Chapter Eight
For the dozenth time in the last five minutes Luke ran his hands through his hair, going over and over in his mind the list he’d created. He wanted tonight to be perfect and he was a little afraid he was going to make himself crazy trying to deliver that.
He’d lined up some tea candles on the front porch, lighting a path to the front door. Then he’d laid out more of the tiny candles in a line to the front reception room, where he’d used a sheet to cover his old, lumpy couch. A battered coffee table held a bucket of ice and a bottle of decent champagne sat cooling. He’d had to buy proper glasses at the store – tonight there would be no toasting with old, chipped mugs.
Then in his bedroom he’d bought a small vase and spent time picking some of the wild flowers from his yard.
