“And too old for you.”

“We love each other.”

“He thought he loved someone else once.”

“I know, but—”

“But it didn’t last.” Her mother had tossed her dusting rag into a plastic bucket that held cleaning supplies. “Just give it time.” She had sighed and rubbed the kinks from the back of her neck. “Real love isn’t impatient.”

“Why wait?”

“Why rush in?”

“Because Philip wants to,” she’d argued.

“This shouldn’t be all his decision, honey. You’re talking about marriage. Two people. Give and take. I know I’m not one to talk because I’ve never walked down the aisle, but I just think you should slow down a little. Date boys your own age.”

That was the trouble. They were boys. Tiffany had never felt comfortable with them. They were too young, too immature, too stupid. Philip was none of those things and as she watched him now, walking briskly between the rows of beribboned chairs, his hair starting to gray at the temples, his smile fixed and professional, she felt an inward satisfaction that this man loved her.

Unlike the father who had abandoned her and her mother before she’d been born.

“Hi,” she said as Philip stopped at the table on his way to the bar where Santini wines were being served.

“Hi.”

“Everything set?”

“Looks like.” She smiled up at him and Philip winked at her.

“Good job, kiddo. I’ll see you later.” He disappeared into the throng of guests that were arriving as if in a fleet. Valets parked cars, the pianist played, she and Mary Beth served and the best Chardonnay, Chablis, and claret the Santini Brothers Winery offered flowed like water. Guests in designer gowns and expensive suits talked, drank and nibbled at the appetizers.

The bride and groom cut the cake, sipped from crystal glasses, smiled and glowed, then started the dancing on a platform set near a waterfall and fishpond.

The scene was romantic and Tiffany told herself to be practical; she didn’t need this kind of expensive wedding and reception. She wasn’t interested in limos and a designer wedding dress and all the show. She just wanted to marry Philip.

She was standing at her post, nearly forgotten as the guests had gathered around the bar and dance floor, when she caught her first glimpse of the stranger.

Tall, lean, hard as nails, this was a man who obviously didn’t belong with the others.

In faded jeans and a matching jacket tossed over a white T-shirt, he stalked toward her tent. Tinted glasses covered his eyes and yet she could feel him staring at her with such intensity she wanted to run away. She didn’t. Instead she managed a frosty smile. “May I help you?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re with the Ingles party?”

“If this is the Ingles party.”