You May Kiss the Bridesmaid Page 6
The breakfast hall is wide and airy; the far-back wall is entirely made of floor-to-ceiling windows and overlooks the vineyards. In the morning light, the view is stunning. Orderly rows of vines stretch beyond the horizon and disappear behind a hill to reappear over the next crest. Roses blossom at the head of each row. And the sky is a glorious blue without a cloud in sight.
Someone shoulder-bumps into me. “Nice, uh?”
I turn to find my best friend and groom extraordinaire standing next to me, a plate filled to the brim with French toast in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Logan is rocking the nerdy-but-hot professor look: messy dark hair, green eyes hidden behind black-rimmed computer glasses he doesn’t need but insists on wearing when not on a trip, white dress shirt, and chinos. If this weren’t his wedding, he’d be a great wingman, like he’s proved on many past occasions. Good thing I’m all set for the week.
“Logie Bear.” I give him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
He eyes me suspiciously. “Are you coming wine tasting dressed like this?”
Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about the week of meticulously planned “fun” the wedding party is supposed to have.
“No worries, man. I’ll grab a quick breakfast and then I’ll go get changed.”
“Why don’t you join me and Winter, we snatched a window table and there’s still room.”
“Great, let me get some food first and I’ll be right there.”
In a corner of the room, long, rectangular wooden tables covered by white cloths offer a vast assortment of breakfast treats both sweet and savory. I keep it simple and opt for a classic, piling a plate with blueberry pancakes. To complete the meal, I order a cappuccino at the bar and go join Winter and Logan at their table.
The soon-to-be Mrs. Spencer salutes me with a scowl frighteningly similar to that of her twin. Even if the differences between the two sisters couldn’t be more staggering. A short-but-intense acquaintance with one of them makes me enough of an expert to pick them apart with my eyes blindfolded.
Winter is all about casual clothes, messy curls, and chewed-up nails. Whereas Summer keeps her hair straightened to death, is primped to the bone even while wearing gym sweats, and has perfectly manicured nails—fingers and toes.
“Oh, look who decided to show up,” Winter says.
Guess I deserved this jab.
“Come on, Snowflake.” I take the chair next to her and make doe-y eyes. “You know you can’t stay mad at me.”
The bride-to-be pouts.
“If you smile, I’ll tell you about that time Logan and I went to Jordan.”
“Man, not that story.” Logan groans and gets up, saying, “I want some extra cinnamon, you guys need anything?”
We both shake our heads, so Logan goes.
Once he’s a few steps away, I bat my lashes at Winter. “Are you still mad?”
She’s about to crack, when Tucker also joins the table, showing an even more pronounced sour-pussy attitude and ruining all my hard work in mollifying the bride-to-be.
“Good to see you aren’t dead,” he says in place of hello.
I study him. Curly brown hair, big brown eyes, trustworthy face. Dressed in a polo shirt and short cargo pants, he’s the personification of a good boy. Guess he could do as a replacement wingman. We’ll see.
“Guys, relax,” I say, defending myself. “I missed one meeting, you don’t need to get all touchy-feely on me.”
“Easy for you to say,” Winter mopes. “It’s not your wedding.”
“And,” Tucker piles more crap on my plate, “you haven’t been spending the last thirty days planning it. Did you at least remember the rings?”
Barely.
“Of course, man, I wouldn’t forget something so important. Listen, guys, yesterday I got held up in Berkley and I was late, but now”—I place my right hand over my heart and solemnly raise the other to take a sacred oath—“I’m here, one hundred percent invested in this wedding and ready to perform my best man duties.”
Tucker sits at the table, giving me a skeptically raised eyebrow, but Winter is working hard at suppressing a smile.
“All right, Golden Boy,” she says. “You get a pass, but no more screw-ups.”
Duly chastised, I nod, hoping getting naked with the bride’s sister won’t count as a screw-up.
Speaking of the devil. An image of naked, panting Summer has just appeared before my eyes when the lady materializes in the flesh behind me.
I know because Winter is waving and calling her over to our table, and even if I can’t see her, I can almost picture Summer spotting me, furiously trying to come up with an excuse not to join her sister’s table, failing, and coming over looking irresistibly pissy.
“Hey.” Summer joins our group.
She takes the last free chair next to Tucker and does her best to avoid meeting my eye, looking as subtly on edge as I predicted. But I’m sure only I can tell she’s nervous.
“Hey,” Tucker says back.
“Hi,” I say, infusing the perfect amount of charm into the greeting. And then, just because, I decide to rock her boat a little. “Good to see you again so soon.”
Winter stares back and forth between us. “You two know each other?”
The question prompts Summer to almost choke on the mini muffin she was eating, making her splutter and cough all over the place, her face turning beetroot red. It remains to be seen if it’s from the lack of oxygen or from embarrassment. Gosh, the woman is terrible at keeping her cool under pressure. She really doesn’t come across as the had-a-months-long-affair-with-my-best-friend’s-boyfriend type.
To put her out of her misery, I say, “We were just partnered up in yoga class.” Then, turning to Winter, I add, “Hard to miss the resemblance.”
Winter narrows her eyes at me and leans forward on her elbows. “Yo, Golden Boy, dial down the charm a notch, won’t you? My sister is off-limits.”
Oops.
Guess this answers my earlier question.
“Hey,” I self-deprecate a little. “I’m sure your sister has better things to do than mingle with the likes of me.”
I give Summer a mischievous wink, and she stares daggers back at me while pretending to sip her latte.
“No, you’re right,” Winter says. “My sister isn’t looking for a relationship right now.”
“Oh, is that the case?” I ask.
This is so much fun.
“Yes,” Winter replies. “Sammy has sworn off men for a while.”
“Has she?” I ask. “And how’s that working out for you, Sammy?”
And if looks could kill…
Summer’s lips part in a kill-them-with-kindness smile so viciously polite it lets me know just how much dirt I’ll have to eat later. “Best decision of my life,” she says.
That’s when Logan rejoins the table, asking, “What did I miss?”
And I’d pay gold to know what everyone is thinking. Winter is clueless about the tension between me and her sister. Tucker is looking at me funny; he may suspect something. And Summer is turning my insides out with the fierceness of her blue glare. I can’t wait to have some angry sex with her later. Today I’m in the mood for a little bite.
“I was about to tell the Jordan story,” I say, finally cutting Summer a break.
“Do you really have to?” Logan protests. “I still cringe every time I think about it.”
“What did you guys do?” Winter asks.
After an imperceptible “you’re welcome I got you off the hook” nod at Summer, I launch into my narration. “Let me set the mood first. Imagine the sun setting on a scorching day while two lone figures come back from the desert. Rid of their mounts, they walk the city on foot. The men are sweaty, dusty, and, frankly, in need of a good shower. But also famished.”
“You can stop speaking in third person,” Winter says.
“Okay, Snowflake, but you’re ruining my storytelling mojo,” I
say, and resume my narration, switching to first person. “End of the day, we were dirty and exhausted, but even hungrier, so at the first open-air restaurant we saw on the way back to the hotel, we forfeited personal hygiene in favor of a good meal and sat at a table.”
Logan puts a hand over his eyes and shakes his head.
“Problem was,” I continue, “our Arabic wasn’t up to par, and neither was the servers’ English at this particular establishment. Our only option left to order was to point at other people’s plates and, what do you know, it worked. They brought us food and water, and only then we noticed there wasn’t any cutlery on the table. We tried asking a server with various degrees of gesticulating, but it became the dude’s turn to point at the other patrons of the restaurant, who were all eating with their hands. Okay, we said, now convinced we were at some kind of super traditional restaurant, and ate with our hands. The dish turned out to be delicious, a mysterious mix of meat and rice and spices and whatnot. When we finished our portion, they brought us more, and not just once but twice. At this point, Logan and I began to wonder if we hadn’t fall victim to a scam and how much the bill was going to be. But, as per the language barrier, we had no way of explaining we were full. So, we sat and finished everything they brought us, down to the final dessert and tea.”
Logan scoffs. “The cake should’ve been our clue, man.”
“Why?” Winter asks, looking between me and her husband-to-be. “What happened?”
“In a minute,” I say. “We finished eating and asked for the bill, of course without success. To make the server understand, I took a wad of cash out of my wallet and waved it in his face. My gosh, the humiliation.” I pass a hand over my face. “The waiter stubbornly refused to take my money. I was about to get up and forcibly stick the bills in his pocket when the music started and, tah-dah… the bride and groom walked center stage and began to dance…” I pause a moment for suspense. “And that’s how Logan and I accidentally crashed a Jordan wedding, ate traditional mansaf with our hands, and lived another day to tell the tale.”
Everyone around the table chuckles. Even Summer’s lips are curled up in the hint of a smile that positively disappears when I wink at her.
***
The breakfast party breaks up soon afterward. Summer escapes to her room the moment she’s taken her last bite of toast, claiming she has to go get changed. Winter and Logan are already dressed for the day, so they spend more time enjoying their coffee and the view while Tucker and I leave a few minutes after Summer. Our rooms are adjoining, so we walk together through the reception toward the elevators. We’re about to get in when a tall, slender woman with light-brown skin, a halo of curls, and striking aquamarine eyes calls after us, “Excuse me? Are you the wedding planner for the Spencer Knowles wedding?”
Tucker sighs. “I’m not a wedding planner, I work logistics, and okay, I’m good with checklists and in-depth planning, stocking, organizing… but I never asked for this job. And I can’t remember how they roped me into it, but now I’m stuck having to organize themes, color schemes, frocks, seating arrangements…”
“Fair enough,” the gorgeous lady says… and if I didn’t have my hands already full for the week, I’d probably choose this moment to make a brilliant comment and woo the missus. Instead, I keep quiet as she continues, “But you did plan this wedding, right?” And before Tucker can reply, she raises her hands, adding, “And before you tell me your entire life’s history again, this is a simple yes or no question.”
Tucker pouts. “Yeah, I’m planning this wedding.”
“There you go.” Feisty Curls smiles. “I’m Christian Slade’s PA. I’m sure you’re aware he’s on the guest list and will be in attendance over the weekend.”
“Yes.” Tucker grits his teeth. “I can read RSVP responses.”
“Good for you.” Her smile widens. “Anyway, I need to review a few security adjustments with you.”
The elevator dings open behind us, and Tucker takes a step back inside. “Well, next time you need someone’s help, I suggest you try not being rude to them.”
My friend gestures for me to come into the elevator. I do, and am as surprised as Feisty Curls when he pushes the button to our floor without another word.
The woman is too stunned by his reaction to block the closing doors, but we can still hear her protests as the elevator climbs up. “What? I wasn’t rude! Hey, you can’t just leave… We need to talk… Come back…!”
The rest of her recriminations are muffled as we get past the first floor.
I low-whistle to my friend. “Man, that was some attitude.”
Tucker is universally acknowledged as the friendly teddy bear type. I swear, in all our years of friendship I’ve never seen him react this way to anyone, no matter how nasty the person.
“Well, could you believe her? She drops some famous person’s name and expects the entire world to fall at her feet. Not gonna happen.”
“Good for you.” I jokingly punch him in the shoulder. “Show her who’s boss. And a word of advice, if I may?”
Tucker glares at my sarcasm.
“You should bed the lady, she’s a hottie.”
Tucker snorts. “Yeah, as if that is gonna happen after our sweet meet-cute. Can you believe she didn’t even introduce herself? Just name-dropped her boss. Rude.”
“Dude, I can’t believe how much she has you worked up with a five-minute conversation.” The elevator dings open to our floor. “You should explore that chemistry.” I exit, making a military salute. “See you downstairs in a bit.”
We walk down the corridor to our respective doors.
“Don’t be late,” Tucker says, pausing on the threshold. “I’m keeping a fifteen-minute grace period, but then we leave.”
Mock-grave, I nod and unlock my door. Tucker shakes his head and disappears inside his room.
After a quick shower, I stop in front of the closet mirror and feel a little girly as I debate how to dress to better impress another feisty lady. Is Summer the loose, light sweater kind or a fitted T-shirt lover?
Since I’m her first beard, I decide to make the fantasy complete for her and opt for a subtle lumberjack look: faded jeans slightly loose on the hips, boots, tight-fitting black T, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt.
Irresistible and ready to rock.
Pity the sight that awaits me downstairs couldn’t be any less rock ’n’ roll if it tried. Outside the main hotel entrance, a bus is parked with its engine running while small groups of wedding guests pile in. Okay, I guess I’ve suddenly turned eighty and am going on a trip with my fellow assisted living inmates. I’m half tempted to flip the bus the finger and take the bike; but, to be fair, we’re going wine tasting, so maybe being chauffeured around—no matter how uncool the vehicle—has its merits.
A hand slaps me on the shoulder, followed by Tucker’s voice. “Come on, buddy, let’s hop in. We don’t want to be late.”
I follow him inside, craning my neck to check where Summer is and what she’s doing, but all I can see is a glint of blonde hair at the rear end of the bus. The lady is doing her best not to look up, and I can’t even tell how she’s dressed. She’s seated in an aisle seat, the window one left empty, a clear message that she wants to ride alone. Regretfully, I’ve no plausible excuse to disrupt that plan, or even pass by to say hello. When Tucker takes a window seat halfway down the bus, I’ve no other choice than to sit next to him.
The bus fills up quickly, a mixed group of personalities. The academics are easy to pick out, and not just because I know some of them from past expeditions. They’re a distinctive bunch, and mostly fit into the serious, bespectacled stereotype. Except for Giovanni, a young Italian archeologist who is the Yin to my Yang: dark hair, darker eyes, tanned skin—cool to the bone, interesting competition with the ladies. We’ve had more than a few cases of overlapping interests in that department while Logan and I spent a month in Rome doing research for one of our trips.
“Archibald, my friend. Long time no see, too long. We have so much catching up to do.”
“Good thing we have a week of booze tasting ahead of us and nothing else to do.”
However brief, our conversation causes a line to form behind Giovanni, a single file of people extending outside the bus. The woman waiting at his heels stares at us passively-aggressively enough to prompt Giovanni to move on.
“All right, man. I’ll see you later.”
The moment Giovanni moves toward the back of the bus, the joy of seeing an old friend is replaced by a prickling sense of unease. What if he tries to grab the free spot next to Summer? I take more time than necessary to sit, following my friend’s progress. True to expectations, Giovanni pauses next to Summer, staring hopefully at the empty seat to her left, but she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge his presence, never raising her gaze from her phone. Giovanni can only move forward.
With a sigh of relief, I settle back in my seat, proud of my ice queen. She sure has mastered the cold shoulder treatment. I hope never to get on the wrong side of that attitude.
In the next few minutes, the bus quickly fills up almost to full capacity. The driver peeks back over his shoulder, asking no one in particular, “Are we good to go?”
Tucker stares at his watch, probably checking if the fifteen-minute grace period has expired, and yells, “Let’s go.”
The driver pushes a button to close the front doors, but before they lock, a scream comes from the yard, “Wait!”
The driver reopens the doors and Feisty Curls climbs in, panting as if she’d just run a long distance.
Next to me, Tucker stiffens, while pointedly staring out the window.
Miss Feisty Curls takes a quick scan of the seating arrangements, ignoring the few empty seats remaining in the front to head our way.
She stops beside me. “Excuse me?”
I give her a thirty-two-teeth smile, mostly to rattle Tucker. “How can I be of assistance?”
“Would you mind sitting somewhere else? I have to talk to your friend.”