The Romance Plan - Lila Monroe Page 0,77

look irresistible too.

You’re never supposed to eat just one cupcake, right?

I’m just raising my second illicit treat to my lips when a man ducks into the tent. “Busted!”

I freeze. The guy laughs. “Sorry, you just looked so guilty. Mmm, chocolate . . .” He strolls over, grabs a cake, and shoots me a smile so warm I’m surprised the icing doesn’t melt in my hand.

Speaking of drool-worthy? Exhibit A is right in front of me. With that tawny hair and the sexy hint of scruff on his square jaw, he looks like Chris Pine in that tux, only twice as hot.

Where the hell did he come from, and can I get a first-class ticket there?

“Relax,” he says, with a low rich voice that could melt all sorts of other things. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winks and licks the frosting right off the top in a way that should be illegal. “So, who are you hiding from?”

“I’m not hiding,” I protest. “Well, maybe just a little. I’m supposed to be shooting the happy couple, but—” I stop myself, realizing just in time that I was planning to be discreet.

But Mr. Hunky Pants is clearly in on the secret, because he gives me a sympathetic grin. “But they’re off busy with their friends?”

“You know about that?” I ask, relieved. “What’s their deal?”

“Hey, it takes all kinds.” He shrugs, devouring another dessert. “I heard that sometimes they even share.”

I choke on my cupcake. He laughs, and passes me a glass of champagne. I gulp it down, my eyes streaming. “You know what? I don’t even want to know. I was never here.”

“Excellent strategy,” he agrees. “Just as long as you promise not to tell the bride’s mother you saw me.”

It’s my turn to arch an eyebrow. “Have you been getting into trouble?”

“Not exactly. More trying to stay out of it. Mrs. Collingwood is very determined to set me up with a date. Which I wouldn’t necessarily have a problem with, except she seems to be aiming to set me up with her.” He makes a face.

I have to laugh. “Oh, poor you,” I tease. “So many women throwing themselves at you, you have to run and hide.”

“Hey,” he protests, grinning. “I enjoy women throwing themselves at me, if they’re the right women.” He gives me a quick once-over. “You, for example, are welcome to give it a try.”

“Tempting.” I keep my tone light, even as the devil on my shoulder swoons. “But I’m here for business, not pleasure.”

“Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with mixing the two.” He keeps smiling. “It always works out just fine for me.”

Sure it does. But I used to work for the wealthiest playboy in the city, and I know the downside to guys like this. They’re all flash and dazzle: whisking you off to luxurious resorts and wining and dining you . . . before losing interest, moving onto the next shiny toy, and breaking your heart.

Cynical? Me? I prefer to think of it as keeping one foot firmly on the ground. It was my (unofficial) job to break the news to the discarded girlfriends after my boss decided to move along. And sure, he shaped up in the end after he fell in love, but watching him act like, well, a total manwhore for years made me wise to the playboy modus operandi. I’ve sworn to steer clear of men with more charm than substance.

Like this Hottie McHotterson right here in front of me.

“I’m Max, by the way,” he says, offering the hand that’s not occupied with a cupcake.

I take it, ignoring the heat from his firm grip. “Hallie. Assistant photographer for the day.”

“What a day, isn’t it? I thought the priest was going to have a nervous breakdown by the time the flower girl made it down the aisle.”

“That’s nothing,” I tell him ruefully. “The wedding I shot last month, the guy officiating answered his own call for objections, got down on bended knee, and asked the bride if she’d marry him instead.”

Max snorts and nearly chokes on his cupcake, which somehow makes him even more attractive. “You’re joking.”

“Nuh-uh. The worst part—or best, if we’re going for entertainment value—is she actually seemed to consider it before she turned him down. And then they still let him do the ceremony!” I exclaim. “If I were wagering, I’d give that couple three months, tops.”

“Okay,” Max says, “but I bet you’ve never been to a wedding where the father of the bride got so drunk