetted a towel. She put it to Penelope’s nose, still gushing blood.

Penelope pinched her nose, her voice stunted. “Harper and I were talking when suddenly he just showed up. Just walked up the steps and—I was so shocked I hugged him.” Her breath caught. “I hugged him. Wow, I’m such an idiot. He completely played us and . . .” She looked up at Jack. “This is a lot bigger than I thought.”

“Where. Is. Harper ?”

“He said he needed to talk, and I started walking toward the car and then thought, What am I doing? I’m at a wedding. So I told him no, and that’s when he tried to grab me. Harper got in the middle, and then he hit me—oh, I think my nose is broken?—”

“Penelope!”

“I don’t know! I heard Harper shouting. And then she came at us, swinging something—a shovel. Yeah, she hit him with a shovel.”

Jack grabbed the frame of the door.

“I think maybe she hit him again—I don’t know. I remember her running.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know?—”

“Why didn’t she go back to the house?”

“I don’t know!” Her eyes filled. “She ran. And he ran after her.”

Her words had the power to buckle his knees.

“Did he catch her?” His voice emerged on a whisper.

“I don’t know—I didn’t hear anyone drive away.” She met his eyes then. “No. I don’t remember them driving away.”

“Who, Penelope? Who did this?”

Penelope lowered the towel. “Kyle Brunley.”

He stilled. “What? He’s dead.”

She shook her head. “Not so dead.”

“Then who was the dead body at the Motor Lodge?” He got up.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe the guy who took you.” He turned to the kitchen, spotted a waiter. “We need some ice.”

He turned back to Penelope. “Do you think she could still be here? On the grounds?”

“Maybe.”

“Jack? Everything okay?”

He turned and spotted Austen coming through the kitchen.

Aw. “No. Not even a little. Get the guys. I need their help.” Then he turned to his mother. “Call the sheriff. Then tell Boo I’m sorry.”

He left and stalked outside. Stood on the porch. C’mon, Harper. Where’d you go?

The sun still shone high, hitting the cars, the glistening snow.

She’d be barefoot, thanks to her bridal heels, so she wouldn’t go far. And she’d go somewhere she could hide. Or defend herself.

His gaze shot to the trail. The one that connected their houses. Yeah, he knew about it—mostly because Boo had taken the trail sometimes, sneaking out after dark.

He’d been onto her then, had occasionally tailed her, making sure she got to Bee’s house in one piece.

“Bro.” Conrad, pushing out of the house, Stein behind him, then Doyle and Austen.

Jack turned to Austen. “Tell Boo what’s going on. But tell her to sit tight. We’ll find Harper.”

Austen nodded, headed back inside.

“Jack?” Stein said.

“Grab a shovel and follow me.” Jack headed off the porch onto the drive, headed toward the pathway to Harper’s house.

Hang on, Harper. I’ll find you.

* * *

She wasn’t surprised that Jack had rejected her, frankly.

Because hopes and dreams did that.

She probably shouldn’t have let it consume so much of her mind, however, because it took way, way too long for her brain to catch up when Penelope hugged Kyle Brunley.

Not dead Kyle Brunley.

The Kyle Brunley who then told Penny he needed to talk to her. Took her hand and pulled her from the porch.

Maybe it took a second for Penny to catch up too. Harper blamed it on their breeding—too much Minnesota nice. But by the time Harper realized he had ahold of Penny, that she had put on the brakes, they were down the stairs and in the parking lot.

Harper grabbed the shovel that had been used to clean the porch stairs, and maybe her brain had stopped thinking, but?—

Well, it was just like that time with Jenna on the playground. No, she wasn’t going to let someone get away with bullying. She launched herself at Kyle.

Good thing Penelope ducked.

The blow broke her friend free from Kyle, and Penelope spun, tried to run back to the house, but Kyle lunged for her, grabbed her, and somehow in there, managed to send a fist into her pretty face.

Blood. And Harper lost it. She hit him again, this time across the back, and his legs buckled.

But he turned and grabbed hold of the shovel, ripping it out of her hands.

Run!

Her only thought. And maybe she should have aimed for the house, but no, Kyle stood between her and the front porch. So Harper turned and fled, still wearing her pumps, which immediately morphed into skates.

She slipped, landed on all fours, then scampered up as she saw Kyle push Penelope so hard she hit the porch.

Then he rounded, his eyes on Harper.

She kicked off her pumps and scrambled to her bare feet.

And fled.

Through the snow as the fading afternoon light cast over the crusty surface, almost illuminating her path. She didn’t need a map—she knew exactly where the forest floor dented, where it opened, and how far she’d have to run to reach 458 Whispering Pines Drive.

More than a few overgrown branches hit her face, her arms, and she’d lost feeling in her feet, but she kept moving.

Her pursuer thundered through the forest behind her, breaking branches, grunting.

She had never run so fast.

The cottage sat snow-covered and dark through the trees, no smoke from the fireplace. Only then did she remember her mother’s words about this weekend’s conference.

Get inside. Barricade. Call the sheriff.

Her foot broke through a crusty edge, landed on a branch, twisted.

She tumbled through the snow, slammed into a tree. Lay dazed, breathing hard.

Get up. Get . . . up!

She rolled, tried to find her feet, but her ankle screamed. Shoot. No!

It would not end like this. She had a better— much better—future planned for herself. And yes, it might not include Jack, but she didn’t have to stop dreaming. Stop hoping.

“God has good things for those who trust His love for them.”

Maybe it wasn’t about her dreaming but about her trusting. Yes.

But first she had to stay alive?—

Branches breaking, feet thumping. She turned.

Kyle flung himself at her. She screamed and barely dodged his grip. He landed with a whoof! in the snow.

For a split second she debated turning, kicking him, fighting back, but?—

But she was a reporter, not a superhero. She turned and fled, her feet breaking through, her hands slapping away branches. She held in a shout at the pain screaming up her leg.

She made it to her yard before Kyle caught up. He launched himself again and took her down.

The snow cushioned her fall, but it still jarred her breath.

He rolled her over, and she tried to backhand him. He caught her wrist, shoved it down. “I just want to talk!”

“This isn’t talking!”

“No, I need it to be over ,” he growled, and brought back his fist?—

She closed her eyes, bracing herself.

A shout, and just like that, the man lurched off her. She opened her eyes, spotted him on the ground, rolling with another man.

In a tux.

Dark hair, big, strong, and . . .

Angry.

Jack hit Kyle once, then again, and then Conrad was there, pulling him away as Stein grabbed the man and rolled him over, subduing him.

Jack stumbled back, breathing hard, his hair wild, his expression wrecked as he looked at her.

She pushed herself up, also breathing hard.

Then he walked over and dropped to his knees in front of her. “No one gets to hurt my girl.”

She launched herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. His arms went around her, crushing her to himself.

“Please be okay. Please. Be okay.”

She leaned back, caught his face in her hands. “I’m okay.”

His eyes glistened. “I’m so sorry. I’m not really mad about the story—I’m just . . . I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to hurt you?—”

“Then don’t,” she said, and kissed him.

And he was every bit her superhero as he caught her up and kissed her back, his mouth desperate on hers, his arms crushing her to himself.

She held on as he scooped her up, then stood up, , still kissing her, as if afraid to stop.

And she drank him in, tasting, letting her heart, her dreams, believe.

He finally leaned back, breathing hard, his eyes on hers, fierce, bold.

Big Jack was back.

She smiled.

“Totally Fabio,” Conrad said from behind them.

Jack kept holding her gaze, but he smiled. “You liked that, huh?”

She wasn’t sure who he was talking to. So she nodded.

“Yeah, well, pay attention.” He looked at his brothers.

“What? You’re going to lead by example?” Doyle said, giving him a look.

He waggled his eyebrows.

Wow, she’d missed him. This Jack. The Jack that knew how to charm his way, over and over, into her heart.

He addressed Stein. “Secured?”

“Yep.”

Kyle was on his feet, his hands cinched behind him with Stein’s belt. In the distance, sirens whined.

Jack didn’t put her down. “We have a reception to attend. I hope you weren’t going anywhere important.”

“Nope. Just . . . you know. Next door.”

He carried her then, back down the trail between the houses, back to the big inn on the lake, the home she’d always longed for, to the family she’d always belonged with.

Boo and Oaken stood in the parlor. Penelope sat on the sofa, cleaned up, her nose still reddened and swollen. They looked up as the group came in, Jack still carrying Harper. He put her down, his hand on her waist.

Boo came over. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Harper looked at Penelope. “All I can think is that Kyle faked his death.”

“But why did he come back for Penelope?”

“Because he’s the masked man.” This from Penelope, her voice tight.

And just like that, it clicked. “He was the one in Sarah Livingston’s flat. He knew about Walsh—maybe Walsh was there, and that . . . that made Kyle crazy with jealousy.”

“Crazy enough to kill Sarah?” Oaken asked.

“Maybe it was an accident. Blunt head trauma, right?” Jack said.

“And who was in the car with you? Because you would have recognized Kyle, right?” Boo said.

Penelope nodded. “Probably the man from Turbo. A bouncer. Working for Swindle.”

“So Kyle worked for Swindle too?”

“He was a lawyer with the firm that S & W employed. According to his own testimony, he introduced Sarah to Walsh. I don’t know why Swindle wanted Sarah dead, but I think Kyle went there that night, saw that Walsh had been there—at least recently—and who knows what went down? Maybe it was an act of passion. Maybe something else.”

“Is that why he wanted to meet with you on Tuesday?” Harper asked Penelope.

“No. He met with me to give me the thumb-drive files that were on Sarah’s laptop.”

“He stole it?”

“No. I think he was trying to help her until it all went south, and then she was dead and he was a suspect.”

“Then who was the dead guy at the Motor Lodge?” Jack had retrieved a blanket and now draped it over Harper’s shoulders.

“The guy who shot Ty. Big guy—Felix Johnson. Probably followed Kyle out to Duck Lake,” Penelope said. “My guess is that he worked for Swindle too.”

“Kyle might have seen what went down in the parking lot, and when Felix returned to kill him, he reacted in self-defense.”

“So then who took you and Tommy?” Conrad directed his question to Harper.

“Kyle,” said Harper. “I didn’t recognize him in the darkness, with his glasses and hat, but my guess is that he feared Tommy could identify him.”

“And he didn’t know where Penelope was. He might have thought she got away,” Jack said.

“But it doesn’t explain who killed Sarah,” Harper said.

“Probably Kyle,” Jack said. “It’s possible he really loved Sarah. He went over to confront her and it just . . . got out of hand. He did things that he wishes he could change.”

Penelope nodded. “Maybe that’s why he wanted to talk to me?—”

“No, Penelope,” Harper said. “I think he wanted to make you disappear. He told me that he just wanted it to be over.”

Penelope swallowed, looking a little stricken. Then, that familiar determined look came over her face. “Oh, it’s far from over.”

Uh-oh. Harper narrowed her eyes. “Sounds like another podcast.”

Her friend winked.

Boo held up a hand. “Listen. My guests are hungry. We need a grand entrance. So, wedding party, let’s get going.”

“Bossy much?” Jack said.

“I get it from you, Big Jack,” Boo said, and then looked at Harper, at Jack. “Finally.”

“Right?” Austen said, standing on the stairs.

Stein grinned.

Penelope got up, made a noise, then flopped down on the sofa. “Head rush.”

Conrad went over, bent down, and picked her up in his arms.

“Hello, muscles,” Penelope said, grinning.

“You looked a little wobbly.”

Doyle frowned. “I feel like I missed something.”

Laughter.

Harper slipped her hand into Jack’s as they headed upstairs.

“Your feet okay?” he said halfway up.

“Cold.”

“I’ll get you some socks.”

“You don’t have to.”

But partway through dinner, before the toasts, he left their table. Came back ten minutes later with a pair of wool socks. Knelt at her feet and helped tug them on.

Boo, from the head table, caught her eye, shook her head, and grinned.

Toasts, from Oaken’s best man, Shep, and from Austen. Then cake cutting, and then the guests were asked to go downstairs. They crowded the dining room, the parlor, and the entry as Ben King played an acoustic song on his guitar, something he’d written for the occasion.

Oaken stood with his parents, holding hands with Boo.

Harper, for one, had a firm grip on Jack. Who kept looking down at her, a mysterious smile playing on his face.

What?

The caterers had cleaned the ballroom, and now the crowd headed back upstairs for dancing.

Oh. Right. The dancing.

Oh no.

Boo had changed into a short pink dress and heels, and Oaken had taken off his jacket.

“Oh no, they’re doing this.” That from Conrad. He glanced at Stein, who appeared stricken.

“C’mon, guys. This is for Boo.” Jack turned to Harper. “Can you dance in socks?”

“Watch me.”

He took her hands, gestured with his head, and the guys followed him over to the side of the dance floor. Then he leaned down, put his voice to her ear. “Trust me.”

Oaken had taken his position, to the cheers of the crowd, Boo on the other side of the room. The music started, and Harper watched as Boo swung her cute little pink dress.

Who was this woman? Boo had found a peace inside herself, or maybe outside herself, that radiated through her body, her smile.

And when she looked at Oaken, the entire room lit up.

The deep tenor stepped up to the mic. “Now I’ve had the time of my life . . .”

Oaken turned to Boo, beckoning her just like Swayze, and she smiled, swung her dress, shrugged.

Laughed as he walked over and took her into his arms.

The crowd hooted.

Then he moved her in front of him, put her arm up, trailed his down her side, then grabbed her hand, and suddenly, the room exploded in wild cheering, as they started to dance. Crisp and sharp, every step nailed—the twirls, the shimmies, the turns, even the side lift.

“Wow,” Austen said, laughing, covering over her mouth.

Oaken kissed Boo’s hand, turned, and started dancing toward the wedding party.

Oh, Harper didn’t remember the moves. What ? —

“Just follow me.”

She looked up at Jack.

He smiled, mischief in his eyes, then stepped in front of her. He glanced at Conrad, then Stein and Doyle.

They shrugged.

Oaken had danced over, turned, and then?—

What? Jack stepped out behind him, with the music. Step, step, step, step, to the side, back. Repeat. Julian’s instructions in her head, Jack and his brothers working it out.

She couldn’t move, watching them nail the steps.

Austen, behind her, also stilled.

London stepped back, giving Shep room, and Penelope sat at the table, laughing, an ice pack on her nose.

Step, step, step, kick, ball change. Glance over the shoulder. Jack winked, turned back.

The music swelled, and even Boo had her hands over her mouth, her dress swishing to the music.

Apparently, the Kingston boys—and rest of the groomsmen—could dance.

When they’d had time to learn the moves, Harper couldn’t guess, but Jack led them out, right, left, two little hip rolls, and then more steps, more hip rolls, a twirl, and Julian’s words simply flew right out of her head.

Instead, she watched Jack become everything she’d imagined. Laughing, leading his brothers, joining in with the family that needed him.

He and Stein walked over to Boo, pulled her toward Oaken, and Boo launched herself into Oaken’s outstretched arms.

Bam.

The crowd took the house down, cheering, the band still playing, and Jack danced over, pulled Harper onto the floor.

“I don’t know how to do that hip thing,” she said, but he laughed and put her arms around his neck.

“Just hold on, Harper. I got this.”

“Oh no, that’s how it’s going to be?”

He laughed again, then bent down and kissed her. In front of the entire world. Or at least it felt like it.

And then he drew her in close, and they danced.

* * *

Research mattered. A girl did enough research and she could fabricate a digital invitation and use it, along with her ID, to get past the hired security at the gate.

Sure, they had a list. Emberly tried to help them find her name, getting out of her car, shivering by the side of the road in her dress pants and white cashmere coat—a find at the local thrift store—as other guests squeezed by the tall snowdrifts. She just kept apologizing and then, bingo—as she pointed to the name, she “accidentally” knocked the man’s tablet into the snow, crashing the program, and he bent to retrieve it, trying to reboot it.

Then she waved at a “friend,” who waved back—a reflex—and bam , the security guard waved her in.

And that was how it was done.

She’d left her coat in the car and walked in with her gift behind superstar Ben King and his wife. She put it down on the dining-room table, already piled high, next to a package from Glo and Tate Marshall. She remembered them from the big trial of Glo’s mother, the former VP, a few years ago.

But terrorists just didn’t give up. And tonight, Stone was going down.

Although, for a moment before she’d walked upstairs to where the music had started, she’d enjoyed the view from the back windows of the gorgeous inn. The setting sun turned the snow on the lake a deep, variegated amber with pink edges, the evergreens near the shoreline and in the yard frosted with white.

Not a terrible place to live.

She’d headed upstairs then, to the reception, on the hunt for Stone.

He sat near the front, at a table with the Fox family—handsome, suave, charming. A real chiseler.

It was then that the wedding party came in, but she ignored them, her gaze on Stone.

He used his cell at least twice, then dropped it into his suit pocket, his guard clearly down.

She waited until everyone sat, then found a table with an empty chair. Someone named Brett.

Quail, a fig and goat-cheese salad, wild-mushroom risotto, cranberry compote, baby carrots, beets roasted with thyme and honey, and a couple offerings of wine that she turned down.

Then toasts, and she kept her gaze on Stone.

The caterers asked them to exit while they cleared the tables, and fate couldn’t have played a better hand. She just happened to scoot in behind Stone as they filed out and didn’t even have to be the one to bump into him. Another woman did the honors and then, just like that, she swiped the phone and dropped it into her pants pocket.

The main-floor bathroom had a line, so that hideout wouldn’t work. She spotted a small library slash office off the great room.

It practically beckoned her inside. She went in, closed the door, and set the phone on a writing desk by the window. Then she took out her own phone, hooked the two up—a cable was faster than Bluetooth—and started the download of the contents of Stone’s phone.

From here, she spotted another house, just as stately, down the road, and yet two more farther on. A carriage house sat between them with its own stacked-stone chimney, clearly as well loved as the other homes.

Some people had no idea how the rest of the world lived.

Ten long minutes. Finally the phone dinged, and she walked out of the room.

And that’s when the plan died. She’d stuck his phone back in her pocket, but . . . well, now she had to return it if she didn’t want him asking big questions.

But as she stood in the foyer, she spotted Declan Stone shaking hands with his hosts, the Kingston elders, and then . . .

He walked out the door.

She couldn’t rightly run after him shouting, “Your phone, your phone!”

Now what?

The guests had returned upstairs, and clapping sounded, along with music. Wait. Was that the song from Dirty Dancing ? No, they were not doing the dance?—

She headed back upstairs, not sure what else to do, and stood at the door, her mouth just a little ajar as she watched the wedding party—Stein included—dance out the song.

He didn’t look injured to her. In fact, the man seemed perfectly, terribly capable.

And handsome. Way, way too handsome for her good.

Except . . . and it came to her.

Stone’s phone sat in her pocket. But if Steinbeck worked for him . . .

Onstage, the band continued to play, and now the crowd streamed out, laughing, clapping, couples finding the rhythm of the song.

This didn’t have to be that difficult.

Please don’t remember me. He probably wouldn’t since she wore the long blond wig, had done her makeup different, wore heels.

She stood at the edge of the floor, as if wanting to join in but not sure . . . her eyes on Stein as he danced.

Look at me. Look ? —

Weird how the power of suggestion seemed to almost conjure fate. Stein indeed turned, and his gaze landed on her.

She smiled, lifted a shoulder, and he frowned, but it seemed something of curiosity . . .

Here goes nothing.

She added some rhythm to her shoulders, and a laugh, and he held out his hand to her. “Wanna dance?”

She slipped one arm around his big shoulders, nodded, and then stepped right into his embrace.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Okay.”

Then he started to move, and he was no Patrick Swayze, but he could groove, his hand around her back, holding her tight to himself, moving her around the dance floor as if they belonged together.

She spotted another couple and, as he turned her, deliberately bumped into them.

“Sorry!” Stein said.

She slid the phone into his trouser pocket, then bumped her hip against it, just in case he felt the weight of the phone.

He didn’t. Instead, he gathered her back up, his arm around her waist, and moved his hips with hers. His other hand made a cradle for hers, his form driving them around the dance floor.

Good. He’d find the phone, return it to Stone, and it kept the phone from really being stolen. They’d both think he’d picked it up by accident.

No need to get suspicious.

She matched his moves, and then, weirdly, found herself relaxing. Enjoying the lead of his strong arms, his hand around hers. He smelled of the woods and snow, a little male musk, and when he pulled her closer as the song slowed, she rested her cheek on his chest, drew her arms around him.

Forgot, just for a second, her mission, her life, even her name.

And let herself forget his.

The singer came back, reprised the ending, slowly, sweetly, and Emberly backed away, taking his hands, met his eyes. Oh, he had beautiful blue eyes.

I’m glad you’re alive. She wanted to say it but parked the words inside.

Then as the song died, he twirled her out.

She let go. And without looking back, walked off the dance floor, down the stairs, and out the door.

Mission accomplished.