by Deb Kastner
It didn’t matter that Riley was probably rolling in dough and could have easily picked up the tab. He would bet the Weaver ranch pulled in a good cut every year when they sold their stock. And let’s not forget the fancy-schmancy boarding school Riley had gone to. That certainly must have cost a pretty penny. On the converse side, he’d been a boy on the wrong side of the tracks in what was already a tiny, struggling public school.
Thinking about it just steamed him up under the collar again, so he excused himself and went outside to watch for the pizza guy to show up.
When Matthew returned to the fellowship hall, his arms ladened with pizza boxes and the delivery guy following right behind him with the sodas and tubs of Buffalo chicken wings, he found Riley directing the rest of the wedding party to set up tables and chairs. Brady and Chelsea stood off to the side, his arms tightly locked around his bride-to-be’s waist as they spoke in a whisper.
The bride-to-be had regained her equilibrium during the rehearsal, but now she looked close to tears again. Matthew wouldn’t have wanted to be Brady. Women’s tears were the worst.
Fortunately for Matthew, Riley was all business, encouraging everyone to do what needed to be done with smiles and nods and all-out sunshine, as if this were simply a friendly get-together and not a pathetic excuse for a rehearsal dinner.
“Line the tables up like a capital E,” she called, drawing the letter in the air. “Three parallel tables with chairs on both sides, and then a fourth running across in front for our guests of honor.”
Since Riley appeared to be the one dishing out all of the instructions, Matthew approached her and gestured to the pizza boxes he was balancing in his arms.. “Where do you want these?”
“Whoops,” she said gaily. “I completely forgot we need another table to hold all the food Matthew Wilde has so graciously provided for us for the rehearsal dinner. Let’s set up one more table on the other side of the E.”
Matthew waited until a couple of the groomsmen had set up the extra table before unloading the pizza boxes and gesturing for the delivery guy to dump the bottles of soda and buckets of wings on the other end of the table.
He was opening the pizza boxes to reveal various combinations, everything from his favorite, pepperoni with extra cheese, to Brady’s go-to, an all-meat specialty pizza, when he realized he hadn’t asked the pizza place for plates, cups and utensils, and so all he’d gotten was a handful of napkins. He’d already paid the delivery boy and given him a handsome tip, and the kid had skipped out as soon as he had cash in hand.
“Is there a problem?” Riley appeared at his side, her face tipped up to his as she fastidiously studied his expression.
“Maybe,” he answered in a raspy whisper. He didn’t want to admit that he’d forgotten something so glaringly obvious as serving utensils, but it wasn’t like they could do without. They might be able to grab a roll of paper towels in lieu of plates and eat with their hands, but what were they going to do with the soda?
“How can I help?”
He narrowed his eyes on her. Was she being facetious? Pointing out his weaknesses before he had even voiced what they were?
But no. She appeared to be legitimately asking what she could do.
Not for him, he reminded himself. For Chelsea.
Riley was still a Weaver, but she was Chelsea’s maid of honor, and at the moment, that was where she’d focused all of her attention. Which is what he should be doing as well.
“I forgot about asking for cups to hold the soda.” His voice became increasingly gruff. He lifted his cowboy hat to comb his fingers through his hair and then replaced it before continuing. “And the plates. And the silverware.”
“I’ve got your back.”
She caught him off guard with her words. Again.
“How’s that?”
This is my home church, although it’s been years since I’ve attended here. Still, I happen to know the kitchen is well stocked with everything we’ll need for the dinner. As long as we wash everything up afterward and put it back away where we found it, I don’t imagine anyone will mind us borrowing what we need.”
He breathed out, feeling the stress on his shoulders unknotting. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d tensed up over the issue of the rehearsal dinner. He still wasn’t certain if it was going to turn out all right, whether or not Brady, and especially Chelsea, would be able to roll with the punches and enjoy the food, humble that it was, and the company.
He glanced their direction and found them both laughing and interacting with the wedding party, so maybe this wasn’t a total disaster after all.
That Matthew was by default paired up and working with a woman whose family had ruined his life was much more complicated and far too ironic to put into words. What he wouldn’t do for his best friend—up to and including working with Riley Weaver to make a go of this wedding. They still had a lot to do, so by default he’d be spending more time with Riley.
By the time Matthew and Riley had dug around the kitchen and found what they needed, the wedding party had already opened every pizza box and chicken tub and were digging into the food without even the benefit of utensils. A napkin appeared to be plenty where the pizza was concerned.
Everyone had a good laugh at Matthew’s stunned expression when he entered the fellowship hall from the kitchen and realized he was moving too slow for them.
They might not be dining at Sylvestre’s, but Matthew thought the least they could do was use plates. It was a wedding rehearsal dinner, after all.
“Slobs,” he mumbled under his breath.
“They’re starving. Getting through a wedding rehearsal is hard work, and with the added stress—people have to work it off somehow. What’s your poison?” Riley asked, gesturing at the pizza.
“Pepperoni. Extra cheese.”
“Me, too. And the Buffalo wings. How about that for coincidence?”
Matthew didn’t believe in coincidences. He’d learned early on in his life that he could either go it alone or put his faith in God. He’d chosen not to walk life’s path alone. But this—set of circumstances—was beyond anything Matthew could explain.
There must be a reason he and Riley had been thrown together this way. God always knew what He was doing, even if, as now, Matthew felt totally in the dark.
He glanced at Brady and Chelsea, who were reigning like a king and queen at the front table. They were talking and laughing with the wedding party, and everyone appeared to be enjoying their pizza.
Good. Matthew was glad to see the bride and groom to be were taking a breather, because the next twenty-four hours were going to be the craziest, and no doubt most stressful, of their entire lives.
And not just for Brady and Chelsea, but for Matthew and Riley, as well.
And speaking of Riley—where was she?
He found her at the far end of the last table taking a bite of her pepperoni pizza and making an expression of pure bliss as she chewed. She waved at him when she met his gaze and gestured for him to come sit in the chair next to her.
The only empty chair in the room.
Didn’t that just figure?
***
Riley was usually pretty good at reading people, but she didn’t have the slightest clue what to do with Mr. Hot-and-Cold Broody Cowboy. He acted like he didn’t want to talk to her, or even be around her, but then again, he did. He apparently had some accusations left to sling at her.
Well, she’d set him straight on those issues soon enough.
Right now, they had a wedding to plan.
“Let’s see,” she said, setting her pizza on her plate. She’d taken a few nibbles, but her stomach was clenching too tight with the stress gnawing at her for her to really feel like eating. “Where should we start? I suppose with the actual wedding, and then we’ll get to the reception.” She took out her phone and pulled up her favorite To-Do app.
He glanced at her and took a huge bite of pizza. What was it with men that made them want to stuff an ent
ire plate of food into their mouths at once?
Riley stopped just short of rolling her eyes.
“We all have our formalwear, and Chelsea has her dress back at the bed and breakfast we’re staying at. That’s a major relief. No dress would have been a disaster.”
“As if the rest of this isn’t,” he muttered between bites.
“At least we have something to check off the list.”
“You haven’t made a list yet,” he pointed out wryly, still chewing his food.
“I’m speaking in hypothetical terms. The real list starts now. We can probably do without a runner for the aisle.”
“A runner?” He looked at her blankly.
“Like the red carpet?”
“Oh.”
She chuckled, wondering just what it was he had pictured. The torch bearer at the Olympic games?
“Flowers. We need lots of flowers. And since it’s Christmas time, our decorations should probably lean toward pine and poinsettias.”
“Can’t we fudge on those, too?”
“I don’t see why we should. Surely some of the wedding party have picked up poinsettias to decorate their houses with. Silver and gold garland. Pine wreaths. Hey—we could even tape Christmas ornaments on the ends of the pews. Between everyone, I’ll bet we can garner enough to decorate the church. Boutonnieres aren’t hard to make. We just need some strong magnets or large safety pins and some floral tape. Worst case scenario, we buy fake flowers at a local craft store, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Poinsettias,” she typed into her cell phone. “Evergreen decorations. Garland. Ornaments. What else do we need?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Do you see me staring at anyone else?”
“Look, I’ll help you hang what needs hanging and decorate what needs decorating. Whatever you need. But brainstorming a wedding is way out of my skill set.”
“At least sit there and look interested.”
He scoffed and folded his arms across his broad chest.
“Bryan Watkins works at a print and ship shop. We can ask him to put together an order of service with the names of the bride and groom, bridesmaids and groomsmen. It shouldn’t take too much time, effort or money to come up with something classy.”
“What about music?” Matthew asked.
“Music?” Riley was surprised that Matthew had thought about that. He didn’t look like the musical type, or at least nothing beyond flipping on a country and western radio station in his truck.
“Doesn’t Chelsea need a wedding march or something?”
“Absolutely. She wants a traditional wedding, all the way down to the bridal march. Actually, come to think of it, she said something about having hired a string quartet.”
“Like violins and stuff? Where are we going to get that?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know anyone who plays an instrument, and everyone here in this room is in the wedding party, so we can’t ask them. Maybe one of them has a friend or relative who could step in, although this would be extremely late notice for a live musician.”
“What if we set up a sound system and streamed it? Surely we can find a download of whatever the name of the wedding song is.”
“Wagner’s Lohengrin,” she said. “Don’t ask me how I know that. It just popped into my head out of nowhere.”
He laughed, a rumbling sound from deep in his chest. His expression lightened momentarily, taking years off his features. Her heart skipped a beat at the transformation his smile made. He was actually ruggedly handsome without the persistent frown he’d been wearing all evening.
In another time and place she might have found him attractive, but there was something distinctly unattractive about a man—a virtual stranger, no less—who had accused her of ruining his life.
“What else?” she asked, more to herself than him.
He shrugged and picked up another slice of pizza, folding it in half lengthwise and shoving it into his mouth, biting a good half of it off and chewing vigorously.
Maybe it was just as well that he kept his mouth crammed with food. It wasn’t as if he was contributing much that was truly worthwhile, and at least this way he wasn’t tossing accusations at her.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed as a new thought entered her mind. “I nearly forgot we are going to need a photographer. I’m sure we can get someone to take a video of the ceremony with their cell phone, but Chelsea wanted a top-notch photographer to capture all of the unchoreographed moments, kind of like that picture of you and me at Auntie Heather’s wedding.”
The moment the words left her lips she regretted saying them aloud. She’d just put up in lights the very subject that had gotten Matthew all hot under the collar in the first place. She didn’t want to go back there, for more reasons than one.
His brow furrowed and it looked as if he was having trouble swallowing his food. Not surprisingly, really, with the amount of pizza in his mouth. It would be his own fault if he choked on it.
He held up his index finger, signaling that she should wait, and then chewed with renewed vigor. His Adam’s apple, hidden by a layer of dark whiskers, bobbed repeatedly as he swallowed.
Did he actually have something useful to contribute, or was he just going to go haywire on her again? If he did, that was on her this time, since she’d resurrected the subject.
He reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth, then took a long pull from his glass of soda.
“Declan,” he rasped.
He coughed, and his face turned an alarming shade of red.
Riley pounded his back with the flat of her hand, hoping to help dislodge the pizza stuck in his throat.
Matthew coughed again and reached for his soda again, attempting to take another drink and wash the food down.
Simultaneously, Riley gave him one last enthusiastic thump.
He yelped as his soda sloshed over the rim of his cup, soaking his shirt. He jumped to his feet so fast that his metal fold-up chair tipped over, clattering to the ground against the tile. The room came to a hushed silence as everyone looked over to see what was going on.
“Sorry. So sorry.” Riley grabbed her napkin and dabbed ineffectively at his chest.
He twisted and danced away from her.
“No, don’t,” he protested, his jaw tightening as he surveyed the damage. The front of his light blue polo shirt was now covered with a large, dark stain that reminded Riley of the shape of an amoeba.
His gaze rose to meet hers and he heaved a longsuffering sigh.
Great. He was already ticked at her. Now she’d really given him a reason to dislike her.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, but those were just words, and they weren’t going to fix the problem.
“Let me have your shirt.”
He bent his head down toward hers.
“What?” he asked, his voice an octave deeper than usual.
She held out her hands and gestured. “Your shirt. Take it off.”
His eyes widened. “Are you serious right now?”
“Absolutely. The way I see it, you can either continue to wear a stained, sticky shirt, or else you can give it to me. I’ll rinse it out with some dish soap before the stain sets in permanently.
He stared at her for a moment without speaking, but it didn’t take a genius to read his thoughts in his expression. He thought she was plum crazy.
And maybe she was.
She’d just come to the conclusion that he wasn’t keen on the idea of handing his shirt over to her when he grunted and grabbed the collar at the back of his polo shirt, yanking it over his head.
Riley blinked. She hadn’t even been thinking about what might Matthew might be hiding under that shirt, but the physique he exposed was . . . mighty impressive.
Her throat grew dry and she swallowed hard.
Broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist with a dusting of dark, curly hair on his chest. His shoulders and biceps were well-developed from years of ranch work an
d rippled whenever he moved.
He lifted a brow and one corner of his lips, and it was only then that she realized he’d caught her staring at him.
Gaping, really.
With a groan, her face flaming, she snatched the shirt away from him and fled to the safety of the kitchen.
He probably thought she had thrown soda on him on purpose. As if she would do that when they had so much to do to save Brady and Chelsea’s wedding.
And she couldn’t afford to get distracted by Matthew or the muscular frame he’d hidden underneath this blue shirt.
It took a good scrubbing with lots of elbow grease, but she eventually managed to remove the stain.
She slipped out of the kitchen as furtively as possible, hoping no one would notice her as she headed for the ladies’ bathroom. She dried Matthew’s shirt under the electric hand dryer. It wasn’t the easiest way to dry a shirt, but at the moment, it was the only option she had.
At length, even though there were still some spots that were damp-dry, she decided good enough was good enough and returned to the fellowship hall.
She was fairly certain Matthew would be relieved to have a clean, damp shirt over a sticky, stained one, and especially over his current situation--sitting shirtless in a room full of people.
Awkward.
Chapter Three
PIECE OF CAKE
Would this day ever be over?
Matthew considered approaching Brady and bow out, say he was feeling sick or something.
But even though he did feel a bit queasy when he thought of everything they had to do to pull this wedding off and how disappointed Brady and Chelsea would be if it didn’t happen, he nixed the idea of leaving.
He was going to have to cowboy up and deal, even if it meant working with an over-zealous woman—a Weaver, no less--who’d managed, among other things, to make him spill soda all over himself.
He wanted to dislike her.
He should dislike her.
But the more time he spent with her, the less sure he was that she had anything to do with his past. If she did, she was very good at hiding it.