Since it was where Laurie-Beth and Payton would stand to say their vows she wanted to make sure an errant antler wouldn’t fall off and bonk the couple on the head. Concussions were never fun at a wedding. She’d arrived at the cotton warehouse late Saturday afternoon, already behind schedule. He was standing just inside the propped-open door of the warehouse, his arms crossed over his chest, and a late-afternoon ray of sunlight seemed to catch and illuminate his blond tresses, almost like a halo. He wasn’t a guest; the wedding wasn’t for another two hours, and anyway, he was dressed casually, in designer jeans—7 For All Mankind, she was sure, a silky black T-shirt, and black motorcycle boots. He had deliberate beard stubble, piercing green eyes, and he was tall enough and slender enough to be a runway model. But she knew he wasn’t. The hair was the giveaway. She’d seen it on his website. He was watching her, spying on the competition, and he didn’t care if she knew. Should she confront him, ask him to leave?
