Heartbeat pounding in her ears, heels of her designer shoes clacking on the marble flooring, Taylor Thompson ran as fast as she dared in the heavy, beaded, floor-length Versace gown. She’d chosen it specifically for the River Grove Valentine’s Day gala, extravagant even for the high-end affair, but until the tapered skirt was strangling her ankles with each quickening step she hadn’t imagined it’d be inhibiting her escape.

She tugged the hemline as high as her calves, steered clear of the ladies’ room—no doubt teeming with primped, classy women who were also attending the gala—and ducked into the coatroom.

At least she’d thought it was a coat “room.”

Now that she’d shut the door behind her, the tight, dark space felt more like a coat cracker box.

No matter. She just needed thirty seconds to herself, away from onlookers. Without having to pretend she didn’t know she was about to be proposed to.

God. A proposal.

She’d attended the gala every year save one—the year she traveled to Miami during a college vacation with her friends—so she never thought much of going. She’d never thought of not going. It was what the kids of River Grove did.

Here, being wealthy wasn’t an option, it was a requirement.

Her family had helped build this town—along with her date’s, Brannon Knox’s, family. The Thompsons and Knoxes were known for founding one of the biggest tech companies in the nation. The ThomKnox Group was started by her late father, Charles, and Brannon’s father, Jack, some twenty-six years ago, when Taylor was two years old.

It seemed that tonight Brannon was attempting a merger of a different style.

“Brannon Knox, what were you thinking?”

To be fair, she should ask herself exactly the same question. When he’d asked her to come as his date tonight, she should have said no. Instead, she’d chickened out, agreeing to one last event before having the discussion she should have had with him three weeks ago. The one where she said something to the effect of, “This isn’t working. Let’s be friends.”

Aware she couldn’t finish out the party in the closet, Taylor considered her options. She couldn’t dart into the ladies’ room and face Mrs. Mueller or Patsy Sheffield. They were sweet, and had been nothing but lovely after her father died last fall, but they were also...involved. She didn’t need the entire town gossiping about her hiding from her date—and Patsy and Mrs. Mueller would happily start that rumor.

Was it considered a rumor if it was true?

If it hadn’t been for her father losing his battle with cancer not so long ago, she probably never would’ve dated Brannon. They’d known each other a lifetime, but the attraction simply hadn’t been there.

Explaining that to him was never going to be fun. Sorry, Bran. I only dated you because I was sad and in some way hoped it’d please my father from beyond the grave. Now with an engagement on the line, explaining to Bran that she should’ve said no—before tonight—would be more agonizing.

“Dammit!” Fists balled, she stomped one high heel into the floor in frustration. It was hot in here and the room was closing in on her.

Deciding to find a bigger space in which to gather her thoughts, she reached for the doorknob. Wiggling it once, then twice, didn’t help. The third time wasn’t the charm—the antique knob had an antique lock fixture that had engaged.

“Crap.” Sweat beaded on her brow as she jiggled harder, and she suddenly wished she’d carried her clutch in with her instead of leaving it on the table in Addison’s care. At least then she would’ve had the light from her phone.

She wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but the options of suffocating in a coat closet or passing out from panic weren’t good ones.

The instant she’d observed Brannon admiring the ring nestled in the Tiffany & Co. blue box backstage, she should have handled the situation. Where was a time machine when she needed one?

She strained to hear music or voices. Not a single sound infiltrated her insulated new home. Giving up on the doorknob, she backed up to throw her shoulder into the panel and bust herself out, when the door swung open, easy as you please.

Silhouetted in the frame was a pair of imposing shoulders in a black tuxedo jacket, long legs in matching trousers, and above that shadowed, sharp jaw she could easily imagine a frown.

Brannon’s older brother.

“Taylor? What the hell are you doing in here?” Curiosity lined Royce Knox’s voice. Even though he wasn’t yelling at her, and even though he scared her about as much as a passing butterfly, her building anxiety pushed forth a gusty breath.

“Royce, thank God.” She gripped his forearms. Over the material of his jacket she could make out the corded muscle, the sinew that made up those damned attractive arms. Once, years ago, she’d stumbled on her way to the limo and he’d been there to catch her. She was sixteen years old when she gripped his arms then. They weren’t as muscular or thick as they were now, but the fluttery feeling in her belly was the same. When it came to Royce, there was never any question if she was

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