“Truce,” I try to plead.
He shakes his head, his grin wide but not showing his sexy teeth.
His meat-sauce-covered hand comes closer. I close my eyes with a grimace, arms up at chest level in front of me as buffers. The heat of his body reaches me as he stops just inches away—his firm, bare chest against my fingers. His breathing calms beneath my touch, his heart thudding in contrast. My own heart beats in my ears in the calm before the expected storm. It feels like minutes pass before I garner the courage to open my eyes a crack.
“You’re trouble,” Keats says, voice coarse. His eyes flick down to my lips, and memories of our last kiss flood me. A hand cups my jaw as he presses his body against me. I stop breathing…until his face breaks out into a wide grin as he wipes said hand all the way down my neck, stopping just short of the neckline of my dress. He rubs his torso against mine for good measure, sparking pleasant little fires throughout my body, and making it difficult to care that he’s smudged salsa all over my outfit. “Red looks good on you, Hay-gen.”
He’s smiling so broadly, he’s in danger of biting his fingers as he sucks the sauce off them.
I give him a half-hearted death stare—more to maim than kill. “You bastard. Now I need to get changed again.”
When I return, he greets me with, “Honestly, the things you do to avoid eating your vegies.” He points at his suit slacks. There’s a dollop of salsa on them that I wouldn’t have noticed, considering my eyes were stuck to his still-bare torso. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure.” I’m breathless as I squeeze that word out. “Towels are under the sink.”
I grab the dustpan and brush to sweep the salad off the floor. Unfurling about half a roll of paper towel, I wipe the sauce off the surfaces in my kitchen. There are even splotches on the wall that need cleaning, all the way to where the ceiling meets it. I climb a chair to reach the stain, going on tiptoes to get to the spots over the table.
“Careful.”
The unexpected warning behind me has the opposite effect. Startled, I sway on my feet, splaying my hands against the smooth wall and finding no purchase. I begin to slide off till strong fingers dig into my hips, stopping me from crashing down on my furniture.
I raise my arms to steady myself, until I regain my footing. Self-consciously, I slap Keats’ hands away from my sides before I slowly turn around. Like the first two, I chose this third dress to hide my problem areas—an illusion that doesn’t quite work if he’s got his fingers right on my flab.
My jaw drops and I almost fall off the chair again when I see what Keats is wearing. Or rather, not wearing. He’s bare footed with one of my pink towels wrapped low around his narrow hips.
“You okay?” He offers me a hand as I step down.
“Yep.” I am unable to look below his neck or else I’d ogle where his hard body meets my pink towel. Or worse yet, lower down. “Why are you naked?”
“I hand-washed my pants, and I thought it’d be weird to walk around in a towel with socks and shoes on,” he explains, looking down at his attire.
My eyes dip to his pebbled nipples. He crosses his arms in front of them. “It’s cold in here.”
I walk over to the kitchen window and close it.
“What are we doing now for dinner?” he asks, sitting at my little table. He has an elbow resting on the back of his chair, unknowingly giving me a great view of his side muscles.
“You still hungry?” I’m surprised he hasn’t left yet.
“We haven’t eaten. We seem to have skipped the meal and got down to the nudity first—interestingly, not unlike how my Friday nights used to be.”
I roll my eyes at him, shaking my head. He just laughs off my exaggerated show of disdain.
“Well, you got to choose the first dinner. You trust me to choose the next one?”
He shrugs a sexy shoulder, the light freckles on it distracting. “Sure. But I reserve the right to throw it at you.”
As long as he stays in just that towel, he can do whatever he wants.
Chapter 15
Mid-July
I’m going cross-eyed with envy. I can’t take my eyes away from Isabella and Byron so touchy feely with him sitting in an armchair, and her perched on the arm, leaning against him. It’s like they need to be physically touching at all times. She plays with a strand of his hair near his temple while he talks to Isabella’s cousin who works in Hollywood. And instead of telling her to stop, Byron actually turns to his fiancée with a lovesick smile that puts an ache to my chest.
“You’re staring.”
I jump a little but keep my expression passive as Keats stands right next to me by the doorway to the Harpers’ kitchen. Around us, the happy couple’s engagement party is in full swing.
“Just looking for chinks in their love armour,” I tell Keats. I’m so glad he hasn’t gone with his initial idea of bringing a date to make Isabella jealous. The only one the ploy would’ve worked on is me.
“Any luck?”
I shake my head. “They’re so sweet, I want to vomit.” Totally true. Though part of me wants to have exactly the same thing with the guy standing next to me.
Keats chuckles without humour.
“How are you handling having her back in the country?” I don’t need to say who. We’ve been talking about the same “her” for the last three months. The “her” who breezed back into town last night with a platinum “engagement” band for her fiancé that he’s now proudly wearing on his left hand.
“Not as tough as I thought, especially since she’s staying here with her parents while she’s in Brisbane. I don’t think I could handle…it’d suck more if she and Byron were down the hall the whole time. I’m sure you know they spent the night here last night.”
I nod. It’s not a good sign that seeing his ex with his brother still bothers Keats this much.
“She’s looking good, huh?” he comments, eyes still on his ex-girlfriend.
Ouch. I cringe internally, my expertise at keeping my feelings to myself coming in handy.
Keats is surreptitiously watching Isabella who’s gazing at Byron who only seems to have eyes for Isabella. No one is looking at Keats, except me, and he’s not paying attention to me at all. This is totally fucked up.
“She’s getting ready for their wedding, which is in four months,” I remind him because he seems to need it.
It’s his turn to cringe, the comment breaking the Isabella-induced trance he seems to have been under.
“That’s still a lot of time,” he says, mouth harsh as he takes another swig of his beer. “I can work with four months.”
“Yeah? How?” What’s he planning? I narrow my eyes at him but he just winks at me. “You coming to Moreton Island for the bridal party bonding next weekend?” I ask instead.
“Guess so. The more time I can spend with Isabella, the better,” he says, taking another quick slug of his drink.
The clink of metal on glass interrupts our plotting.
“Speech! Speech!” some arsehole yells, obviously not considering the fact I have nothing upbeat to say about the happy couple. Shit. I hate public speaking. I’ve always been somewhat of a loner for a reason.
Guests stop their chatter and look around till they spot Keats and me standing together. Even the guests of honour turn to us.
“Ladies first,” Keats says, behind another sip of his beer. He gives me the slightest of shoves when I don’t budge.
“Um, hi. I’m Jess—the maid of honour.” I look over my shoulder at Keats who unhelpfully returns my gaze with an amused grin. I thought preparing one for the wedding reception was tough enough. “I, um, just want to congratulate Isabella and Byron, and…wish them all the best with their long-distance relationship. It’s, um, great they found each other, and um, it must be tough not seeing each other, and being surrounded by temptation. But they look like they’re doing okay. Probably because Byron’s not a cheating bastard like Isabella’s first fiancé. So that’s, um, great�
��Um, congratulations…again.” I lift up my glass of water and drain it, hoping people would assume it’s vodka and excuse my crappy speech.
“Cheers!” Keats says heartily, the only one to applaud my piss-poor performance with any kind of enthusiasm. “Okay, must be my turn. Well, I’m Keats—Byron’s older brother and the best man. Byron and I met Isabella at the same time, and as always, the boy genius realised a good thing when he saw it, before I did. Sixteen years later, we’re here celebrating their engagement.” Keats raises his beer, prompting the other guests to do the same. “To ending up with the one we’re supposed to be with.”
The crowd cheers genuinely while Keats downs the rest of his drink. He sees me watching him, and gives me a wink. His sly smile tells me his closing statement didn’t mean the engaged couple.
“Subtle,” I say quietly to my “partner in crime” while Mr Harper warns Byron to cherish his only child, or else, during his speech.
“I thought so. What about you? Could you be more jealous of Isabella? For someone not making a big move on Byron, I was sensing some bitterness,” he teases but with an edge to his voice.
“You’re bitter,” I retort, resisting the urge to poke my tongue out at him. His smirk tells me he sensed my supressed childish impulse. “I guess it’s easier to demonise her than to admit I have no idea how to get the guy.”
He’s not the only one who can mean something other than what he’s saying, but unlike me, Keats seems totally clueless to my double entendre.
Mr Harper finishes his speech when he gets too choked up to continue. Isabella runs up to her father and wraps him in a hug, inciting a collective “aww” around the room. Byron waits behind her, giving the older man a consoling pat on the back and they start chatting while the festivities gradually resume.
Keats watches the exchange, drains another bottle of beer, and excuses himself before he walks away. My stomach knots with jealousy at both Isabella’s relationship with her father, and Keats’ reaction to her. I stay near the wall and people watch. I hate how much Keats still seems to care for the bride. He was fine during my second driving lesson last weekend, jokey and cocky as usual. But it seems that as soon as Isabella came back to town, it was his good humour’s turn to leave.
I notice Mia and Penny chatting near a bookshelf where there’s a framed photograph of Keats and Isabella at the Year 12 formal—I’ve been jealous of that photo for eleven years, even though they hadn’t actually gone to the event together. Mia’s daughter whizzes past my ex-classmates, playing chase with Isabella’s cousins’ children, as well as the older members of Fiona’s brood. Fiona is plopped down on a sofa, looking more exhausted and haggard than usual while her portly husband ferries drinks and snacks to her.
“Hi, Jess.” I look away from the sweat-drenched Fiona and find Isabella standing in front of me. “Nice speech. Could you, uh, maybe make it more upbeat at the wedding, please?” she says with a little laugh to soften her request.
“Yeah, I didn’t realise we had to make a speech today. Maybe Penny or Mia can do it at the reception for you?”
“No,” Isabella says, unable to give up on anyone as usual. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job. And you’re the maid of honour. I want you to do it.”
She smiles at me encouragingly, and I instantly get choked up. It’s not always easy to dislike Isabella.
“Okay,” I manage to say past the lump in my throat.
“Actually, could I ask you another favour? Could you run interference between my mother and Aunty Heather? The in-law wars have begun. They’re getting on each other’s nerves already. Oh, hey, Keats,” she says as her ex-boyfriend joins us. Her slightly high pitched tone and the way her eyes can’t seem to stay on his tell me she’s still uncomfortable around the guy she cheated on.
I do a quick study of Keats’ face. He doesn’t seem to realise how much his eyes reveal all his questions for her.
“I was just asking Jess to help me with Mum and…Mum,” Isabella continues, still avoiding looking at him. “They’re bickering about the centre piece on the dessert table, and I’d rather not touch that with a ten-foot pole. Would you be able to help with that?”
Isabella’s mobile phone suddenly rings. She looks at the screen and says, “It’s Sofie—my friend from uni. I’d better take this,” before walking away.
“Well, at least she’s back to talking to me,” Keats says, his tone filled with irony.
“She’s not going to get the ‘friend’ vibe off you if you keep looking at her expectantly.”
He turns to me with a surprised expression, as if he didn’t realise he was being so obvious.
“Come on, time to deal with the in-laws,” I say. “You know, if you manage to pull off your little scheme, it’ll be the same shit you’ll have to deal with—Isabella’s mum and yours competing for the title of Best Mother.”
“I better go practise,” he says, in his usual unfazed manner. “Anyhow, Aunty Lorenda loves me, so I’m not too worried.”
“All right, you sweet talk her, and I’ll take on your mother.”
We head outside without getting accosted, unlike the engaged couple whom everyone stops to talk to. At the dessert table, we find the two mothers. They seem to have moved on from the centre piece to how the dessert selection should be laid out.
“Hey, Aunty Lorenda,” Keats drawls, draping an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. “That looks fantastic. Did you make the crème caramel? You know, the gifts table is overflowing. Could you show me where to put the pressies? Maybe I can stash some away for you now.”
He leads Isabella’s mother away towards the house, looking over his shoulder at me only once to flash me a triumphant wink. Heather is too busy to notice. She’s moving delectable desserts around the long table now that no one is around to stop her.
“Don’t you think the fresh cream should be next to the apple pie?” Heather takes a step back, thumb and forefinger cradling her chin as she considers the new configuration. “Lorenda insists it should be at the end of the buffet with the sprinkles and chocolate sauce.”
Oh, my God. Is this what it comes down to one day? Kill me now.
“Why don’t we do both?” I grab a disposable plastic bowl from the stack at one end of the buffet table, spoon out some cream into it and place that next to the pie with a plastic spoon for serving. “I love what you’ve done with your hair and make-up today,” I tell her, partly to distract her from her obsession with the food in front of us, and partly because it’s totally true.
“Henrique is just wonderful. It’s really easy to style,” she tells me with a grin framed by blood red lips that probably have her eldest son cringing because she looks damn sexy.
I notice someone stealing glances in our direction. “Seems I’m not the only one who’s noticed how fabulous you look. You know him?” I nod as subtly as I can over her shoulder to the tall, older gentleman balancing a plastic plate of Mrs Harper’s noodles—there is nowhere else to sit and eat it. All the plastic chairs are spoken for.
Heather immediately looks over her shoulder. Subtle. Now I know where Keats gets his impulsive side from.
“Wave at him,” I instruct.
Heather wiggles the tips of her fingers at her admirer, catching him so much by surprise he almost drops the noodles onto the Harpers’ lawn. He recovers just in time to catch his meal, and return Keats’ mother’s wave. Busted, he crosses the yard to come over to us, flashing Heather a wry smile that I’m sure can send women’s hearts a flutter if they’re into that Harrison Ford, older-man-sex-appeal thing.
“Hello, stranger. I wasn’t sure it was you, Heather. You look lovely today. More than lovely.”
“Hi, Pete.” Her eyes are on his shoes, a blush spreading from her cheeks, down her neck and creeping to the vee-neckline of her red wrap around dress. “It’s all Jess here—she’s helped give me a make-over. Jess this is Pete Barker—the father of one of the groomsmen. Pete, this is Jess, one of Isabella’s high school friends,
and the maid of honour.”
“Nice to meet you.” He gives me a nod and smile before his eyes are drawn back to the blushing Ms Radley. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off her, his expression almost like that of a teenage boy in love.
“Where’s Blake today?” Heather tucks one of her newly darkened locks behind her ear, a gesture Mr Barker follows with his eyes.
“He’s interstate this weekend. Got a big contract with a property developer in Armidale. The bloke’s in a real hurry to get a row of townhouses liveable before the uni semester starts. Blake’s making sure they finish on time.”
“Have he and his fiancée set a date yet?”
I excuse myself from their conversation, satisfied that my mission is accomplished. Isabella’s future mother-in-law is no longer locking horns with her mother. Plus, I may have just played Cupid for my friend.
Now if only Cupid would do me a favour and get my friend’s fickle son to look my way the way Pete Barker was looking at Heather.
Chapter 16
They’re beautiful. Off-white silk with Swarovski crystal accents on delicate embroidered flowers. I wipe my hand on my jeans before letting myself touch the detail on Isabella’s bridal shoes that she bought in London. Penny’s chest presses up against me as she leans in to have a closer look, too. Her breasts are either not very sensitive or she’s just accepted that they’ll touch anything she gets near. It’s just the two of us again this morning with Isabella—the other bridesmaids are busy with their kids. We won’t see them till after lunch when we go shopping for our bridesmaids’ gowns.
“Love your shoes, babe,” Penny calls to Isabella who is currently behind a curtain trying on her first bridal gown with the help of a shop assistant. It’s just like the dress she’d cut out of a bridal magazine and added to her display folder of wedding ideas. “Can you walk in them?”
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