Red Clover Inn

She glanced at Brody and Heather, who were chatting with Adam, the stonemason Sloan brother. She turned back to Greg and shook her head. “Thanks but I’ve had champagne already.”

“Back to Edinburgh soon?”

“I haven’t decided. As I mentioned, I worked with Sam’s parents on a project to discover and explore sunken World War II submarines off the British coast, but it’s wrapped up. I’m not under any pressure to get back to Edinburgh.”

“What’s next?” Greg asked.

“We’ll see.”

“Who’s we?”

“A figure of speech, Agent Rawlings. Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

Dodging him or just making small talk? He shrugged. “Perfect. I sleep fine when I sleep.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Does to me. How’d you do? No tossing and turning after putting me to bed?”

“No tossing and turning.”

Brody shifted in his chair and frowned at Greg, who ignored him and studied Charlotte instead. She wasn’t telling the truth but the makeup job for the wedding would have dealt with any obvious signs he could point out to her of a bad night. He let it go.

He set his glass on the table. “Samantha and Justin are an unusual pair. Think they’ll be together in five years?”

Charlotte looked as if she wanted to throttle him. “You don’t say such things at a wedding, you know.”

“Okay.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I see that you’re on your own, too.”

“I was shoehorned onto the guest list when I turned up in London.”

“I see.” Charlotte straightened. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”

Greg watched her weave back through the tables to the Bennett family. She seemed to have an easy relationship with Samantha’s parents and her uncle and aunt and their four kids, the eldest of whom, Isaac, was, according to Heather, starting at Amherst College that fall. It wasn’t far from Knights Bridge and it was Harry Bennett’s alma mater. Greg wondered exactly what Max Bennett, Charlotte’s grandfather, had done with himself. Packed Harry’s adventurer bags for him?

“My last family wedding, my sister threw up in the men’s room,” Greg said, addressing Brody, who had hardly touched his champagne. “I cleaned up after her since it was her first drinking offense, at least that I knew about. She’s a piano teacher in Manhattan.”

“Whose wedding was it?” Brody asked.

“My cousin Johnny. Three, four years ago. He’s a paramedic. Wife’s a nurse. They have a toddler—a little boy—and another baby on the way. They’re living the life my mother wanted me to live.”

“You have two kids.”

“Yeah. I do. I didn’t stay within ten blocks of her, though.”

“Instead you’re living the life you wanted to live.”

“Made my choices.” Greg’s gaze landed on a trio of Bennetts up by another trellis of roses. “Think Charlotte is in a champagne-and-dancing mood or a wallflower mood?”

“Only two options?”

“She looks uncomfortable. Something’s bugging her.”

“There’s what you know, and there’s what you think you know,” Brody said. “That’s something you think you know.”

“Nope. I know.”

“She told you?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Greg...”

He waved a hand. “Forget it. Let’s eat.”

* * *

“Weddings are for champagne and dancing,” Charlotte said after the lunch dishes were cleared and she’d made her way to Greg’s table. Her comment caught him by surprise. She smiled, obviously relishing that fact. “Do you dance, Agent Rawlings?”

“If I have to. Is that an invitation?”

Her brown eyes sparked. “Well, why not? You don’t have to dance with me. There aren’t many unattached guests but I can get my cousin Isaac—”

“Can’t let you dance with your cousin.”

Greg was on his feet. Brody’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance, Greg.”

“It’s been a while but it’s like riding a bike.” He slipped an arm around Charlotte’s waist and turned to her. “Don’t worry. I won’t step on your feet.”

“I might step on yours,” she said.

Greg eased Charlotte onto the makeshift dance floor on the garden terrace. “I don’t know about this prissy Jane Austen music they’re playing,” he said.

“At least you don’t have to wear tights.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? All us guys in tights.”

“Not if I had to wear a Regency gown.”

“You look fine in your maid-of-honor dress,” he said, feeling the soft fabric under his hands.

“Alexandra’s an incredible designer.”

“Want to kick off your shoes and pretend we’re on Dancing with the Stars?”

“What?’