“You and Tate certainly looked cozy out there on the dance floor yesterday.”
There it was, tossed right in her face. If Rose Donovan had her say-so, Charlotte and her nemesis would be picking out china patterns next week. Not. Going. To. Happen. But there had been that night in Chicago… She shoved the memories from her brain, willed herself to remain calm as she met her mother’s gaze and said in a casual manner, “Mom, you have a strange definition of cozy. You forced me to dance with him.” She picked up a cinnamon roll, studied the swirls of thick frosting. “And why on earth Aunt Camille thought it appropriate to invite him to Rogan’s wedding is something I will never understand.”
Of course, that wasn’t exactly true. Charlotte understood why her aunt had extended the invitation. The woman was trying to match them up, as if that were going to happen. She’d tried years ago, and it looked like she hadn’t given up.
You two are meant to be together, she’d said the first time she tried to arrange a date between them. Just wait until you spend time with him. Tate’s kind and generous and he has a rather wicked sense of humor. He’s not like the other Alexander men. You’ll see. Oh, she’d seen all right. The jerk had stood her up!
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