Page 73 of Love Under Snowfall

“I like your glasses,” she offered casually.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“They aren’t as harsh as the last pair. You look more approachable.”

Benjamin readjusted the wireframes on the bridge of his nose. He’d been fortunate that the local optical shop had the option to rush order a new pair; otherwise, he’d be stuck wearing the same scratched lenses with an arm held together by sticks and tape. The style was different than he was used to, but after Francesca’s assessment, he didn’t mind the change so much.

“Who’s running this thing?” came the singsong complaint behind them. “I’ve got a hottie to marry and a buffet to destroy.”

Benjamin glanced over his shoulder at Lucy, who was indeed jittering around like a racehorse, ready to blast through the starting gate and gallop down the aisle. He sucked in a snicker.

“See what I’ve been dealing with?” Francesca bit her lip, holding back a burst of laughter. “I’d better check on things and figure out when we can start. Can you make sure people are lined up properly?”

He nodded and watched as she glided off, the picture of calm. His chest ached as though his heart were reaching out between his ribs for her retreating form.

Todd was right. He had it bad.

It was high time he admitted it to himself. Francesca was exquisite. She was the woman of his dreams, which would make the remainder of his time here in Leavenworth unbearable. Being this close and not having her was just too much.

Mustering all his focus and resolve would take everything in him, but what other option did he have?

As expected, the ceremony went off without a hitch, filled to the brim with expressions of love and devotion and splashes of humor throughout. Benjamin managed to only look at the maid of honor a couple dozen times, which felt like quite an accomplishment considering how radiant she was.

He sat alone at the wedding party table, dinner having been cleared away, toasts given, cake cut. The room was alive with music and dancing, laughter and cheers for the bride and groom tokiss kiss kiss! Swirling the glass of scotch he’d barely consumed, he watched with hawk-like intensity as Francesca swayed in the arms of Sheriff Howards. The overgrown Boy Scout dwarfed the petite woman, despite her sky-high silver heels.

It may have been his imagination, but with every attempt Clint made at pulling her close, she managed to shift and maintain a sliver of distance between their synchronized bodies, and Benjamin was eternally grateful for that.

Torture seemed like too meek a word to describe the way he felt watching those large hands graze the small of Francesca’s back, lips move close to whisper some sweet nothings in her ear, eyes rake over her dress like he knew what lay beneath despite the fabric’s heft.

Jealously was a useless baser emotion, one Benjamin refused to entertain.

Typically.

Nonetheless, it bloomed aggressively in his chest. The heat of it rose in his throat, and for a moment, he believed that fire would shoot from his mouth at any moment. The unsettling realization that she might end up warming another man’s bedmade Benjamin sick. He wanted to smash something: his glass, the sheriff’s face.

With another subtle press, Francesca was flush against Clint’s hulking chest. Glancing away from her dance partner, her eyes scanned and found Benjamin’s. In one look, he read her discomfort, and he didn’t stop to translate the nuance. Mechanically, he threw back the rest of his scotch, wincing slightly at the burn slashing down his throat, and stood. Long strides quickly ate up the distance between him and his target, giving very little time for his rational brain to reboot and take control of his body.

Fortunately for him and his lack of self-control, the second his hand came down on Clint’s large shoulder, the sound of shattering glass and resounding slap rang out in the large tent. A hush settled over the crowd as everyone, Benajmin included, strained to see what all the fuss was about.

Chapter forty

Zac

The sharp sting of what he was sure was a hand-shaped welt prickled across Zac’s cheek. He tracked the angry sway of Bethany’s hips as she marched through the tent exit.

Fuck.

Bethanne.

He’d struggled with her name the entire time he’d known her but gave himself a little slack since they’d only met forty-eight hours ago. He’d tried to bestow the moniker Beth, but shedid notlike that, and since his goal had been to get in her pants, he avoided doing anything that would piss her off. Fortunately, she enjoyed it when he referred to her as beautiful, sexy, and lovely, so he stuck with similar terms of endearment.

The struggle had come when others approached them at the wedding. Since introducing her as his “friend” seemed to cool her jets, and he couldn’t very well call her his bang buddy, privates pal, booty call, or (gulp) girlfriend, her name was the safest bet.

Orwouldhave been if he could freaking get it right.

She must have slid to the end of her rope because when Stella, the smoking hot server at The Rooftop Tavern, came over to say hello, everything got out of hand.

To be honest, Zac couldn’t really say with any real certainty what had gone wrong because Stella’s dress was so low cut and her tits were more buoyant than usual, so he’d been pretty distracted. He could have called Bethanne Bart or Bradley for all he knew.Whatever came out of his mouth deemed him worthy of a drink in the face and a slap.

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