He’d checked into the Heart Sent late yesterday afternoon and enjoyed a hunk of coffee cake—screw his trainer’s no-sugar mantra—and a glass of hibiscus tea with the owner, Mimi Pendergrass. She was a real firecracker, a tell-it-like-it-is kind of woman with a shrewd gaze that he bet sized him up before he took his first bite of coffee cake. She’d asked about the wedding and Chicago, said she’d always liked Charlie and thought he’d found a slice of happiness in Magdalena, despite his tormented soul. What to say to that? Look closer and you’ll see a chunk of genuine Grade-A torment living and breathing right in front of you. Hell no. Harry changed the subject to his niece’s wedding, polished off the rest of his coffee cake, and excused himself to get ready to head over to the Desantros’ home.

He liked Miriam and Lily, and Christine’s mountain-man fiancé wasn’t bad either. The guy actually seemed happy that he was tying the knot. Hmm. Harry wanted to ask him if he was just the tiniest bit gun-shy since his first attempt at the marriage gig failed but then he reconsidered it. Even he knew some things were better left unsaid.

Harry removed the plastic from his dress shirt, unbuttoned the top three buttons. Nothing like a starched shirt and the right tie to boost a man’s ego and get him an extra look or two from the opposite sex…married and unmarried. He eased his arm into the white crispness of the shirt, inhaled the fresh scent. Oh, yeah, clothes did make the man, at least in Harry Blacksworth’s world. Wonder what Nate Desantro was wearing today? Dear God, anything but flannel and jeans. Chrissie told him she didn’t care what he chose, and the brightness in those blue eyes said she wasn’t joking.

Aw, hell. This was going to be a fashion disaster, but so what? The guy was honest, kept his word, and worshipped Christine. Nothing pompous or self-serving about him, not like that jerk Connor Pendleton. Harry checked his watch again. Ten minutes and he’d have to head out. He pulled on his trousers, grabbed his belt. He wasn’t big on marriage and he sure as hell didn’t enjoy weddings. What was the point when most of the unions weren’t going to make the five-year mark, and if they did, not without a helluva lot of collateral damage? Wasn’t it a lot easier on the wallet and the emotions to just change partners every season, the way you switched out your wardrobe? Summer seersucker? I’ll take the blonde with the long legs. Fall gabardine? How about the redhead with the sexy smile? Winter wool had to be the brunette with the DDD cup. Okay, so maybe that was cold, but did a guy really want to tie himself up with feelings? The thought of it made him wish he had a double scotch to blur the notion.