“She went on for like ten whole minutes about how Romeo and Juliet was the quintessential love story with tragic elements. And she cited direct quotes. In a British accent.”
Gavin choked out a laugh. “Really?”
“It’s not as much fun as it sounds,” Bree said, although a smile twitched over her lips. “And anyway, only geeks know that much about Shakespeare.”
Huh. She kind of had a point. Sloane struck him more like the naughty limerick type. The fact that she seemed to house a vast knowledge of Shakespearean plays was as much a surprise to him as it was to Bree.
“That knowledge helped you get all your work done,” he offered, starting to whisk the eggs. “So it can’t be that bad.”
Another shrug. “Yeah.”
They lapsed into silence while Gavin finished prepping the omelet mixture, then melted a pat of butter into a rich, golden river across the bottom of his skillet before starting to cook. The conversation, while neither deep nor terribly meaningful, had been one of the longest they’d had since their mom died that didn’t encompass an argument. Bree had once been the kind of kid who would burst into laughter just as soon as look at you. When had it become so difficult for them to just talk?
“So, ah, you want to flip these when they’re ready?” Gavin dipped his chin at the stove, giving the batter in the skillet an expert tilt. Omelets were finicky as hell, and if you didn’t keep a careful eye on them, they went right from hot breakfast to hot mess.
Bree crinkled her nose. “I don’t think so.”
He knew he should let it slide, but something about the small success of their earlier conversation made Gavin push instead. “Come on. You always ended up with the most perfectly folded eggs when we’d make these at home. You’re a natural.”
“Uh-uh.” Bree’s protest chilled by a few degrees, but she didn’t shut down or walk away. Maybe teasing her a little would bring her out of her shell, and he could unearth one of those fantastic smiles he knew she was capable of.
“Don’t be so modest, kiddo.” He tossed in some ham and Gruyère, giving the pan another slanted shake as he pulled it off the burner with a flourish and a smile. “Here, it’s already starting to slide. C’mon! Go for it.”
“I said no!”
The shrill burst of the word hit him with all the force of an actual blow, and for a minute, neither of them spoke. Not knowing what else to do, Gavin flipped the omelet gracelessly and deposited it onto a plate.
“Sorry,” he finally managed, and the brief ease he’d felt just moments before went completely numb. God damn it, he was in so far over his head. He didn’t even know how to communicate with his own sister.
“I don’t . . . I just don’t want to cook, that’s all.” Bree’s voice cracked over the words, as broken as the eggshells on the butcher block between them. “Okay?”
Gavin started to say no, it was definitely not okay for them to keep going like this, fighting each other at every freaking turn, when her expression knocked the breath from his lungs.
Rather than wearing her customary scowl, Bree looked at him with genuine pleading. Tears tracked down both sides of her face, so silently that if he hadn’t looked with care, he’d have missed them altogether.
“Okay. Just let me know if you change your mind.”
Sloane peered down at her cell phone and willed herself not to throw up. What had she been thinking when she’d signed up to get those stupid reminders about her bills being due?
“Are you okay?” Carly’s voice startled Sloane from her reverie of debt, whirling her back to one of the most posh suites Pine Mountain Resort had to offer. Sloane straightened from her perch in a tastefully fancy silk and damask chair, stuffing her phone into her tiny purse.
“Yeah, of course.” While she didn’t make it a habit to lie, she was pretty sure there was a special circle in hell for people who bogged their best friends down with personal issues on their wedding day. Although if Sloane got kicked out of the bungalow for not paying her rent, moving back in with her mother would make that circle of hell look like a carnival ride at Coney Island.
Shit.
“Are you sure? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Sloane pasted on a smile and shoved her purse out of sight behind a lamp on the side table. “Nope! I’m totally fine.”
Okay, so she wasn’t fine-fine, but she wasn’t exactly screwed, either. As of this morning, she had a whole week’s worth of babysitting under her belt, and Gavin had written her a check for it that would help cover the bungalow for this month, at least. But paying rent would drain her account, tossing her back to square one on her ticket out of Dodge, and with the rest of her bills, next month’s rent was iffy at best.
She had to be on a plane by then.
“Anyway,” Sloane continued, mashing down her dread, “the last thing you should be worried about is me. You’re getting married in a few hours.”
Her next smile came a lot more easily, and she let it take over. The absolute glow suffusing her best friend’s face canceled out any remaining unease churning in Sloane’s gut, and she exhaled over the temporary reprieve. She was about to take part in a gorgeous wedding and spend the entire night in one of the luxuriously appointed hotel rooms the resort executives had blocked off for their star chef’s special guests. Just for tonight, Sloane was going to send her troubles packing. No worries, no stress, and no distractions, period.
Including her brooding, sexy, calm-cool-and-collected boss, and the fact that she could still feel the kiss he’d laid on her nearly a week ago, even though they’d been all business, all week long.
Carly popped up from her chair and smoothed a hand over her jeans. “Wow, is it already that late? I know we’re done with the hair and makeup thing, but I should get dressed.” She headed for the white garment bag perched on a stand over by the full-length mirror in the suite’s dressing room, but Sloane stopped her in her tracks.
“You have to wait for your mother,” she protested. She might not ever be destined for the altar herself, but Sloane sure as hell knew the rules of the game. Unless you had a death wish, inciting the wrath of an Italian mother on her only daughter’s wedding day was just plain stupid.
Carly laughed. “Since when are you so sentimental?”
“It’s self-preservation, not sentiment. Your mother will kill us both if you get into that dress and she’s not here. Plus, it won’t be long. She and Bellamy should both be here any second.” Bellamy Blake was the only other female chef on Carly’s staff, and Sloane’s compatriot in bridesmaid duties.
“You’re probably right. I guess we can wait another minute or two.” Carly shrugged. “I have to be honest, it’s kind of nice not to have such a big production. The first time through was a lot different.”
Sloane couldn’t help it. She scoffed. “The first time through, you married an asshat.”
Carly’s laughter echoed through the luxurious suite, bouncing off the peach-colored walls to land happily back around their ears. “Yeah, but I found my swan, so it all turned out fine in the end.”
She should’ve known sharing that metaphor would come back to bite her. Swans mated for life, so calling the happily-ever-after guy a swan had made sense to Sloane. Of course, she usually reserved it for her books, since real-life swans seemed more legend than likelihood. But as hard as it was to imagine Carly’s six-foot-four fiancé as an elegant white bird, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind Jackson was her swan.
“Did someone slip you a happy pill? You are way too laid-back for someone about to get hitched.” Sloane’s nerves did a jump-and-jangle in her belly, as if to make up for Carly’s nonchalance. While the week she’d spent tutoring and looking after Bree had been uneventful, Sloane’s unease at not being able to write a single useable word had gone from niggling worry to flat-out dread.
Nope! No worries tonight, remember? La la la la! Sloane metaphorically plugged her ears and drowned her worry in a deep, calming breath.
“The
re’s no point in being nervous.” Carly’s grin took over, recapturing Sloane’s attention as her best friend kept on. “Marrying Jackson is the easiest thing I’ll ever do.”
Sloane lifted a brow. “Now who’s sentimental?”
“Give me a break. I’m getting married.”
As if on cue, Bellamy poked her head past the dressing room entryway. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I just wanted to make sure the catering guys had everything under control in the restaurant for the reception.”
Bellamy’s at-ease smile was an unspoken testament to the fact that everything downstairs was running smoothly. Otherwise, knowing her, she’d probably have thrown some chef’s whites over her bridesmaid’s dress and started whipping up the perfect cocktail sauce with one hand while rolling crisp-tender asparagus spears in prosciutto with the other.
“They’re being careful in my kitchen, right?” While Carly’s smile remained in place, her words came out on a serrated edge, making Sloane laugh.
“So much for laid-back,” she said.
Bellamy leapt into chef mode, reassuring Carly with a detailed account of the food prep. With most of La Dolce Vita’s staff attending the wedding, it had only made sense to have the reception in the restaurant itself. Getting management to agree to the deal would’ve been tough for anybody other than their star chef, but the stack of rave reviews that kept rolling in for La Dolce Vita along with a reservation log that was booked a solid month in advance sealed the deal. If Carly had asked for the moon on a plate, the resort execs would’ve been on the next rocket out of town.
Sloane watched Carly’s face melt back into relaxed bliss as Bellamy described the food, right down to the little sprigs of dill on the cucumber-salmon canapés. Carly’s usual no-nonsense expression softened with pure happiness, but rather than giving Sloane the warm fuzzies, the sentiment panged through her as if it was covered in barbed wire.
What the hell? Her hand flew to her breastbone, as if she could extinguish the strange sensation with a simple cover-up. Sure, Sloane put stock in happily ever after, but it wasn’t like her to get all gooey at a simple wedding. Plus, seeing Carly get the fairy tale ending she so deserved was a good thing—no, make that a great thing. She and Jackson were perfect for each other, and Sloane hadn’t been kidding when she’d said their story was bestseller material. It was the very stuff romance novels were made of, for God’s sake, and it couldn’t have happened to two people more deserving of real-deal, forever-and-ever love.
So what was with her rib cage trying to impersonate a corkscrew at her best friend’s joy?
“Ah! Here’s the bride. Let me look at you, eh?” Carly’s mother, Francesca di Matisse, bustled into the dressing room, and the warmth on her face was unmistakable. Her thick Italian accent, laced with a nonsubtle Brooklyn cadence, was all-too-familiar, and it sent Sloane’s unease into rapid descent.
Their home-turf neighborhood had a grapevine as thick as one of the fifty-year-old oaks shadowing Sloane’s current residence at the bungalow. Even though her own mother was in New York, squawking over a hugely pregnant Angela, she’d surely hear every last detail of Carly’s wedding before the week was out. Which was certain to kick off the latest round of Sloane’s least favorite game: Why Aren’t You Getting Married?
Okay. So maybe that explained the corkscrew.
Carly leaned in, letting her mother fold her into a quick embrace. “Hi, Ma. Is the minister all set downstairs?”
“Of course. Although when he walked in, I had to assure him it was the same room we were in for last night’s rehearsal. It’s so beautiful, the way it’s all set up for the ceremony. But not more beautiful than you.” Francesca kissed both of Carly’s cheeks before pulling back to level Sloane and Bellamy with a proud smile. “You see this glow on her face? This glow comes from only one thing.” Francesca hooked a knowing finger at her daughter and smiled.
“Mama! Jeez. I haven’t even seen Jackson today!” Even though Carly could boss around a team of muscle-bound, tattooed chefs twice her size, her mother’s good-natured teasing stained her cheeks bright red. Bellamy clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip, surely in an effort to maintain decorum, but Sloane wasn’t so lucky. Eh, she’d never been big on etiquette, anyway.
“Wow, Mrs. D,” she murmured, the weird unease in her chest having been momentarily kicked to the curb by a fit of laughter. “That’s, uh, awesome.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Sloane Marie. You’ve been writing too many naughty books. I’m talking about love. It’s as plain as the nose on my face.” The shine in Francesca’s eyes was unmistakable as she looked at her daughter, and the obvious maternal pride boomeranged hotly through Sloane’s gut.
“Oh, right. That’s exactly what I thought you meant.” She put on a cheeky grin, but Carly’s mother didn’t buy it for a second.
“Save your smart answers, cucciola. You’ll find out one of these days, and all the sass in the world won’t save you from looking the same way.”
Sloane swallowed a sardonic laugh. “Did my mother put you up to this?” Lord, she couldn’t even get a reprieve when her mother was a whole state away.
“Come on, Ma. Let’s leave Sloane be, huh?” Carly put a hand on her mother’s arm, casting an apologetic glance in Sloane’s direction, but Francesca arched an unwavering brow.
“I know what I know. You might move around like a little hummingbird, but you have a good heart. You’ll find a man worth staying still for. Your mama can rest easy.”
Right. And then they could all ice skate in Satan’s backyard. Sloane’s mama didn’t even rest easy on Sundays. Plus, why would Sloane stay in one place when she could see the world?
“Tell you what, Mrs. D. When I find him, you’ll get the very first wedding invite. Promise.” Sloane crossed her heart, her fingernail gently clicking over the delicate beads of her dress, and helped Bellamy lift Carly’s gown from the garment bag.
Any focus on Sloane’s love life—or lack thereof—was summarily snuffed out by the sight of the simple, elegant confection of ivory silk. Sloane’s heart lifted right along with the layers of delicate fabric and intricate, subtly placed lace, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she could ditch the weird feelings and get on with what was important.
Which turned out to be no less than four billion pictures, the lighting of twice as many candles in the room where the ceremony was being held, and a host of other small chores that added up to three hours’ worth of big exhaustion.
“You sure you don’t want to skip this and go to Vegas?” Sloane asked from the side of her mouth as the wedding planner finally guided them all into a line outside the double doors leading into the ceremony room.
Carly’s chuckle came from behind her, soft but definite. “Let’s save that for your wedding, what do you say?”
“I say it’s a good thing I already knocked Vegas off my bucket list. If we’re waiting for my name on the Elvis Chapel o’ Love, it’s gonna be a while.”
“What’s the matter, Russo? Afraid of the altar?” Adrian’s gravelly voice teased her from where he stood next to Carly, and Sloane turned to look at him. Adrian’s giant frame was imposing on a good day, and even in his suit, he looked menacing as hell. But rather than shrink, Sloane simply snorted and curled her fingers to mimic a telephone.
“Hello? Pot, this is the kettle calling. You’re looking a little dark over there.”
The wedding planner interrupted Sloane and Carly’s hushed laughter, as well as a few choice swear words from Adrian, with her cue for Carly to step back so they could open the doors.
“Last chance,” Sloane whispered, turning to look at her friend.
God, she was radiant, and the corkscrew hit Sloane again, full force.
Carly grinned. “I’m all set. Believe me.”
The room was truly breathtaking, with the fifty or so guests’ chairs swathed in rich ivory fabric, and the lights overhead softening the pale yellow walls down to a deep glow. Creamy white flowers and fre
sh pine greenery were interspersed around a wide, understated archway at the end of the aisle, and Sloane focused on a thick bough as she put one foot in front of the other. Low light spilled from crystal-encrusted chandeliers, offering enough illumination to see clearly, yet just the right amount of ambiance to make everything seem lit from within.
Oh, yeah. Ditching her issues for one night was going to be a piece of wedding cake, because everything about this felt perfect. By the time Sloane got to the end of the runner to fix Jackson with an exaggerated wink, she was full to the brim with happy excitement. She settled into place on the other side of the minister, and the dulcet cello music that had accompanied her down the aisle drifted to a graceful stop.
Everyone in the tightly knit crowd stood expectantly, turning their faces toward the back of the room, and the electric anticipation sent a prickle over Sloane’s nearly bare shoulders. The music started again, signaling the bride’s imminent walk down the aisle, and undiluted goodness splashed through her chest. She was sweeping her gaze over the small sea of profiles, all eyes on the now-open double doors at the back of the room, when her vision caught on the only face not turned to take in the bride floating down the aisle.
Gavin stood in the middle of the third aisle on the bride’s side, parked between Carly’s aunt Daniela and Bree. She knew she should be amused that crazy Aunt Daniela was wearing a god-awful hat festooned with black feathers, or that she should take in all the nuances of how shockingly pretty Bree looked without her trademark scowl.
But the beautiful, sinuous notes of the cello faded as if they’d been suddenly plunged under water, and the faces around her shrank and receded before turning into nothing more than indiscriminate blurs. Only one thing snapped into sharp relief, and it hit her with such intensity that all the air left her on one razor-sharp breath.
Gavin’s liquid brown stare was locked on her as if she was the only person in the room.
Chapter Nine
Even though they hadn’t been in a church, Gavin was fairly certain he’d go to hell for the hard-on he’d sported the minute Sloane stepped past those double doors to move down the aisle.
Stirring Up Trouble Page 10