Wedding Planner's Golden Rule: Don't fall in love with the groom.
Handsome, charming, billionaire playboy, Aiden Carlisle's wedding to beautiful, but demanding Caroline Baxter is set to be the event of the century.
Sweet, smart and talented, Rosalie...
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Rosalie was seated inside the house.
I know she wanted to come into the garden and inspect what I'm doing, but I told her that it was a surprise and she had to wait.
She pouted adorably when I told her that.
"I just want to see, Aiden," she told me, crossing her hands over her chest. Her bottom lip jutted out when she pushed out her jaw.
"I know you do, but it's a surprise," I told her, with a grin.
"You do understand that your windows are made out of glass and I can see into the garden, right?" she asked.
"And that's why you have to stay in the study until I come and get you," I told her and laughed at the look of outrage on her face.
"Aiden, this is unacceptable," she said, and then her expressions changed. She looked sweet and coy, "I could give you pointers on how to make it good."
I smiled and took a few steps towards her. She looked hopeful, like she might have won.
I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder. She squealed, "Aiden!"
I walked her into the study and put her down on the table. Lowering my head to hers, I kissed her.
Immediately, she wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. I gave into her; all I wanted to do was to give into her and let her do whatever she wanted with me.
Rosalie kissed me, earnestly, like I hadn't been kissed before.
I had kissed many women in my day, but none of them made me feel the way Rosalie did.
"Rosalie," I breathed, against her neck.
She sighed, blissfully.
"I must go and set your surprise up," I mumbled into her skin.
Her fingers squeezed my shoulder blades and she sighed.
Slowly, I pulled away from her.
Her pout reappeared, reminding me of the day that I found her drunk. I smiled. "I'll be back very soon," I told her and backed out of the room.
It may have been fall, but the sun shone, happily in the sky as I set up our private picnic in the garden.
I laid down a cozy blanket and a wicker basket with some baguettes and a bouquet of flowers I had snuck into the house without Rosalie's knowledge. There were fruits and croissants and some bianco frizzante I had stashed for a special occasion.
Any occasion with Rosalie felt special.
When I went into the study to call her out, she was still sitting on my desk, legs crossed and reading a copy of "The Count of Monte Cristo" that I had.
She looked up, apparently in a more chipper mood than when I left her. "Ready for me?" she asked.
