Experience had taught her that heart-tugging, love-inducing men were scarce. She’d had one. Maybe she’d used up her quota.
Her phone chimed. She swung her chair back around and scanned the new text message. Are you free on Thursday afternoon to visit rehearsal dinner locations? If not, we can go whenever it’s convenient for you. Thanks, Josh.
Oh, bother. Here came all those unwelcome feelings again—giddiness, fear, excitement. She pushed one finger at a time into her palm, stopping just short of cracking her knuckles, while she pondered the gracious tone of his message. Appropriately grateful.
She channeled Sam and decided to wait an hour to reply. He didn’t need to know that she’d pounced on his text. She’d certainly reply in the affirmative even though a Thursday afternoon appointment would mean missing her favorite Zumba class.
Zumba would be available forever. Thursday’s outing with Josh presented her with a rare opportunity to achieve something with Josh she’d long wanted.
Closure.
If, when Josh left town in a few weeks, she could part with him on amiable terms, then perhaps she’d be able to close the chapter of her past with his name on it and move on to the someone God intended.
She spotted Josh from half a block away. Casual and still, he leaned against the side of a black Range Rover, waiting for her. Even in jeans and a black crew-neck shirt, he gave off the impression of power, competence, and leashed intensity. He’d pushed his hands into his pockets.
Had he—this sophisticated man—really loved her once? It seemed a distant, fuzzy impossibility. You’re here for closure, she reminded herself. And to lend assistance to an old friend.
She’d contemplated taking him out in her car, since she was the one who knew the area. But she hadn’t been sure what twenty-six-year-old tech gurus were driving around in these days. She’d feared her aging Mazda Miata convertible too dated for him, its quarters too cramped.
She’d instead suggested he drive and that they meet here, at Smith’s Smokehouse. Parking around Main could be tricky for nonresidents without assigned parking spots. Smith’s had a big lot and a location near her apartment.
She stopped a few feet from him. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Josh studied her. “Thanks for helping me with this. I appreciate it.”
“I’m happy to. It’s a nice day for a drive.” The temperature had stretched all the way up to a crystal bright seventy-five. “You’ve given me a good reason to get out from behind my desk.” He opened the passenger side door for her. Buttery tan leather upholstery immediately embraced her.
He started the car and pulled onto the road. “Should we go see one of my picks first or one of yours?” he asked.
Via text they’d agreed that they’d each come up with two potential rehearsal dinner venues for today’s outing. “Either one.”
“Ladies first.”
“In that case, turn right at the light.” Holly took her wedding coordinator’s notebook from her purse and settled it on her lap. “Let’s start with the Texas Olive Oil Company’s farm. It’s just ten minutes outside town and they have a wonderful barn.”
A few moments of quiet. “The Texas Olive Oil Company you said?”
“Yes. I heard a rumor that they’ve started renting out their barn for functions. So I called them and asked if we could stop by for a tour.” She’d spent an hour or two brainstorming and researching fresh new rehearsal dinner ideas before deciding on her top choices. No one wanted to eat at the country club for the thousandth time.
“Would I need to rent tables and chairs and have the food catered if I hold it there?”
“Yes. Approximately how many guests are we talking about for the rehearsal dinner?”
He glanced across his shoulder at her. “Seventy.”
“I suppose that’s about right, considering the ten bridesmaids, ten groomsmen, the house party, the ring bearer, and seven flower girls.”
“Plus out-of-town family. Do you think this barn of yours will be big enough?”
“This barn of mine, I do believe, will be big enough.”
He rolled down his window and rested a bent arm on the door. Sunlight shimmered against his TAG Heuer watch and made clear the details of his beautifully masculine forearm, wrist, hand. His firm, aristocratic profile could have belonged to an Italian prince.
Try to think of him in a kindly fashion, Holly. Not so much prince-like as pleasant-old-friend-like. “So, you live in Paris now.”
“I do.”
“What brought you to Paris?”
“I lived in New York after college, when my company was a start-up. But I knew I didn’t want to live there long term. I can headquarter just about anywhere.”
“Your company specializes in apps for smartphones and tablets?”
“You know about my company?”
“You knew about my books.”