The Wedding Date: A Christmas Novella (12 page)

Julie hung her head, shame and sorrow crowding out anger, leaving her more confused than ever. Silent tears streamed, but for once they weren’t bubbling with rage.

Cody raised her chin with two fingers. Tilted his head to one side. “Tell me Jules, are you really gonna hold that against me?”

Was she? Was she going to carry her grudge past the point of all reason? Use it as a sword to wound herself? To wound Cody? Or could she lay it down, right here, on Christmas Eve, and begin again? The only thing stopping her was herself. All she had to do was let go.

Taking a deep breath, she sighed it out, then let her fists unclench. It was hard to do. She’d clutched David’s pain so tight for so long, but now it seemed to lift from her palms, impatient to take flight, freeing her hands to hold on to someone else.
At last.

She gave Cody a watery smile. “Well, when you put it that way,” she said.

He hauled her against him, wrapped her up in his arms. She let herself love it, buried her face in his warm, solid chest as he rocked her. When she snuffled, he murmured, “Go ahead, honey, wipe your nose on my shirt.” She did, and then she laughed.

“That’s one good thing about doctors,” she said. “Nothing grosses you out, even snot.”

J
ULIE'S
U
NCLE
A
RTURO
hosted the reception for twenty in the back room of his North End restaurant. Her cousin Jan—his daughter—cornered her at the bar.

“Dr. Delicious really fills out that suit,” Jan said slyly, then cut a sloe-eyed glance at Cody, heading their way.

Julie stuck her pinky in her ear, jiggled it like she was hearing things.

Jan giggled. “What can I say? Dr. Do-Me-Against-The-Wall brings out my inner slut.”

Julie slewed a glance around to make sure Uncle Arturo didn’t hear. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

Jan rolled her eyes. “Where do you think I learned it,
Julie
? I’m trying to be more like you. Confident. Professional. Totally together.”

“Jan, I’ve never said any such thing—” Then she lost her train of thought as Cody’s big hand settled on the small of her back. His heat soaked through the filmy silk of her dress.

He smiled at Jan, effectively tying her tongue. She tottered off, her inner vixen no match for the likes of Cody Brown.

Before Julie could scold him, he stroked his thumb along her spine. Just a couple of inches, up and down, but she felt the tingle all the way up to her scalp and all the way down to her bottom.

“Nice party,” he said, “great food, good wine. Can we go home now?”

There, he did it again. Called her place home.

He leaned down to take a bite out of her ear, his breath hot against her throat. “If you recall,” he whispered, “I didn’t get any sleep last night, what with banging you six ways to Sunday.” His hand slid lower, his fingers just touching the curve of her ass. “Let’s go home and I’ll bang you some more.”

Again with the home. It felt totally right. So did the part about banging her.

She nodded and he made tracks for the coatroom. The bride and groom had already departed for St. John, so they breezed through their goodbyes and hit the sidewalk in three minutes flat, snagging one of the cabs Uncle Arturo had lined up at the curb.

As they rode through the snow, Cody took her hand and pulled it onto his lap, lacing their fingers. Her stomach jittered with both anticipation and nerves. Cody had brought her back to life, body, and soul, just as if she’d woken up on a warm, sunny beach after hibernating through a cold, hard winter. But she was scared too, because she had no idea where this was going.

She knew what she wanted. The fairy tale. The happy ending. And for the first time since David died, she believed that maybe she’d get it someday.

But this thing with Cody was so new. So not what she expected. She
thought
she was over the doctor thing, but
was
she?

And then, out of the blue, in a crisp Kodak moment, she saw it. Red brick, green shutters, halfway up Mount Vernon Street, with a tiny yard out back for Betsy.

Their dream house.

Cody must have heard her gasp, because he caught her chin with one finger, turned her face to his. “What’s up? You okay?”

She looked into his warm whiskey eyes. They were filled with concern for her, and affection. She squeezed his hand. “You like Beacon Hill, don’t you?”

“Love it.”

“Great. Because I just figured out the perfect place for you.”

“Okaaay,” he said, “but there’s no rush, is there?” He dropped his eyes to their hands, rubbed her knuckle with his thumb. “I kinda like your place.” He sounded shy. “
You’re
there.”

Oh my. Her heart did a tipsy pirouette in her chest. Then, without stopping to wonder whether it was wise, it tumbled happily downhill and fell in love.

It stunned her, the sudden completeness of it. For one breathless moment she paused to enjoy it. Then, squeezing his hand, she brought it to her lips for a kiss. He looked up in surprise, and she smiled.

“I promise you, Cody,” she said with conviction, “this house will have everything you want in a home.”

Trust me. It’ll even have me.

If you liked Cody, then you’ll
love
his brother Tyrell in

THE WEDDING FAVOR

the first full-length novel in the
Save the Date
series by Avon Books rising star

CARA CONNELLY!

Available in print and ebook in January 2014!

***

I
N HER DELICIOUSLY
sexy debut novel, Cara Connelly gives a whole new meaning to
crashing a wedding
. . .

Before the Wedding

T
YRELL
B
ROWN WANTED
to get the hell out of Houston and back to his ranch. Instead, he’s stuck on a flight to France for his best friend’s wedding. To top it off, he discovers he’s sharing a seat with Victoria Westin, the blue-eyed, stiletto-heeled lawyer who’s been a thorn in his side for months.

At the Wedding

V
ICTORIA CAN’T BELIEVE
it! How can she be at the same wedding as this long, lean cowboy with a killer smile? So what if they shared a few in-flight cocktails, some serious flirting, and a near-miss at the mile-high club? She still can’t stand the man!

After the Wedding

T
HE WEDDING DISASTER’S
in the rearview, but the sizzle between these two is still red-hot. They tried to be on their best behavior in France, but back in the states, all bets are off . . .

Continue reading for a sneak peek at

THE WEDDING FAVOR

An Excerpt from

THE WEDDING FAVOR

“T
HAT WOMAN”—
T
YRELL
aimed his finger like a gun at the blonde across the hall—“is a bitch on wheels.”

Angela set a calming hand on his arm. “That’s why she’s here, Ty. That’s why they sent her.”

He paced away from Angela, then back again, eyes locked on the object of his fury. She was talking on a cell phone, angled away from him so all he could see was her smooth French twist and the simple gold hoop in her right earlobe.

“She’s got ice water in her veins,” he muttered. “Or arsenic. Or whatever the hell they embalm people with.”

“She’s just doing her job. And in this case, it’s a thankless one. They can’t win.”

Ty turned his roiling eyes on Angela. He would have started in—again—about hired-gun lawyers from New York City coming down to Texas thinking all they had to do was bullshit a bunch of good ole boys who’d never made it past eighth grade, but just then the clerk stepped out of the judge’s chambers.

“Ms. Sanchez,” she said to Angela. “Ms. Westin,” to the blonde. “We have a verdict.”

Across the hall, the blonde snapped her phone shut and dropped it into her purse, snatched her briefcase off the tile floor, and without looking at Angela or Ty, or anyone else, for that matter, walked briskly through the massive oak doors and into the courtroom. Ty followed several paces behind, staring bullets in the back of her tailored navy suit.

Twenty minutes later they walked out again. A reporter from
Houston Tonight
stuck a microphone in Ty’s face.

“The jury obviously believed you, Mr. Brown. Do you feel vindicated?”

I feel homicidal
, he wanted to snarl. But the camera was rolling. “I’m just glad it’s over,” he said. “Jason Taylor dragged this out for seven years, trying to wear me down. He didn’t.”

He continued striding down the broad hallway, the reporter jogging alongside.

“Mr. Brown, the jury came back with every penny of the damages you asked for. What do you think that means?”

“It means they understood that all the money in the world won’t raise the dead. But it can cause the living some serious pain.”

“Taylor’s due to be released next week. How do you feel knowing he’ll be walking around a free man?”

Ty stopped abruptly. “While my wife’s cold in the ground? How do you think I feel?” The man shrank back from Ty’s hard stare, decided not to follow as Ty strode out through the courthouse doors.

Outside, Houston’s rush hour was a glimpse inside the doors of hell. Scorching pavement, blaring horns. Eternal gridlock.

Ty didn’t notice any of it. Angela caught up to him on the sidewalk, tugged his arm to slow him down. “Ty, I can’t keep up in these heels.”

“Sorry.” He slowed to half speed. Even as pissed off as he was, Texas courtesy was ingrained.

Taking her bulging briefcase from her hand, he smiled down at her in a good imitation of his usual laid-back style. “Angie, honey,” he drawled, “you could separate your shoulder lugging this thing around. And believe me, a separated shoulder’s no joke.”

“I’m sure you’d know about that.” She slanted a look up from under thick black lashes, swept it over his own solid shoulders. Angling her slender body toward his, she tossed her wavy black hair and tightened her grip on his arm.

Ty got the message. The old breast-crushed-against-the-arm was just about the easiest signal to read.

And it came as no surprise. During their long days together preparing for trial, the cozy take-out dinners in her office as they went over his testimony, Angela had dropped plenty of hints. Given their circumstances, he hadn’t encouraged her. But she was a beauty, and to be honest, he hadn’t discouraged her either.

Now, high on adrenaline from a whopping verdict that would likely boost her to partner, she had “available” written all over her. At that very moment they were passing by the Alden Hotel. One nudge in that direction and she’d race him to the door. Five minutes later he’d be balls deep, blotting out the memories he’d relived on the witness stand that morning. Memories of Lissa torn and broken, pleading with him to let her go, let her die. Let her leave him behind to somehow keep living without her.

Angela’s steps slowed. He was tempted, sorely tempted.

But he couldn’t do it. For six months Angela had been his rock. It would be shameful and ugly to use her this afternoon, then drop her tonight.

Because drop her, he would. She’d seen too deep inside, and like the legions preceding her, she’d found the hurt there and was all geared up to fix it. He couldn’t be fixed. He didn’t want to be fixed. He just wanted to fuck and forget. And she wasn’t the girl for that.

Fortunately, he had the perfect excuse to ditch her.

“Angie, honey.” His drawl was deep and rich even when he wasn’t using it to soften a blow. Now it flowed like molasses. “I can’t ever thank you enough for all you did for me. You’re the best lawyer in Houston and I’m gonna take out a full-page ad in the paper to say so.”

She leaned into him. “We make a good team, Ty.” Sultry-eyed, she tipped her head toward the Marriott. “Let’s go inside. You can . . . buy me a drink.”

His voice dripped with regret, not all of it feigned. “I wish I could, sugar. But I’ve got a plane to catch.”

She stopped on a dime. “A
plane
? Where’re you going?”

“Paris. I’ve got a wedding.”

“But Paris is just a puddle-jump from here! Can’t you go tomorrow?”

“France, honey. Paris, France.” He flicked a glance at the revolving clock on the corner, then looked down into her eyes. “My flight’s at eight, so I gotta get. Let me find you a cab.”

Dropping his arm, she tossed her hair again, defiant this time. “Don’t bother. My car’s back at the courthouse.” Snatching her briefcase from him, she checked her watch. “Gotta run, I have a date.” She turned to go.

And then her bravado failed her. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled uncertainly. “Maybe we can celebrate when you get back?”

Ty smiled too, because it was easier. “I’ll call you.”

Guilt pricked him for leaving the wrong impression, but Jesus, he was itching to get away from her, from everyone, and lick his wounds. And he really did have a plane to catch.

Figuring it would be faster than finding a rush-hour cab, he walked the six blocks to his building, working up the kind of sweat a man only gets wearing a suit. He ignored the elevator, loped up the five flights of stairs—why not, he was soaked anyway—unlocked his apartment, and thanked God out loud when he hit the air-conditioning.

The apartment wasn’t home—that would be his ranch—just a sublet, a place to crash during the run-up to the trial. Sparsely furnished and painted a dreary off-white, it had suited his bleak and brooding mood.

And it had one appliance he was looking forward to using right away. Striding straight to the kitchen, he peeled off the suit parts he was still wearing—shirt, pants, socks—and balled them up with the jacket and tie. Then he stuffed the whole wad in the trash compactor and switched it on, the first satisfaction he’d had all day.

The clock on the stove said he was running late, but he couldn’t face fourteen hours on a plane without a shower, so he took one anyway. And of course he hadn’t packed yet.