LITMIR.BIZ

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      Reese was determined to start her happy life with Dylan by repairing the rift between the friends. What better way to celebrate a bright future with the man who made her happy?

      Unlike her impulsive marriage to Mason. The Wedding Mistake, as she liked to call it. Reese bit her lower lip.

      “Forget about the annoying ex, Reese,” Gina said.

      She puffed out a breath. “Believe me, I have.”

      “And don’t let him ruin your wedding.”

      She pictured Dylan’s face and immediately felt calmer. “Nothing is going to ruin our day.”

      Below, Mason appeared in the driveway, heading for his truck, and Reese let out a sigh, the last bit of tension leaving her body. She’d moved on and refused to look back, and she was grateful he was leaving and taking all the turbulent emotions with him.

      Because, by God, she wasn’t going to let her ex spoil things, no matter how fit he looked in his jeans.

      “How are you feeling?” Gina said.

      “Good,” Reese said, both in answer to Gina and in response to Mason reaching for the door handle on his truck, preparing to leave. She could get back to focusing on her to-do list. The guests would be arriving in a few days, and she wanted everything to be perfect, which included smoothing the road for a reconciliation between her friends. She swallowed hard, remembering why she’d left a message for Gina to call. “I just need to tell you something before—”

      Dylan appeared in the driveway, cutting off Reese’s train of thought. As her fiancé headed toward her ex-husband, her heart accelerated.

      Reese pressed her hand against the window. “Oh, God.”

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Dylan is with Mason out on the driveway.”

      “Do you think they’ll exchange words?” Gina asked.

      Mason turned to watch Dylan approach, and she recognized the stance her ex assumed. Squaring his shoulders, feet slightly apart. Tensed, as if preparing for an altercation.

      The muscles in Reese’s shoulders taut, she said, “Knowing the hotheaded, smart-ass Mason can be—” her eyes darted between the two men “—I wouldn’t put it past him to muck with Dylan’s normally coolheaded demeanor.”

      Reese trusted Dylan, but she didn’t trust Mason. Frustrated, she tried to focus on their expressions, but they were too far away to read.

      “Do you think they’ll get into a fistfight?” Gina said.

      A fistfight?

      Of course they wouldn’t. Would they?

      Reese’s knees threatened to buckle. “I don’t think so.”

      Then again, she never in a gazillion years would have thought that, after all this time, Mason would track her down.

      “You better go down there, Reese,” Gina said. “Make sure your fiancé doesn’t wind up with a black eye in his wedding pictures.”

      Reese pressed her lids closed, searching for strength.

      Don’t just stand here like you’re helpless. Do something, Reese.

      Now.

      Reese whirled away from the window. “Gina, I’ve got to go.”

      “Call me with a report,” Gina called out just before Reese punched the disconnect button and tossed the phone onto the couch.

      Desperate, Reese reached for the buttons at the back of her dress. If she could just release the top few, she might be able to wriggle out. But her arms burned with pain in her attempt, fingers scrambling. Stretching was useless. Straining didn’t work. Grunting from the effort didn’t help, either.

      After five minutes of concerted effort she finally had to accept that, unless she suddenly acquired the abilities of a contortionist, there was no time to change. Abandoning the plan, Reese rifled through her bags, tossing lingerie and toiletry articles aside. Where were her shoes?

      Where were her shoes?

      Please, please. Just let them remain reasonably calm until I get there.

      Her hands landed on her Manolo Blahnik satin pumps and relief surged as she slipped them on. She couldn’t wear flats and let the dress drag, but maneuvering up the endless hall and down the grand staircase in four-inch heels was going to take time. Time she didn’t have.

      Because she had to reach them before it was too late.

      * * *

      Mason exited Bellington Hall and crossed the brick driveway leading to his truck, passing a deliveryman wheeling a dolly loaded with boxes of expensive champagne. And, although she was all he needed, the Beast didn’t fit in at Bellington any more than Mason did, his truck looking out of place parked next to the stately stone mansion and graceful gardens.

      A harsh reminder of the feeling of “otherness” that had marked his marriage and his childhood.

      As a military brat who rarely attended the same school twice, and a bit of a loner to boot, he’d been the outsider constantly looking in. Mind-numbingly bland years memorable simply for his monotonous existence—a monochromatic gray where his soul had faded and lapsed into a coma. Ironically, while the military-brat lifestyle left him feeling the odd man out, ultimately his military career had given him the first sense of real belonging—thriving in the tightly knit team environment integral to doing his job.

      A job he could no longer perform.

      With a resigned acceptance, Mason pushed aside the familiar feeling of loss. So life sucked and then you died, but the mere fact that he hadn’t—died, that is—was enough of a miracle to put the rest of his mucked-up life into perspective.

      Though he was still struggling to apply that attitude to his screwed-up head.

      Mason reached his truck and then paused, clutching the door handle. A convertible Jaguar had joined the Mercedes-Benz in the drive, and it wasn’t hard to guess who the car belonged to. Apparently the successful fiancé had already arrived. Most likely seeking out his bride-to-be at this very moment.

      Definitely time for Mason to leave.

      A sense of inevitability settled in his gut. He’d tell the doc he’d done his best to put this ghost to rest. But all he’d managed to achieve was discovering just how time had made his ex more beautiful. And more thoroughly pissed off at him.

      A scoff of bitter humor escaped just as a masculine voice called out.

      Mason spun on his heel and spied a tall, black-haired man exit the front entrance in athletic shorts and running shoes, clearly about to set off on a jog. Despite the casual attire, the clothes reeked of money. And there was something in the man’s eyes and posture that screamed breeding. The fiancé.

      What was his name again?

      For the nth time since the explosion, Mason cursed the short-term memory that had been knocked and scattered like the proverbial loose screws on the floor, making simple tasks a daily struggle. Amazing how much he’d taken for granted the ability to retrieve information from his brain.

      “Can I help you?” the man said as he drew close.

      For a brief moment Mason considered lying and claiming to be a delivery guy. There was certainly enough activity going on preparing for the big day that one more truck transporting goods wasn’t a stretch. But as his mind scrambled for an item he could have believably delivered, he realized he didn’t have a clue what kinds of things would be needed in preparation for a regular wedding, much less one at a location as luxurious as the Bellington Estate.

      As Reese’s fiancé drew closer, Mason eyed the man warily, trying to recall his name. The guy had a good inch or so on him, but Mason was more muscular. He knew he could take him. He just hoped it wouldn’t

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