The Bridesmaid and the Bachelor

by Kris Fletcher

  “No, it’s fine. I just forgot.”

  Because she had. She’d forgotten that he had said he would do it. Forgotten that there were still men who did what they had said they would do.

  Of course, she hadn’t forgotten that when most people did something nice, there was usually an ulterior motive at play. That was undoubtedly the case with this guy.

  Pity. He had seemed so nice.

  “In that case,” she said, “give me a second and I’ll give you the grand total. Unless you think there will be more.”

  “Now is good.”

  She turned back to the register and compiled the bill, presenting him with the new sum.

  “Great,” he said with a nod. “And by the way, the coffee is perfect.”

  She heard that every day. But no one had ever said it with that quite the same fervor. Nor had anyone else ever followed it up with, “A cup of this is just what I need to face the lions.”

  It was his nod toward the table that got to her—the way he pulled her into his corner, building a bond of You and Me Against the World. There was nothing she could do but grin.

  Grin, and check out his name as she ran his card.

  Cole Dekker.

  Why did that name sound so familiar?

  “Here you go.” She handed over the slip for his signature, peeking as he signed. She had a thing about handwriting. Not that she thought it revealed everything that the handwriting “experts” at the state fair would want folks to believe, but she was pretty sure there was a correlation between a strong, confidant signature and a person’s integrity.

  Her ex had always signed with a hurried scrawl of his initials. Nothing more. His signature had practically screamed I am far too busy and important to waste time on such trivial matters.

  Cole Dekker’s name was easy to read. All the letters in the right place. It filled the space perfectly, not so long that it had to be squeezed into place, not so short that it looked lost and unfinished on the line.

  “Here you go.” He pushed the pen and slip back toward her, flashing that grin once again. God. Hadn’t anyone ever explained the concept of overkill to him? Because really, this guy was too much.

  Not that she was complaining. Not really. It was kind of nice to look at a guy and be impressed again. That hadn’t happened in ages.

  But there was something about him that made his actions feel like . . . not a show, not really. But almost. Like he knew people were watching, not because he was vain but just because that was what always happened, and he wanted to be sure he left them with a good impression.

  There was something oddly comforting about that. No, not comforting. Familiar? Maybe. Unsettling? Definitely.

  “Thanks again.” He pulled the loaded tray from her reach and was on his way with a speed and grace that would never be hers again. She didn’t want to stare, but it was like she had no choice. And neither was she the only one. He left a path of turned heads and lingering glances in his wake. Only some of them were of the curious or predatory variety. The bulk of them were from folks who simply seemed . . . interested. As if they expected him to burst forth with something witty and insightful and important at any moment.

  What was it about Cole Dekker?

  ***

  Cole set the tray on the table and distributed the assorted cups and plates to their owners. Despite what he’d said to the woman behind the counter, the group assembled in front of him was nothing like lions—except when it came to sinking their teeth into a project on his behalf. He owed them big time. The least he could do was spring for some drinks and pastries to keep them happy.

  There was a flurry of thanks, some offers of money, some good-natured teasing. He took his seat, knowing what would come next.

  “Well, now that the candidate is in the house,”—Allison, his cousin and campaign manager, delivered the words along with a stern glare in his direction that brought soft laughter from the other participants—“let’s get this meeting on the road. Item number one: we need a location for our campaign headquarters.”

  This was what he got for not making time to read the agenda Allison had sent to him before making the office-courthouse-coffee-shop dash. “I think it’s a bit early to be thinking about that.”

  The man seated at Allison’s side made a buzzing sound and leveled his finger in Cole’s direction. “Wrong answer.”

  “Come on, Ram. It’s only June. We haven’t even made it through the primary yet.”

  “Not that I’m dissing this place,” Ram said with a wave to the room, “but it’s a little public. Anybody could be listening.”

  “Yeah, I see them lurking behind the chairs, waiting to steal our strategy.” Cole felt safe taking the sarcastic route with Ram. They had known each other since Ram called him a boogerhead back in second grade. The need to be polite had passed a long time ago.

  “Ram’s right.” Allison didn’t like to admit that, as Cole knew all too well, but she was fair enough to say it when it was true. “We need a home base.”

  “Not until after the primary.”

  “Cole.” Allison pointed her spoon in his direction. “I get it. You don’t want to waste money, you don’t want to appear overconfident, yada yada.”

  Overconfident? That was a good way to describe it. Better than counting his chickens before they were hatched, which was the phrase that kept running through his head. He’d made that mistake once before and had his heart handed back to him on a monogrammed platter. Losing this election wouldn’t carry that same risk, but he was in no hurry to tempt fate.

  “But,” Allison continued, “you might not have noticed that the storefront two doors down from here is available. I think we should look at it.”

  “It’s a great location,” Ram said.

  “With plenty of parking.” Aubrey, his volunteer coordinator, glanced though the plate-glass window of Brews and Blues toward the Suburban needed to haul her four kids and all their gear to hockey practices.

  “Any idea what they’re asking in rent?” That was from treasurer Tim. Probably already anticipating how much paperwork he was going to have to file for this expense.

  “I called while I was waiting for you all to arrive.” Allison flicked through her phone, managing to pull up her notes and inflict guilt at the same time. She always had been able to do three things at once, even when they were kids. “They’ll give us a deal if we do a six-month lease, which I know is longer than we need, but it works out to be just a bit more than they would want for four months. And that way we’d be all set to stay there once the election is over and you need a place for your transition team.”

  “Whoa. Time out.” Cole rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward to give Allison the Are you shitting me? look she needed right now. “Come on, Allie. It’s one thing to stay optimistic. It’s another thing to have me elected and moving into the mayor’s office.”

  “You’re going to win the primary without breaking a sweat,” Allison shot back. “Nobody else wants to take this on and you know it. We need to look ahead and focus on beating Tadeson. And now that he’s getting such bad press—”

  “I know. I know.” Cole had to stop her before she started ranting. Allison was the most reasonable of women until it came to current mayor Paul Tadeson. Then she tended to lose her objectivity. “But the deadline to declare for the primary is still weeks away. And even if I win that, and even if Tadeson ends up smeared across every newspaper and talk show in town, a lot of folks still feel a lot of loyalty toward him. They’re not going to toss him out lightly, just because of some bad press.”

  Press that hadn’t even been that bad, to be honest. Paul Tadeson had merely been linked to someone with a track record of buying politicians. There was no evidence that he himself had gone to the Dark Side.

  Ram spoke up. “All the more reason we should get ourselves settled into a re
al base now. Because once we have the primary behind us, shit is gonna get real.”

  Ram had a point. The primary might not be too intense—Cole wasn’t going to let himself assume a cakewalk, no matter how nonthreatening the competition—but November was the contest that mattered. Once the primary was behind them, they would need to hit the ground running.

  He sat back, arm hooked over the chair, and surveyed the table. Every person there was someone he had known long before he had decided to run for mayor. His best friend . . . his high school bandmates . . . his take-charge cousin. They went a long way back, and a few coffees and pastries would never be enough to repay them for this gift of their time—or more important, for their faith in him.

  He had the final say. He was the one with the jitters. But would it be fair to repay them for their time and belief by making things more complicated for them down the road, all because he was nervous about taking such a public step at this point?

  At that moment, the pretty barista materialized at the side of the table.

  “How are we all doing? Anybody need anything?”

  He glanced around the circle of faces, all of them shaking their heads.

  “We’re good, thanks.”

  “Okay. Let me know if that changes.” She turned her back on them and moved toward the front of the store.

  “Hang on,” he said. He wasn’t sure why until she turned and looked at him. Not at the others, but him. Directly at him this time, the way she had up at the counter.

  “Could I get a refill, please?” He raised his cup and smiled. Her gaze flickered to the mug, then to him, and she returned the smile. Slowly. Reluctantly. But it was still a smile, one that softened her slightly pointy chin and lit the eyes beneath her shaggy blonde bangs.

  Yeah. That was why he’d called to her.

  “Coming right up,” she said. “I’ll even be a sport and put it in a clean mug.”

  He waited until she had moved out of sight before turning back to the table.

  “Okay.” He pointed at Allison. “Set up a time for us to have a look. Anyone else who wants to check it out, you’re more than welcome.”

  Allison nodded and tapped on her tablet. Aubrey smiled in relief. Tim gave him a thumbs up. Ram scrawled something on a notepad. A moment later, when Cole reached for his wallet, he felt a paper being pushed into his hand.

  Don’t suppose your change of heart had anything to do with the barista you were checking out.

  Cole scanned the words and bit back a laugh. Right. Ram knew, better than anyone, that Cole didn’t let romance—or friendly conversation, which was all it had been—determine the course of his actions. If that had been the case, he would still be in Manhattan, still clocking seventy-plus-hour workweeks at Genovese, Flynn, & Brown, and still miserable.

  Nope. Cole Dekker didn’t play games. He did what he knew he had to do, and he did openly. He did it honestly.

  And there wasn’t a smile in the world that could make him change.

  ***

  Jenna pulled into the driveway of her mother’s house and grinned. Not in anticipation. Her stomach had been cramping from the moment her mother had texted her with the terse words all the Elias sisters dreaded: Family Council, 6:00.

  Jenna had missed only one such summons in her life. That was the meeting her mother called when Jenna had almost died.

  So nope, she wasn’t exactly joyful about the evening ahead. But it was impossible to not grin at the sight that greeted her—a figure in the garden that she was pretty sure was supposed to be a scarecrow, but in actuality resembled her aunt’s least favorite reality TV star.

  “Hi, Mom!” she called as she let herself into the house.

  Neenee Elias stopped in the middle of waving a finger in the face of Jenna’s big sister Bree and smiled in Jenna’s direction. “Hi, sweetheart. You’re just in time. Kyrie texted from the airport. She and Paige will be here anytime.”

  “Great. I see you let Aunt Margie loose in the petunias again.”

  “I had to. She said it was either Kim Kardashian in the garden, or she was going to have the car painted to look like the one in Ghostbusters.”

  Yeah, that sounded like Margie. “Good call. Keep yelling at Bree. She needs it.”

  “Hey!” Bree protested, but Jenna was already on her way to the kitchen. She was dying to interrogate her mother, but she knew from experience that not a word would be said until all five sisters were in residence.

  Once in the fading yellow kitchen, Jenna found baby sister Annie chopping vegetables with a particularly violent glee.

  “Let me guess,” Jenna said. “The rug rats were extra enchanting today.”

  Annie didn’t break her rhythm, even while hunching her shoulder to push back the long curl that had slipped free of her ponytail. “The children at my day care are awesome,” she said. “It’s the grown-ups that make my life a living hell.”

  “What was it this time? Another parent complaining because someone pushed Precious on the swing without consulting with her first, and now she will need endless rounds of therapy because her personal space was violated?”

  “Worse. Today I had a parent inform me that she wanted her son moved to a different class because he wasn’t being adequately challenged by the program in his group.” Annie snorted. “The genius in question is eleven months old.”

  “Ah, but he acts like a fourteen-month-old, right?”

  “Not even. He is a normal, healthy, utterly adorable bundle of poop who is right on target for all his milestones. A great kid who has only one problem, and that’s spelled M-O-M.”

  “What, Mom is after you, too?” Bree said as she hustled into the kitchen.

  “Not me. Work parents.” Annie made a face.

  Jenna stole a cherry tomato from the bowl. “Mom’s not after me, either. I’m her favorite.”

  “No, you’re not,” Bree replied. “I’m the first, so I have to be her favorite. It’s a well-established psychological principal. Unfortunately for you, you got to be Daddy’s girl.”

  “Ooooh,” Annie said. “Harsh, Bree. You’re really gonna make Jenna carry that load of guilt?”

  Jenna shrugged as she hoisted herself up onto a stool by the breakfast bar. “Hey, I didn’t make him steal, or run away, or any of those other things. All I did was smile pretty and take the toys he gave me.”

  “Bought by a Barbie.” Bree shook her head. “You always were easy.”

  Jenna thought about protesting, but decided she couldn’t. Bree was right. Jenna had been pretty free and easy, back in the day.

  But those days were long behind her. Most of the time, she was glad of that.

  Most of the time.

  “Question.” This seemed like a good time to change the subject.

  “No, I don’t know why Mom called this meeting,” Bree said. “She’s not giving out hints, as you saw when you came in.”

  “Good guess, but that isn’t what I wanted to ask. Does the name Cole Dekker ring any bells to you guys?”

  “Not me.” Annie swatted at Bree, who was stealthily pilfering croutons from the salad.

  “Ow!” Bree rubbed her hand. “I know him, sort of. He was a year or two ahead of me in school. He’s a lawyer. Has an office on Paulie Road. I pass it when I’m on my way to school.”

  “Who’s a lawyer?” Neenee asked as she entered, carrying a platter filled with ribs. “Bree, take the lid off the crock pot for me, there’s a girl.”

  “Only if you tell me—” Bree began, but a sharp look from their mother had her doing as ordered.

  “Cole Dekker.” Jenna twisted back and forth on her stool, pushing and pulling herself to and from the breakfast bar. “He came into the shop today, and his name sounded familiar.”

  Bree stepped back, giving Neenee room to deposit the ribs into the slow cooker. “Maybe Ken-Doll ha
d dealings with him.”

  “Not likely.” Jenna scowled at the mention of her ex. “Kendall would never stoop so low as to use a local lawyer.”

  “Nothing but the priciest for him, right?” asked Annie.

  “Forget him.” Bree slammed the lid on the pot, but not before the scent of barbecued ribs had filled the room. “Why were you asking about Cole Dekker, Jenna?”

  “I told you. He came into the shop. His name sounded familiar, so I was curious.” Jenna twirled a little farther this time. “Now I know. How long until Kyrie and Paige get here? I’m starved.”

  Neenee pushed a bowl of grapes into Jenna’s hands. “I told you, they’re on their way from the airport, so they should be here in a few minutes. Take these to the table. Annie, bring the salad, and Bree, grab the dressing and the rolls. I have to make sure Margie hasn’t decided to toss a bunch of sage on the barbecue like she did last time.”

  “Yeah, Mom, you still haven’t told us how you knew it wasn’t really sage,” Annie called to Neenee’s departing back. When no answer drifted back to them, she turned to her sisters. “I’m pretty sure this meeting has something to do with Mom. Something’s wrong with her.”

  “Not this again.” Bree took the words out of Jenna’s mouth.

  “Go ahead and laugh. I spend half my days trying to decipher cues from non-verbal little beasties. I know body language, and I’m telling you, something’s up.”

  Bree shook her head.

  “She has a job that would drive anyone normal to drink.” Bree ticked off points on her fingers. “She has two daughters getting married soon. One of those daughters is preparing to move to Scotland -”

  “God Save the Queen,” Annie and Jenna interrupted automatically.

  “-and she has to live with Aunt Margie,” Jenna finished. “You think you wouldn’t be twitching under those circumstances?”

  “All true.” Annie grabbed the salad and led the parade out to the screened-in porch. “But it’s more than -.”

  “They’re here!” Aunt Margie’s deep bellow alerted them and, no doubt, the entire neighborhood.