Chapter 1

If Molly Stiles had been a vintage car, Brant Wylder would have known exactly what to do with her. She wasn’t, and he didn’t.

But a man could look.

“Hey, you still with us?” his elder brother, Tucker, asked.

“Yeah.” Brant tugged at the annoying bow tie.

“Good, because we have a job to do, and so do you,” Tucker said.

“Understood.” Brant met his brother’s gaze. “Chill. This isn’t one of your Marine reconnaissance missions.”

“No, it’s not. Which means no sniper’s waiting to take a potshot at you, so stop whining.”

“I’m not whining,” he groused. “This wedding’s a waste of time. I’d rather go with you to pick up that car.”

“We’ve got it covered.” His younger brother, Gaven, slipped into the rental car. “You’ll check out those places we spotted yesterday, right? See if one of them will work for us?”

“Absolutely.” His answer was automatic, his attention on the petite bridesmaid he’d escorted down the aisle. The woman was so drop-dead gorgeous, she made his palms sweat.

“It’s important,” Tucker reminded him.

“Yep.” Brant eyed his watch. “That plane’s gonna leave with or without you two.”

Gaven started the car’s engine.

“Text me pictures of that Vette.”

“Will do.”

Riding shotgun, Tucker rested a tattooed arm on his open window. “Sure glad it’s dark. Anybody sees us in this four-door, plain-vanilla, sorry excuse for a car, our reputation’s shot.”

Brant laughed. “Drive safe.” He tapped the car’s roof, then took several steps back as it headed down the winding, oak-lined drive.

The taillights disappeared, and he was alone.

Well, as alone as he could be with a hundred and some other people.

Brant turned back to the wedding reception. Because the temperature was in the balmy midsixties, unusual for January even here in Georgia’s Low Country, Magnolia House’s massive front door stood open. Light, conversation, and laughter spilled onto the restored antebellum home’s front porch.

Resigned to another hour or so of playing nice, Brant moved back inside.

At the bar, he ordered a club soda with a twist of lime and, popping cashews, chatted with a friend of the groom. All the while, he kept the brunette front and center on his radar.

She threaded her way through the small clusters of guests, paused to speak to several, then plucked a grilled shrimp kebab and a napkin from a passing waiter’s tray. Raising the appetizer to her Kewpie-doll lips, she headed outside. Alone.

Brant set his nearly untouched drink on the bar and nodded to his new pal. “Nice talking to you, Will. You decide you want us to do something with that ’72 Chevy Chevelle, give me a call.”

Casually, he crossed the room and stepped into the night. Molly had wandered to the edge of the large front yard and stood in a pool of moonlight. The two of them had bumped into each other twice now, and she stirred up feelings in him—feelings he had no time for, yet itched to explore.

For such a petite thing, the lady had curves. Shiny, coffee-colored hair curled halfway down her back, and his fingers practically begged to mess it up. She smelled sexy as sin on a dark night and all but made a guy drool. Her pale-pink, bee-stung lips cried out to be kissed…but instinct warned him Molly could be dangerous. Very dangerous.

Brant ran a finger under his bow tie again and swore beneath his breath.

He felt restless. The sleepy little Low Country town oozed Southern charm. Its brick sidewalks might be buckled in places, but pride showed in the well-maintained storefronts. The American flag flew high and proud over the big stone courthouse at the end of Main, and in warmer weather, ferns and colorful flowers hung from the streetlights and shops.

Last night, he’d driven through town a little after eight. It had been quiet, buttoned-down, and locked up tight. The carpet rolled up early in Misty Bottoms, Georgia. He could live with that.

Good thing, because if things worked out right, he’d be spending a lot more time here. But right now? Instead of hanging around Magnolia House in this monkey suit, he could be flying off to Texas with his brothers or at their garage in Tennessee in his old jeans, replacing a clutch in the ’48 Chevy he and his brothers were restoring. Heck, for what the daddy of today’s bride had shelled out, Brant figured he could rescue a whole fleet of cars.

Still, if a person was bound and determined to tie the knot, they could do a lot worse than Magnolia House. Jenni Beth Beaumont—make that Jenni Beth Bryson now—had done one heck of a job bringing the grand old lady back to life, turning her into Magnolia Brides, a popular wedding destination. Her friend Tansy, who ran Sweet Dreams, and Cricket, owner of the Enchanted Florist, took care of the cakes and flowers, respectively. And the brunette? She ran the new bridal boutique in town. The women had done themselves proud.

Music drifted on the soft night air and entwined with the scent of roses and jasmine. Muted voices rose and fell.

He slipped a hand into the pocket of his tux pants and, feet crossed, leaned against one of the massive columns. In the morning, he’d check out a couple of possibilities he and his brothers had earmarked for Wylder Rides’s new location. Then he’d hit the road to Tennessee to put out a couple fires at their shop. Life had been bumpy lately, but at this moment, it was pretty darn good.

A full moon added its magic to the star-filled Southern sky. As he picked out several constellations, he imagined even the seated queen, Cassiopeia, danced tonight with Orion, the hunter. No doubt every single woman here had hearts, flowers, and wedding rings on the brain. It tended to make a single man nervous.

A feeling of déjà vu stole over him. Several months ago, he’d stood right here while his pal Troy bit the dust. His friends were disappearing as fast as sweet tea on a hot summer’s day into the matrimonial abyss. Marriage wasn’t in the cards for Brant. He and his brothers had a lot riding on their business, and he needed to concentrate on that. But tonight, while his brothers headed to Texas to inspect a barn find ’53 Corvette that Wylder Rides had been commissioned to restore, he’d see if he could sweet-talk himself into a dance or two with sexy-as-all-get-out Molly.

At his previous wedding here, she’d tried her darnedest to escape the rush of single women desperate to nab the bridal bouquet. When the flowers had literally hit her on the forehead, she’d tried to pawn the bouquet off to anyone close. Could she be the one female not in a hurry to marry? Now, though, she stood beneath a magnolia tree, her face tipped to catch the moonlight. The breath caught in his throat, and for one fanciful second, Brant imagined a mythical princess or fairy.

He shook his head. The woman was real, and he wanted a dance, wanted to hold her in his arms. A little flirting? Harmless.

Stepping out of the shadows, he made his way to her.

“Beautiful night, huh?”

“Perfect.” Slowly, she turned, a smile on her face.

“How about a dance?” Holding out a hand, he tipped his head toward the temporary dance floor in the backyard. “What do you say?”

She hesitated.

“I’m not asking for a lifelong commitment, sugar. Just a single dance under the stars.”

Still, she paused.

“Oh, come on. The night’s made for dancing.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

He caught her hand in his, amazed at its softness against his work-roughened one. “Let’s give it a whirl. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not the world’s greatest dancer, but you shouldn’t lose any toes.” He glanced at her sequined stilettos, showcased by her cocktail-length dress. “Don’t know how you even walk in those, let alone put on the miles you do, but I have to say that all mankind is grateful.”

Smiling, Molly peeked at her shoes. “They’re awesome, aren’t they?”

He nodded. “You can dance in them?”

“I could run a marathon in these.”

“Okay, then.” The moon shone through Spanish moss that dripped from the live oaks, forming a lacy pattern on the dewy grass.

Kelly Clarkson’s “A Moment Like This” played over the sound system. Reaching the dance floor, Brant slid an arm around her waist and drew her in, breathed in her scent. He fingered the fabric of Molly’s dress. “I’m surprised the bride let you wear this.”

“Why?”

“Most brides don’t want to be upstaged on their wedding day.”

She made a dismissive sound.

“You look spectacular.” Brant’s brow furrowed. “Gotta say, though, purple’s an unusual color for a bridesmaid’s dress.”

“Kathy wanted bold. And I’ll have you know,” she said, amusement in her voice, “this isn’t purple. It’s plum passion, and it’s all the rage right now.”

“Can’t argue with the expert.”

“Your brothers left already?”

“Yep, taking care of business.” Brant swung her out and brought her back in one smooth motion, felt her quick laugh in the pit of his stomach. The music slowed when the band segued into John Legend’s “All of Me,” and he drew her close.

Molly fit perfectly in his arms. She lived in Georgia and he in Tennessee, and that made her safe. And if the plans he and his brothers were working on panned out? Still nothing to worry about, he decided, since she lived in Savannah. When she rested her head against his chest, he wondered if she could hear the rapid thump of his heart. Ms. Molly was hot, hot, hot.

His hand slid a little lower, and without missing a beat, she relocated it to her waist.

He threw her a devilish grin. “I half figured you’d make a run for it before the bouquet toss tonight.”

A quick blush of embarrassment gave way to a twinkle in her eyes. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“Nope, can’t say that I am.” He inhaled deeply. Molly smelled of a midnight garden with just a touch of naughty. His body responded, and he willed himself to think about something else. “How’s the city?”

“Savannah?” She shrugged. “I live in Misty Bottoms now. I opened a bridal boutique. Today’s bride was my first.” She grinned, dimples creasing her cheeks. “Kathy already had a dress but she lost a lot of weight this past year and wanted something a little more figure flattering. So she came to me.”

The dance ended, and he reluctantly released Molly. “I’m driving back to Tennessee tomorrow.”

“Speaking of driving, thanks for taxiing the last of the rehearsal dinner’s partiers home last night. I heard they celebrated pretty hard at Duffy’s.”

“No problem.”

“I need to stop at my car before I go back inside. I left the little silver heart I attach to the bridal gown’s garment bag in my glove box.”

Brant walked beside her in the soft night air, a hand at her elbow, while the band played Blake Shelton’s “God Gave Me You.”

“I’m good, Brant, if you need to leave.”

“You sure? It’s pretty dark. No telling what mystical creatures might be stirring.” He lowered his head. “Before we call it a night, I’d love to see the rose garden our friend Cole salvaged.”

“What a mess, but after a lot of hard work it’s incredible again.”

The scent of roses surrounding them, they strolled through the yard. In the silver light of the moon, the flowers glowed and took on an almost magical, fairy-tale illusion. The house shimmered and welcomed, like the true Southern lady she was. Interlacing his fingers with Molly’s, peace enveloped Brant.

They wandered across the expanse of lawn and through the blooms in comfortable silence.

From the parking area, he heard the sound of engines starting, of tires crunching on the long drive. “Looks like it’s about time for lights-out. We’d better head back so you can finish up.”

A slight breeze caused Molly to shiver, and happy for the excuse, Brant wrapped an arm around her and pulled her a little closer, surprised when she didn’t pull away.

Reaching her yellow-and-white Mini Countryman, he made to open her door, then changed his mind, leaned in and gave her a quick kiss, one that should have been impersonal. Friendly. Instead, fire shot through him.

He pulled back, unsure whether he should be relieved or horrified that the expression on her face mirrored his own stampeding feelings. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m taking care of a few loose ends in the morning, then heading back to Tennessee. And I already said that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. The kiss was nice, thanks, but you don’t need to worry. I won’t show up naked at your hotel door.”

His breath caught.

She grinned, and he understood she knew exactly the effect she was having on him.

“I—” His phone vibrated. “Whoops. Sorry, but I’d better take this. My brothers probably forgot something. Organization isn’t their strong suit. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Sure.”

“Hello? Dad?” As he spoke, he made his way to a gnarly old oak. His father’s voice was gruff, almost as if he’d been crying. Panic grabbed Brant by the throat. “What’s wrong? Is it Mom?”

“No, Son, it’s your sister.”

“Lainey?” An ominous silence settled in. He glanced toward Molly and lowered his voice. “Talk to me, Dad.” He heard the sigh, all but felt his father’s despair.

“Lainey’s been in a car accident. A serious one.”

“Where is she?”

“Savannah. You still in Misty Bottoms?”

“Yeah, but I’m heading to Savannah as we speak.” Brant sprinted across the lawn and slid behind the wheel of his car, switching the call to Bluetooth.

“Where are your brothers?”

“On a flight to Texas to pick up a car we’re restoring.” His headlights swept over Molly, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think about her now. “How bad is Lainey hurt?”

“The cop I talked to didn’t have many details. The doctor’s supposed to call later, but I’d feel a hell of a lot better with you there.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Brant turned onto the main highway. “Was anyone else injured?”

After the slightest hesitation, his dad said, “No.”

“Did somebody run into her? Force her off the road?”

Another tremulous sigh filled the line. “A drunk driver caused the accident.”

“Saturday night.” Brant slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “I should have known. I hope the SOB in the other car wasn’t hurt too badly, because I want the pleasure of wringing his neck myself.”

“Son, there was no other car involved. No other driver.”

“But you said—” His stomach pitched and a sour taste filled his mouth.

“Lainey’s blood-alcohol level was almost twice the legal limit.”

Brant swore. His sister had derailed in high school and fallen into the bottle. “She’s been sober for five years, Dad.”

“She has. Or so we thought.”

His father sounded wearier and older than he ever had, and Brant found himself cursing whatever had made Lainey take that first drink—the first tonight and the first all those years ago.

“Even if your mom could fly, Son, it’d be tomorrow before we could get there. Lainey needs someone now, and I can’t leave your mother.”

“No, you can’t.” Since his warm, fun-loving mother had had a stroke, Dad had his hands full as her caregiver.

His heart thundering, Brant gripped the steering wheel. “Where’s Jax? Did Lainey have the baby with her?”

“No. She left him with a friend.”

“Thank God!”

His dad cleared his throat again. “That’s the rest of the problem, though. When the friend caught wind of what happened, she dropped Jax off at the hospital. Said she had to work, and he wasn’t her responsibility.”

“Nice friend.”

“Yeah, and now somebody needs to get him.”

“Get the baby?” Sweat trickled down Brant’s spine as he signaled and passed a car moving slower than a bus full of tourists on Nashville’s Music Row.

“A policewoman who worked the accident scene was still at the hospital when Lainey’s friend showed up. She’s with Jax now, but if somebody doesn’t come for him, they’ll place my grandson in temporary foster care.”

“Foster care?” Brant’s fingers tunneled through his hair. “Jax is only, what, eight or nine months old?”

“Seven.”

Geez! Seven? Dread clawed through Brant’s brain and worked its way to the tips of his toes.

“Brant, your mother’s calling for me. I have to go. Keep in touch, will ya?”

“But—”

“Gotta go. You’ll do fine, Son. We can always count on you.”

A heavy weight settled over Brant. “Yeah.”

“Drive carefully, you hear? Don’t need both of you in the ER.”

“I will, and I’ll call as soon as I know anything. Give Mom a kiss for me.”

He clicked off and glanced in the rearview mirror, flinching at the wild expression in his eyes. Hadn’t he less than an hour ago tempted fate by thinking that, despite a few bumps, life right now was good? Had he jinxed them?

“Come on, Lainey,” he whispered. “Be strong. Whatever’s going on in your life, we’ll sort it out.”

His Camaro ate up the miles while questions piled up in his head. The full moon had been romantic back in the rose garden, but on this abandoned stretch of road, it decided to play hide-and-seek behind the cloud cover. The car’s headlamps cut through the darkness, reminding him exactly how alone he was.

A rush of emotions filled him—anger, helplessness, frustration. And overlying everything? An aching layer of sadness.

When Chris Young came on the radio singing “I’m Comin’ Over,” a sliver of regret slipped in as Brant thought of the pretty brunette in the plum-passion dress. A second helping of those perfect lips would have been nice.

He hadn’t said goodbye, hadn’t even given her an explanation. Probably better that way. No expectations.

Fog rolled in, and he slowed a bit. With Misty Bottoms hugging the river, no doubt the people here dealt with it often. He ran his wipers to rid his windshield of the light mist.

Then his mind turned back to his sister. What would he find at the hospital?