wrong? Need help?”
“I can manage.”
There was no point wishing their visitor wouldn’t witness her backward, very uncool duckwalk out of the passage. Free at last, Sara clicked the lock closed, frustrated and fed up with the way her life wasn’t going.
“Winifred Woodward?”
Did she look almost eighty?
“No.” Sara bent to straighten her black skirt, buying time to regain the composure Denver’s hottest wedding store and its employees were known for. “But if you need help with a wedding, you’re in the right place. Weddings by Woodwards takes pride in planning weddings that are unique to every bride and groom we serve.”
The stock phrase slipped easily to her lips. Good thing, because when Sara glanced up at the owner of that coffee-and-cream voice, her throat jammed closed.
“Kidding.” He winked at her. “I was kidding. I could tell when I walked past the windows that you aren’t Mrs. Woodward.”
Meaning he knew her grandmother?
Sara took stock of her visitor. Slightly older than the usual Woodwards’ groom, he stood nearly six feet tall. The mass of unruly mahogany curls cut close against his scalp could have given him a rakish look—except for the plump baby fingers threading through them.
“I’ll take him.” She reached out for Brady who glared at her and clutched his rescuer all the tighter. “Or not.”
“He’s fine.” The visitor wore black tooled-leather boots, fitted jeans and a battered leather jacket that almost screamed “wild west.” Evidently her nephew thought the same.
“Cowboy,” Brady said, trailing his grubby paws against the leather. “Horsie?”
“Not here, pal.” The man chuckled as he tousled Brady’s hair. “But I have some at home on my ranch.”
“Horsies are good. Candy’s good.”
Sara’s rescuer burst into deep-throated laughter that filled the two-story foyer.
“Not very subtle, are you, son?”
This cowboy was movie-star material. Substitute his leather and jeans for a wedding tux, and any bride would race down the aisle. On closer scrutiny, Sara glimpsed an indefinable quality to those blue eyes that branded this man as more substantial than a mere movie star. The twins recognized it, too, because they remained perfectly still, staring at him.
“Thank you for helping. They’re a bit of a handful.”
“I can imagine.” His face was all sharp angles. Etched lines carved out the corners of his eyes, as if he’d known sadness and grief too often. His sapphire stare captivated Sara, pushed past her barriers and peered inside, as if to expose the secrets she kept hidden from the world.
Or maybe it was all in her mind.
“I have an appointment to speak with Winifred Woodward.” He eased Brady’s grip from his hair and lowered the boy so his feet rested on the floor. “There you go, buddy.”
An icon in the wedding-planning business, Grandma Winnie was always fielding so-called appointments of people who simply wanted to meet the matriarch of Weddings by Woodwards. Winnie, sweet woman that she was, would never refuse them. That’s why Sara had come home.
Recent exhaustion had lowered Winnie’s ability to fight a cold and, according to the family, her grandmother needed complete rest to recover. Sara’s job was to fill in wherever she was needed at Woodwards.
Today that meant manning the reception desk.
And babysitting.
“Your name?”
“Cade Porter.”
“You weren’t in her appointment book, Mr. Porter.” Sara knew because she’d canceled or rebooked all Winnie’s appointments last week, the day after she’d returned to Denver.
“Nevertheless, I do have an appointment.” Dark brows climbed, daring her to dispute it. “Would you direct me to her office please?”
“I’m afraid that isn’t going to be possible.”
The eyebrows elevated a millimeter higher. Jutting cheekbones and a forceful chin told Sara that Cade Porter wouldn’t give up easily.
“Candy?” Brady reminded.
“You have to wait a moment, sweetie.”
“’Kay.”
“Good boy.” Sara savored his winsome smile before returning to her customer. “I’m assuming you’re here to talk about planning a wedding, Mr. Porter. If you can wait, I’ll find you a planner as soon as I get these two settled. I have to watch them until my brother returns. As you’ve noticed, they take a lot of watching.”
“I did notice.” Cade Porter’s lips lifted in a grin. He squatted down and spoke quietly to the twins, showing them two wrapped peppermints, identical to the ones filling a crystal bowl on the counter. He glanced at her belatedly. “Okay with you?”
She nodded.
“Anything to keep them busy.” She ignored the inner warning that said sugar wasn’t the best choice. One candy couldn’t hurt.
“Here are the rules, guys.” Mr. Porter waited until their attention was focused on him. “You have to sit here until you’re finished. Then we’ll wash your hands. After that, maybe I’ll tell you about my horses. Is it a deal?”
Enthralled, the twins nodded, received their candy and began unwrapping. Mr. Porter rose. His face lost the soft amusement as he studied Sara.
“Look, I’m sure you employ good people here, but I want Mrs. Woodward. I confirmed with her eight days ago. Surely Weddings by Woodwards doesn’t promise their clients one thing and then…”
Sara might not want to be part of the family business, but nobody disparaged it and got away unchallenged.
“My grandmother was taken ill a week ago. I regret that you weren’t informed.” She bent to pick up the wrappers the boys had tossed on the pale pink carpet. “And I’m very sorry that you’ve been inconvenienced. But because Winnie won’t be back at work for at least a month, I’m afraid you’ll have to make a new appointment. Or accept help from someone else.”
His heavily lashed eyes darkened.
“I’m sorry she’s ill. Maybe—” He stopped, frowned as if reconsidering.
Red flags soared in Sara’s brain. If she lost a potential client, her sister Katie would be on her case all afternoon.
“If you’ll—” Sara almost choked when Brett’s sticky fingers grabbed Mr. Porter at the knee. She eased Brady’s hand away. What was taking Reese so long? “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized, trying to recall who might be free to deal with Mr. Porter.
“They’re just jeans. They won’t melt. Can you get a wet cloth?”
“A cloth?” His generous smile confused her usually functioning brain.
“To wipe off the kids. I don’t think those pretty dresses on display will look quite as nice with peppermint smeared all over them.” He brushed Brady’s hair with a big capable hand. “We’ll get this pair busy drawing a horse. Then maybe you and I can get started.”
Sara frowned. Started—doing what?
“Cloth?” he reminded her as he kept Brett’s hand from touching a length of veiling.
“Right.” She fetched a damp washcloth and tried to wipe Brett’s fingers, but her nephew veered away, clinging to Mr. Porter.
“Let me.” He took the cloth and with gentle thoroughness wiped down two faces and four hands, teasing the boys