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Mick was getting married.
Dayne waited for the pain to slam her into tomorrow, but she felt little more
than disgust for the man. During their engagement, Mick hadn't cared whether
they got married in a church or a community center. That was before he dumped
her on air.

“Walk your fingers through
the Yellow Pages,” she said, her best offer of advice.

She heard his sigh of
frustration. “Willow won't get off my back until I get the name.”

“Your problem, Mick, not mine.”

“What can I do to change
your mind?”

“Never call me again.”

Short pause. “End of the
road, Dayne. I promise. A name and I'm gone.”

“Vivian Bates at Walk Down
the Aisle.” The white lie rolled off her tongue. Payback tasted incredibly
sweet.

Vivian had been the first
planner Dayne hired, then turned around and fired in the same week. Viv was
loud and pushy and tried to talk over Dayne. The planner had designed the
wedding of her own dreams, and disregarded Dayne's ideas and suggestions.

Let Willow Clarke face off
with Vivian. “Don't mention my name,” she said to Mick. “Viv wasn't happy I
called off the wedding. She only received half her commission.”

Mick's voice had a slight
hitch when he next asked, “I'm curious, babe—where would we have gotten
married?”

At the church at Creighton
Bend.
A small, historic redbrick
church with a mosaic sanctuary in downtown Baltimore. She'd planned a
late-afternoon wedding, when the sun patterned the tiles, and the church felt
warm and blessed.

Instead she said, “At
Livingston Park, down by the lake.”

Mick coughed. “The lake's
overrun with black ducks. There's poop along the banks.”

“We'd have watched where we
stepped or perhaps worn rubber boots.”

“Rubbers with a tux?” His
tone was incredulous. “The quacking would have drowned out the ceremony.”

“An outdoor wedding in the
crisp autumn air would have been perfect,” she persisted. “I found gold tuxedo
shirts to match the cummerbunds and the changing leaves.”

“Gold, huh?” No excitement
there. “Not my color.”

Of which she was aware.
Mick was the only man she knew to have his colors done. He favored blues and
greens. Gold made him look ten years older, drawn out and tired. The way she
imagined him now. Silence, before he braved, “What about the reception?”

She'd reserved a banquet
room at the Baltimore Harbor Hotel. She'd scrimped and saved for six months,
and when she'd canceled, hadn't gotten her deposit back.

“The Fairmont Community
Center basement.” She could lie with the best of them.

“The Center smells like
old-folks bingo.”

“Fairmont rented by the
hour.”

“Bar?” He sounded like he
could use a drink.

A champagne fountain would
have flowed at their reception. “No liquor on county-maintained property.”

“Damn.” Long pause. “Music?”

Harpist and string quartet.
Classy and romantic. “Poco
Loco.” She forced back a smile.

“The mariachi band that
performs on the street corner before J. Pepe's?” The man was stunned.

“Very nice guys and they
came cheap.”

“Cake?” His tone hinted at
fear of her answer.

A traditional white cake
with white frosting, decorated with fresh pink roses.

“Chocolate raspberry.”

“I'm allergic to
raspberries.”

“I know.”

“Bitch.”

“Plan your own wedding,
Mick.”

She disconnected their
call. Mick Jakes was a jackass. He'd broken her heart and she'd healed, moved
on. No man would ever wrap her around his finger again.

She gently rubbed the
Tomorrow
tattoo at her wrist.

Breathe in; breathe out;
move on.

Dayne swiveled her chair,
found Kason Rhodes leaning negligently against the doorjamb. She almost jumped
out of her skin; she was so startled, she bumped her elbow on the desk. Her
funny bone laughed loudly. She massaged the pain that shot to her shoulder.

How long had he been
standing in the doorway? How much of her conversation had he heard? Laid-back,
his arms crossed his chest, he lounged with one leg bent at the knee. His
expression gave nothing away. His casualness could be deceiving. She hoped he'd
just arrived.

“Congratulations on your
winning streak,” she said, initiating.

“Thanks.” Nothing more.

“Did you stop by the
trailer to see the dogs?” She was making small talk, and they both knew it.

He looked down at his
hands. “Your boy's a biter.”

She cut her glance to the
framed Polaroid of Cimarron and Ruckus she kept on the corner of her desk. Cim
had lain down for the photo, patient as Dayne posed him. Ruckus had seen the
big dog's ears as chew toys. Cimarron cooperated for three photos before he'd stood
and nudged Ruckus aside with his nose.

“Ruckus didn't fare well at
obedience school.” Heat crept into her cheeks over her inability to control the
min-pin. “He was very social with the other puppies, but wouldn't follow a
single command. He flunked sit-come-stay. The trainer found him immature. He
thought Ruckus might take the training more seriously at twelve weeks.”

“Maybe Ruckus should take
lessons from Cimarron.”

“Good idea.” Kason's
suggestion had merit. The miniature pinscher adored the older Dobie. He'd
already picked up many of Cim's good habits. Unfortunately he'd developed
equally as many bad ones on his own.

An uneasy silence filled
the office. “Can I help you with something?” Kason lived his life with purpose.
There would be a solid reason behind his visit.

“Has the Platinum shoot
been scheduled?” he asked.

She turned to her computer,
typed in Kason's name and the jewelry account. “It's set for next Wednesday,
May seventh. All five segments will be shot on the same day for continuity.
Barnaby's East will provide wardrobe for you and the model.”

“Why would I need wardrobe?”
He pushed off the jamb, approached her. His look was dark, bordering on
mutinous.

She knew him too well to
feel threatened, and ignored his scowl. She went on to explain, “The series of
ads is supposed to occur over several months. Different day, different outfit.
You and your love interest meet five times at Platinum. You'll need to change
clothes. Barnaby's is high-end.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said,
low in his throat, but the words reached her ears. “Not what I signed up for.”

“Then why did you agree to
the contract?” she questioned. “Revelle said you were difficult to begin with,
but that you eventually came around.”

He stood before her desk
now, a tower of man, thick chested and totally ripped. The gold standard for
fitness.

Revelle chose that moment
to make an appearance. Sleek and professional in a pewter skirt suit, she
looked from Kason to Dayne, asked, “Problem?”

“We were discussing the
Platinum account,” Dayne explained.

Revelle remained cool,
collected. “You're not backing out, are you? We have an agreement.”

Something in Kason's eyes
told Dayne that he had sold his soul when he'd signed the contract. He was a
public figure at the park, a private man outside the stadium. There was some
mystery behind his agreeing to do the promotion. She wondered what had pushed
him to sign.

Revelle slipped Dayne a
dozen phone messages. “Return these calls for me, please. Schedule lunch
meetings or cocktails with the presidents of the companies. Mark the times and
dates on my calendar. Appreciate it.”

Dayne nodded, and Revelle
departed.

She set aside the messages,
looked up, and was hit by Kason's stare, so intense, her blood warmed and every
cell was electrified. The current made her toes curl. She licked her lips,
asked, “Anything else?”

He raised one brow,
narrowed both eyes. “Know a good wedding planner?”

Her heart jarred, and she
nearly slid off her swivel chair. Kason had overheard her conversation with
Mick Jakes. No doubt the whole damn call. That would teach her to stay off
speakerphone.

Heat streaked her
cheekbones, and her composure flatlined. She'd planned to tell Kason about Mick
and her broken engagement someday—just not today.

“You
may need a planner after the Platinum shoot.” She
sidestepped. “The storyline is very romantic. And I was with Revelle when she
interviewed the models. The women are all gorgeous. You get to pick your
favorite for the ad. Who knows, you may fall madly in love with her.”

“Back up, Dayne,” he
directed. His jaw was set so tight, a muscle twitched. He was seeking an
explanation on a topic she couldn't fully address at work. But he was stubborn,
and wouldn't leave until satisfied.

She gave him the fastest
accounting possible, and hoped he'd let it go. “Baltimore, engaged to a DJ who
dumped me on air. Broken heart, moved to Richmond.”

He kept his eyes on her,
his forehead creased. “Your ex was an ass.” He turned then, a man of few words,
and walked out.

Relief left her
light-headed. She'd given Kason the abbreviated version of her love life, and
he'd cursed Mick Jakes. A million radio listeners had thought her a loser. Yet
Kason had taken her side. She was grateful.

She'd fill in the blanks
that evening, just to clear the air. It wasn't easy confessing to being dumped.
She practiced what she planned to say on the limousine ride home.

Twilight lent the day
thirty extra minutes. Their dinner ended just as the sun set. Discussion came
with candlelight and hot fudge sundaes at her tiny dining room table

“I worked in radio
promotions at WBT in Baltimore.” She scooped vanilla ice cream, let it melt on
her tongue. “I got involved with Mick Jakes—”

“Mick in the Morning?”

“One and the same.” She
dipped her head, fingered the hem on her Joan Jett T-shirt. “He'd do on-site
promos, and I'd be his sidekick. I've been costumed as a pickle, a taco, a
newspaper, a coffee mug, a mattress—”

“Lady with a bed on her
back?”

She looked up, caught the
humor in his eyes. “Not funny, Kason.”

“I'm sympathetic.”

“I wore a coconut bra and
grass hula skirt in the dead of winter as I welcomed customers into Pacific
Travel. My nipples got frostbite. Mick drew names for free cruises and I
bestowed Hawaiian leis on the winners.”

“The travel agent slipped
Mick a round-trip plane ticket to Maui. I got to keep the wilted orchids in my
hair.”

No comment from Kason as he
finished off his sundae.

“Mick and I got engaged on
New Year's Eve.”

“Was he drunk?”

“A little tipsy, maybe.”

“You should have waited
until he sobered up to accept.”

Maybe she should have. “We
were going to wait until fall. I hired a wedding planner and put together the
perfect ceremony.”

“A lake, rubber boots, and
duck poop—definitely ideal.”

“I lied to Mick.”

“I figured as much. A woman
in love doesn't dress a man in a gold dress shirt and have him dancing to Poco
Loco.”

“Loco is a lively street
band.”

“If you're a Mexican
jumping bean.”

She scraped the bottom of
the ice-cream bowl, licked the spoon. “Mick wanted fame. Willow Clarke, our
station manager, traded syndication for sex and now marriage.”

“Blonde, big breasts?” he
asked.

“She'd named them Thelma
and Louise.”

“Men get twisted by Ds.”