“It’s not chocolate, but it does have the prerequisite sugar.” She popped the mint into her mouth and smiled at him again. “Thanks and I’m sorry I walked in on you. I don’t usually bust into men’s rooms unannounced.”
“What sort of announcement do you usually use?” Her smile widened. “I don’t bust in at all. It’s a day of firsts all the way around.”
For Clint, as well, because for the first time in his life, he let a beautiful woman desperate for a banana simply walk away from him.
“Angel food cake?” Skye blinked and eyed the eight-tiered wedding cake towering in front of her. It was a spectacular display of light, fluffy white cake covered with low-fat whipped cream and topped with a mound of fresh, sliced fruit. It was a health nut’s wet dream. “Isn’t there a groom’s cake somewhere?”
The waiter smiled and pointed to a nearby table. Skye’s gaze shifted to the mountain of trembling green gelatin decorated with dollops of white whipped cream. “That’s a Jell-O mold, not a cake.”
The man shook his head. “That’s what the groom wanted.”
“What happened to the chocolate cake? The groom always has a chocolate cake. It’s tradition.” That much she’d committed to memory from her Weddings for Dummies book.
“Chocolate is full of sugar and caffeine and the groom is a dietician.”
She sighed. “No chocolate.”
“Would you like powdered sugar sprinkled on your fruit? Or maybe a dollop of low-fat whipped cream?”
“Both.”
“Both?”
“A double dose of both.”
A few moments later, Skye juggled two plates and made her way toward one of the round tables set off to the side. She’d spent all of dinner sitting at the head table with Jenny on her left and the peach bridesmaid on her right. Not a bad spot since they’d been served dinner— yummy sesame balls dipped in tofu sauce with a side of steamed cauliflower—before the other guests.
If only the banana bridesmaid hadn’t insisted on leaning forward and flirting down the table with Clint, who’d been on Duke’s left.
Her gaze went to Clint MacAllister. He was standing on the other side of the dance floor near the giant cauliflower-shaped ice sculpture. A petite redhead clad in a severe brown jacket and skirt flanked him. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her expression calm, her gaze serious. Unlike the endless line of smiling women that wound its way around the ballroom and out the door—thanks to Celibate and Loving It, a local women’s group whose annual dinner was taking place in the second ballroom opposite the reception. They’d invaded the reception, eager for a picture and a chance to talk to Cowboy himself.
The Cowboy. She still couldn’t believe it was actually him. In the flesh.
And boy, what flesh.
At least from the posterior vantage point. She’d memorized that in the few frantic moments she’d been in the men’s room.
The front looked equally impressive. He had short, cropped brown hair, a strong jaw, a smooth, perfect nose that wasn’t too small or too big, and lips that hinted at fullness. Not too full, mind you. Just enough to make her think about how they would feel nibbling at her bottom lip, trailing down her neck, skimming her collarbone.
Broad shoulders accented a trim waist. He had an athlete’s body that filled out the tuxedo to perfection. In fact, she would be willing to bet there wasn’t an ounce of body fat anywhere on him, and she would also be willing to conduct the search for said fat herself.
Skye fought back the urge.
Despite the fierce attraction she felt, she wasn’t about to act on it. He was engaged and while she didn’t believe in marriage for herself, she certainly wouldn’t infringe on another woman’s territory. Another woman’s marriage-minded territory.
But while he was off limits lust-wise, there wasn’t anything to stop her from approaching him and thanking him for steering her in the right direction.
She’d found the banana smack dab in the middle of the half-dozen groomsmen and ushers glued to the television watching this week’s Busch Series race.
Not that Skye had known the Busch series from the Winston Cup series before Clint had clued her in. Her own father had spent most of his time off somewhere promoting animal conservation or preparing his latest paper. He’d let Jacqueline Farrel set the example when it came to their three daughters, and she’d shown them only the things important to her—her passion for literature written by and for females, her zest for preaching equality of the sexes, and her mission to emancipate all women from the invisible chains of male domination.
Right now, Skye’s mission was all the way around the other side of the dance floor.
Chapter Four
“This is not in my job description.”
Clint glanced at the petite redhead to his left. She held a stack of pictures in one hand and dangled a hotel room key in the other, courtesy of the adoring fan he’d just handed a picture to.
He grinned. “You’re my personal assistant, Lindy. That room key is personal, therefore you’re obliged by law to assist with it.”
Back in high school, Clint had been a stupid kid struggling through Mr. Montgomery’s eighth-grade English class, a heap behind on his assignments thanks to his dyslexia, and Melinda Beckendorf had been the geeky honors student who’d never had to struggle with anything except the zipper on her Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.
He’d helped her out one day after school when some of the “in” girls had been picking on her. In turn, she’d agreed to help him out with his assignments.
Since they’d both been fanatics for ice cream, they’d met at the Tasty Freeze after school at least three days a week for vanilla cones and reading. The meetings had continued until the day after their graduation when Clint had driven his souped-up ’69 Mustang out of the city limits and she’d headed for San Antonio and St. Mary’s University.
Five years passed before they bumped into each other at the same Tasty Freeze while visiting their folks, but it might well have been five minutes. Lindy was still Lindy—crazy about vanilla cones and always willing to listen to his problems. And help, if possible.
And so she’d taken the job he’d offered—he’d needed someone smart and honest to assist with the business end of his race team—and she’d been his assistant ever since.
She was as nice a woman as she’d been a young girl. And just as prim and stuffy.
“I’ll handle it right into the trash,” she said.
“At least it’s just a key. These women are celibate, remember? All that deprivation probably has them ready to spew like a volcano. I’m surprised that no one’s ripped her clothes off and attacked me right here.”
“You are so full of yourself.”
“It’s called confidence, and women like it.”
“There’s a fine line between confidence and cockiness. You’re definitely riding the fence with a comment like that.”
“Have I told you you’re fired today?”
“If only.” Lindy blew out a disgusted breath and passed him another picture to hand to the next woman who gushed and blushed and stepped up in line. “Just hurry up,” she said under her breath before calling out, “Next!” to the line of women.
“I just love you, Mr. Clint,” a woman gushed. “You’re so wonderful. I just know everything the press is saying isn’t true. Why, I know you’re not afraid of anything.”
“ ’Course not, sugar.” Clint forced a smile and winked. “Can I give you a kiss?” Before Clint could respond, the woman planted one right on his cheek. “Ohmigod,” she exclaimed as she stumbled back a few steps. “I did it. I kissed Cowboy MacAllister. I actually kissed him!”
“Don’t these women have any pride?” Lindy grumbled when the kisser had retreated to her group of friends a few feet away. “This is a wedding, for heaven’s sake. A sacred time in a couple’s life. Don’t they feel the least bit embarrassed about crashing the reception?”
“Jenny and Duke haven’t even noticed. Besides, I li
ke being busy. It keeps me away from my family and saves me from having to hear ‘So when are you tying the knot?’ Again.” He took a sip of champagne. He never touched the stuff, but he needed something to numb the pain of several dozen nosy relatives.
“Such is the curse of being single in a big family. At least your family cares.”
“So does yours.”
“Let’s not even go there.”
Clint knew from the closed expression on Lindy’s face to let the subject drop.
He grinned. “I think Uncle Jack, there”—he motioned to his sixty-something-year-old uncle who was also a retired security guard—“is hoping for a riot so he can flex a little muscle.”
“Men,” Lindy muttered. “Always looking for an excuse to act like a big shot.”
“Lighten up. Hey, there, darlin’,” Clint said to the next woman. Another grin and a wink and he handed over a picture. “It’s all in good fun,” he told Lindy.
“It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s business. Why, there was a time when you would only see drivers do sports interviews with real reporters or serious news anchors. Now they’ve got Dale Jr. on MTV, not to mention your golden boy, Tuck Briggs. He was a guest VJ just last Friday night. A Friday of all nights. There he was shaking his ass to the new Beyoncé tune when he should have been focused on the next day’s qualifier.”
Tucker Briggs was the hot young rookie currently driving Clint’s infamous #62 Chevy. Tuck wasn’t just gaining popularity by winning race after race, however. He was also gaining a reputation as one of the wolf pack—a line of hot, hip drivers who brought NASCAR into mainstream culture. And Clint was the leader of the wolf pack.
“MTV boosts awareness which increases the fan base which puts more money in all of our pockets.”
“I know, I know,” Lindy grumbled. “It’s not your dad’s sport anymore,” she repeated the mantra she’d heard him say time and time again when it came to marketing. “It’s just I think the focus should be on driving, not on the driver and how cute he is and how well he can shake his ass.”
“Lindy. It’s publicity.”
“It’s bad publicity.”
“There’s no such thing. Hey, there, Grandma Jean,” he said to the little gray-haired woman who stepped up in line. “You don’t have to stand in line for a picture. I’ll send you as many as you want. Lindy, make a note to get my Grandma Jean a nice big stack of pictures.”
“Pictures?” The ninety-something woman pushed her glasses up onto her nose and stared at Clint, then Lindy. “I thought this was the buffet line.” She studied the autographed picture. “I’d rather have some shrimp.”
“No shrimp, Grandma,” Lindy said in a loud, pronounced voice reserved for toddlers and anyone with a hearing aid. “But I hear they have some meatless meat-balls over by the champagne fountain.”
“Meatless meat?” Grandma wrinkled her nose. “Meatless meatballs,” Lindy emphasized. “Tofu. It’s a healthy alternative.”
“When you tie the knot, young man”—Grandma wagged a finger at Clint—“and you’d better make it soon because you’re not getting any younger—you make sure to serve some decent food if you want me to come. I declare, I’ve never in all my life seen such a travesty . . .” Her words faded as she hobbled off.
“Excuse me.” The voice followed by a small tap on his shoulder drew Clint around. He knew who it was even before he saw the bright green eyes glittering back at him.
Before he could open his mouth, Lindy leaned in and handed a picture to the woman.
“Don’t compromise your beliefs for this man. He’s not worth it, and he’s not sleeping with you.”
The woman smiled and held the picture with slim fingers. “I know. He already told me. He’s engaged.”
“He is?” Lindy’s gaze made a beeline for him.
He shrugged. “I was going to tell you when all the details were ironed out.”
Lindy frowned. “It’s a shotgun wedding, isn’t it? I knew this whole bad-boy image was bound to get you into trouble. Some poor girl is claiming you knocked her up, banking on the fact that you’re some hot playboy who sleeps around and—”
“It’s not a shotgun wedding and nobody’s claiming anything. It’s just... it’s pending, that’s all.”
“You have an engagement that’s pending?” She shook her head. “It’s too late for me to be hearing this. I can’t think when I’m tired. Or stressed. I really need my bunny slippers,” she muttered as she turned to gather her things. “I’m calling it a night. Give Duke and Jenny my love.” She snatched up her briefcase and stalked out of the ballroom.
“I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself earlier. My name is Skye Farrel.”
“The maid of honor.”
“Only for the next hour or two.” She reached up, her fingertip dabbing at his cheek. “Nice shade of lipstick.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
She pulled her hand away. “You were right about the banana. She was right where you said she’d be. Thanks. Otherwise, I would be a chalk outline on the floor right now.”
“Jiles is just a little high strung. He’s really harmless.” “So sayeth the wedding expert. He likes you. You know what to do. You’re an old pro at all of this.”
“You’ll get there. It just takes time.”
“Not for me. Once is enough. I’ve had my fill. No more weddings. Not ever. I’ll send a gift, but that’s it. Speaking of which, good luck with your own.” She glanced at the black-and-white publicity shot she held. “Nice picture.” And then she handed it back to him.
“You can keep it,” he told her as she turned. “I’ve got plenty more.”
“That’s okay. I’m not really into NASCAR.”
Not into NASCAR? Right. She’d followed him into the men’s room earlier and made a point of singling him out here at the reception. She was into NASCAR, and she wanted to be into him. She was playing hard to get, thinking that if she acted uninterested, he would be just the opposite.
Either that, or she was for real.
He weighed the notion as he watched her walk away from him for the second time that day.
Nah. She wanted him, all right.
Too bad he couldn’t oblige her, but Clint MacAllister had his mind set on something, and he wouldn’t change it, no matter how hot the chemistry.
He was tying the knot and settling down. It was just a matter of time.
She’d touched him.
The thought stuck in Skye’s head as she made her way back to the small table where she’d left her cake plates. She hadn’t meant to touch him, but then she’d seen the lipstick spot and it had only been natural that she reach up. She’d always been a touchy, feely person. She would have done the same with any man.
But he’d been warmer than she’d expected, his skin slightly rough thanks to a five o’clock shadow that made him look all the more dark and delicious.
Not that she was interested.
She had her principles, after all.
Skye had just retrieved a glass of champagne and slid into a seat when Xandra collapsed beside her.
“You haven’t danced one dance.”
“I’m drinking instead.” She held up her glass of champagne. “I’m too stressed to dance. Besides, you’re dancing enough for the both of us.”
“That’s because I love to dance but Mark doesn’t.” Mark was Xandra’s on-again, off-again boyfriend of seven years. They were currently on-again, but he was out of town on a business project. “I don’t want him to feel left out, so I keep my dancing shoes in the closet when he’s around.”
“Suppressing your own desires to please a man. Mom would be so proud.”
She pinned Skye with a stare that said you’re not changing the subject. “The wedding’s over. You survived. You should be rejoicing like everybody else.”
She should have been, but the only thing she felt like doing was diving into the mound of low-fat whipped cream that topped her angel food cake.
Her gaze shifted to the overflowing dance floor. It was the typical hodgepodge of guests found at family events. There were couples of all ages swaying to Shania Twain’s “Still the One”. Jenny’s two great aunts, who’d lost their husbands eons ago, waltzed with each other. Duke’s great-grandmother held the hands of the five-year-old flower girl and twisted side to side as if Chubby Checker himself were on the stage dictating the movements. Every few seconds a shriek sounded as children darted through the maze, chasing each other while their parents enjoyed the music.
Skye’s attention focused on the bride and groom, who were plastered together, arms wrapped around each other as if they’d been permanently welded into position.
“You miss Jenny,” Xandra stated as she dipped her finger into Skye’s whipped cream and took a taste.
“She’s just going to Jamaica for two weeks. I can make do until then.”
“That’s not what I mean. You miss the old Jenny. The single Jenny.”
But Skye didn’t miss Jenny. She envied her.
Not because she’d said “I Do”. Skye had no intention of stuffing herself into an overdone dress to stand in front of her friends and family and trade her freedom for a wedding ring, even if it were a platinum gold band with a two-carat marquis diamond surrounded by baguettes.
Skye Farrel could buy her own ring. What she couldn’t buy was a man.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?” She glanced at Xandra, who scooped another finger full of whipped cream.
“You’ve got the fever,” she said as she licked the white fluff.
“I feel fine, with the exception of a pounding heart and a frantic craving for some real sugar, but those are stress-related.”
“Not that kind of fever. Wedding fever.” “Impossible. I’m anti-wedding.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s the whole love and commitment thing. It makes all of us singles feel like there’s this big club and we’re not allowed inside because we haven’t found it.”
“It?”
“Him. Mr. Right. Some guy to fulfill all of our dreams and make us supremely happy.”
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 4