Grateful for the distraction, I flip open my laptop, quickly scanning my glazier contacts who’ve worked on glass repairs for me in the past.
In the first five minutes, my go-to lady asks for a picture, which Ebony eagerly supplies, along with a snapshot of the carnage inside the drop cloth. My lady takes one look, then immediately wishes me luck because, apparently, I’m going to need it.
I didn’t know how right she was.
The second person at least gives me a name for it—nineteenth-century Georgian-style cut-crystal chandelier, handcrafted in England somewhere between 1860 and 1880—which would have been super helpful, if he wasn’t set on buying it from me instead of selling me replacement crystals. By the sixth artisan—a referral from the third craftsperson—I’ve got two more offers, a handful of best wishes, and it’s feeling like I’ll be stepping out on a wish and prayer. Until the sixth artisan says sheknows a guy.
Don’twe all.
Except I look him up, and lo and behold, the guy is legit. Bonus, he’s a specialized artisan who both understands and values historical integrity. And double bonus, he lives in Dawsonville—that’s roughly a ninety-minute drive from Atlanta. So easily less than two hours from Ellswood. Most importantly, he schedules me for a same-day service appointment in two weeks, on Saturday, August second.
That leaves over a month before the wedding, just in case anything comes up and we need to make other arrangements—so what if my budget is busted?
“Sounds like you’re headed on a road trip!” Ebony hops off the desk, rounds the corner, and leaps into my arms, and I don’t even care because it feels like a win.
The legend of the chandelier lives!
But as I set her back on her feet, the air crackles with electricity.
I settle on the edge of the desk, my heart crashing like cymbals against my ribcage.
And then she steps between my thighs, clasping her hands behind my neck, searching my eyes. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about dating.” She pauses, and her gaze briefly slips to my lips before she meets my eyes again. “The first one was…not it. Let’s put it that way.” She laughs. “The next one wanted to hire me, and I’m starting to wonder ifThe DivorcétanteChroniclesis bringing all the weirdos out of the woodwork.”
I swallow, unsure where she’s going with this, or if she’s even aware how wrong it feels to talk about other men with her face only inches from mine.
Either way, I just go with it.
“Could be.” I shrug.
“At this point, I think I’m out of practice.” She eases closer still until her warm, sultry scent leaves me dizzy. “How would I even know if a man is really into me?”
“He’d have to be a fool not to be.”
Ebony erases the distance between us until the swells of her breasts are pressed flush against the ridges of my chest, and I feel the rhythm of her heart pounding, her breaths growing shallow.
“What should I do?” She tucks her lower lip between her teeth, and suddenly, I understand. She’s not asking about these other dudes. She’s asking me how to start again—to pick up where we left off.
At least, that’s what Ithinkis happening.
“Well, let’s take the guy from date one, for example,” I say. “What was so wrong with him?”
Tenderly, she drags the pads of her fingers along the back of my head, tracing along the nape of my neck, and it’s clear she’s stalling. But why?
“So far, I’ve heard you say he’s ‘not it.’” I chuckle. “On your post, you said no sparks, nothing to write home about,nada…”
A small sigh escapes her, and fire ignites in her eyes, turning them a vivid shade of whiskey.
“You really want to know?” Ebony asks, softly.
I nod, genuinely curious.What could be so bad that she can’t even lend a name to it?
“He looked like you,” she blurts out, cringing as she adds, “in a way…”
“Like me?”
Ebony squeezes her eyes closed, letting her chin drop to her chest. “Description-wise, twins!” She lifts her head with tears of laughter in her eyes.
“Oh, this ought to be good.” I tip her chin up to read her expression. “Don’t hold out now. I’m dying to know why I have—”
