In terms of things she’d rather not do, on a scale of one to ten, going to the gym hovered at the two mark. Pulling an all-nighter at work ranked around a four. Dinner à deux with her father, an eight. Having to take Marcus Black’s arm and walk down the aisle beside him, however, hit a ten. Up until about a couple of hours ago she’d thought she’d escaped. As Dan’s best friend—and consequently, best man—Marcus had been expected some time yesterday afternoon, but to the consternation of everyone apart from her he hadn’t shown up. Her brother had muttered something about a missed flight and a possible arrival in time for the reception but, in all honesty, Celia had been too relieved to pay much attention. All she’d been able to think was that she had a stay of execution and that, with any luck, by the time Marcus got there—if he got there at all—she’d have indulged in the gallon of champagne she needed to handle the horribly edgy and deeply uncomfortable effect he had on her, should she be unable to implement her customary plan A and avoid him.
