by Linda Seed
“You were gone when I came back,” Will said when they were seated and the bread basket was being passed around the table.
“Figured that out all by yourself, did you?”
Okay, she was mad. He already knew that, since she hadn’t answered his phone calls or responded to his texts, but this attitude of hers was further proof. Will didn’t think it was entirely fair.
“You know, I didn’t want to leave you for Melinda. It’s not like I went up to Cooper House so I could seduce her with candlelight and chocolates.” He was whispering to keep the conversation between the two of them, rather than making their relationship issues the topic of speculation among the other guests. “You look really pretty, by the way.”
She was wearing a low-cut midnight blue lace sheath dress that clung to the contours of her body all the way from her shoulders to her knees. He could barely focus on what he was trying to say.
“Don’t try to distract me with compliments,” she said.
“Well, you’re distracting me with that dress, so I guess it’s even,” he murmured. He thought he saw a hint of a smile, though it was possible he imagined it.
Rose’s pregnancy wasn’t showing yet—of course it wouldn’t, this early—but there was something going on. She seemed … rounder. Softer. She maybe even glowed a little bit. Didn’t they say that pregnant women glowed? Whatever it was, it made him want her so badly that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. He tried to think of what to say next—something that would make her see his side of the story—but instead, he realized he was gazing down the top of her dress and into the sweet depths of her cleavage.
“Hey, Bachman, the eyes are up here,” she snapped.
He startled slightly, then blushed. “Like I said, the dress is distracting.”
“You know what’s distracting?” she demanded. “Your ex-girlfriend coming over during our date. That’s what’s distracting.”
His lips quirked into a half smile. “I thought you weren’t even admitting it was a date.”
“Shut up.”
“Both of you shut up,” Lacy hissed at them. “Jackson’s trying to give a toast.”
Will tried to put aside his issues with Rose so he could focus on the evening. Jackson’s toast actually was pretty touching, starting with Jackson’s memories of his friendship with Ryan, detouring to Jackson’s own feelings about love, and then finally coming to a conclusion with his best wishes for the happy couple. Kate, the maid of honor, followed up with her own toast, in which she quoted a couple of poems dealing with love, passion, marriage, and partnership.
Ryan’s brother Liam—a rancher who had traveled from Montana for the event—spoke next, followed by his mother, who grumbled and sat down prematurely when she broke into tears during her remarks. Ryan’s father patted her several times on the shoulder.
That many toasts meant there was a lot of champagne being consumed, but Will didn’t have any because he was trying to be supportive of Rose. He couldn’t tell her that was why he was skipping it, of course, but it was enough that he knew.
“Why aren’t you drinking champagne?” she asked him in a testy voice.
“Why aren’t you?” he shot back.
If he’d thought the question would make her suddenly confess her impending motherhood, he was mistaken. She merely made a face at him—something that mixed anger and frustration, combining pursed lips with furrowed eyebrows—and turned her back on him to face Gen’s mother, who was drunkenly saying something at the head of the table.
“You’re going to have to talk to me at some point,” Will whispered to Rose’s back.
“Not necessarily,” she shot over her shoulder. “You’re going to give up eventually.”
And that right there, Will realized, was the crux of the situation. She thought he was going to give up on her, and all of this—the I’m done with men routine, her insistence that she didn’t care about him, her refusal to tell him about the pregnancy, and finally, her angry act over what was happening with Melinda—all of it was a test. She was trying to push him away, and if she succeeded, she would have proved that he was just like all of the men who had come before, the ones who had left, or judged, or failed to appreciate everything she offered. He was being challenged, examined for his fitness to be with her. And he was not going to fail.
“No. I won’t give up, not today, not ever,” he told her.
She was trying to stay mad, but holy jeez, it was getting hard. It was bad enough that they’d been seated together. But then he just had to look at her with those sweet, puppy eyes.
She’d worn this dress specifically to make him sorry for walking out on her last night while she was naked and ready to give herself to him. But the fact that it was working so well was backfiring on her. When he looked at her that way he did—with so much hunger and longing—it made her want to forget whatever it was that had made her angry in the first place, shove him down on the banquet table, and climb on top of him. But that wouldn’t help her to stay strong and objective. And besides, it would upstage the bride and groom.
Whatever she was going to do about Will—if, indeed, she was going to do anything about him—would have to wait until after the wedding. Being a bridesmaid would be demanding enough without having to sort out her romantic life as well.
She shifted in her seat, faced the head of the table, where Gen’s mother was standing with her champagne flute aloft, pretending to be the perfect maternal figure, and tried to forget Will was sitting beside her. That was difficult to do, because she could feel his eyes on her. But she told herself she was stronger than her carnal desires. And she almost believed it.
By the time the toasts were finished and the wait staff was placing their dinner plates in front of them, Rose had almost convinced herself that she could freeze him out. He was just a guy she’d been seated next to at a dinner function. Like the time she’d gone to her friend Annette’s wedding and had sat next to Annette’s cousin Julio. Since Julio was gay, he’d never looked down Rose’s dress with avid intensity the way Will had. So, that was one difference.
“Would you stop?” she hissed at Will when they were halfway through the entrees.
“Stop what?”
“Stop … you know. Looking at me.”
“I like looking at you,” he said simply.
He was being sweet, and that wasn’t helping.
At this point, Rose would have been happy to have her mother there, because a little family squabbling would distract her from her pressing but unwise desire to crawl into Will’s lap. But Pamela wasn’t part of the bridal party, so she wasn’t in attendance. It figured that the one time she might prove to be useful, she wasn’t there. Rose struck up a conversation with Ryan’s brother Colin—a lawyer from San Diego—instead.
When the dinner was over and they’d all had their desserts and coffee, Rose got up and tried to head out of the restaurant before Will could stop her. He was too quick for her, though.
“Hey.” He stopped her before she even reached the door of the private banquet room. “Don’t go yet. I was hoping we could talk.”
“Well, we can’t.” She turned away from him and started toward the door.
“Rose.” He put a hand gently on her bicep.
Shit.
If this were a movie, she’d have yanked her arm away from him and demanded, dramatically, that he unhand her. But this was her life, and instead, she felt an electric warmth from his touch that made her want to whimper with desire for him.
“Will. Don’t.” To her horror, she felt tears coming to her eyes. “This is … Can’t you see I’m trying? I’m trying my hardest to do what’s right for me. To be smart. To be strong. To protect myself and my …” She stopped herself before she could say my baby. “My heart,” she said instead, recovering herself. “Why won’t you let me?”
The hand that was on her arm began to slowly caress her. “When will you see that you don’t need to protect yourself from me?”
“I …” Here were those damned tears again. “I have to go.”
People were milling around, saying their goodbyes. She pushed her way through the crowd and left him alone to make uncomfortable small talk about the day to come.
Chapter Thirty
The day of the wedding, the weather appeared to have come straight out of a Central Coast tourism brochure. The sky was a crisp blue, the temperatures in the midseventies. A light breeze blew off the ocean, bathing everything with the scent of salt water. The deer were out, grazing on people’s lawns, the hummingbirds were sipping nectar from the trees, and the flowers were in vivid, audacious bloom.
“It’s like a goddamned Julia Roberts movie,” Rose muttered as she wrapped her bathrobe around herself and opened her front door.
There was a lot to do today, but she didn’t feel up to it. She felt too sorry for herself for having slept alone. If Will were here, he might have pointed out that it was her own fault. But if Will were here, that conversation would be moot.
Feeling grumpy and sex-deprived, she went into her kitchen and ground the beans to make a cup of coffee. She’d Googled it and found that coffee, in moderation, wouldn’t hurt the baby. Maybe she’d had to give up wine, but at least she still had French roast.
She was still stirring the milk and sugar into her cup when her phone rang. The screen said it was Pamela. Could Rose tolerate Pamela on zero caffeine? She wasn’t sure. But if she didn’t take the call, she’d still have to talk to her eventually. She took a deep and satisfying drink of her coffee, then picked up the phone and answered it.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Rosemary. What time are you leaving for the ceremony? Because I wondered if you could pick me up on your way.”
Rose squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s not on my way, though. You’re kind of on the opposite side of town.”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“What’s wrong with your rental car?” Rose wanted to know.
“Nothing. I just thought we could spend some time together. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Oh, crap. Pamela probably wanted to talk to her about her hair, or her tattoo, or her job, or her place of residence. The ride to the lodge would be one long lecture. She was about to make an excuse for why she couldn’t do it when she realized that giving her mother a ride would give her an excuse for why she couldn’t leave the wedding with Will.
“All right,” she said.
“Really?” Pamela sounded surprised.
“Sure. But I have to be there a couple of hours before the ceremony. Pictures, helping Gen get ready, and all that.”
“That’s fine,” Pamela said, sounding far more agreeable than was usually her habit. “I’ll just have a cup of coffee in the lounge.”
“Super. I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty.” The ceremony was scheduled to begin at two, and Rose had told Gen she would be there no later than noon.
“Thank you, dear.”
Had Pamela ever thanked her for anything before? Rose couldn’t remember.
When Rose picked up her mother, Pamela was wearing a chocolate-colored tea-length taffeta dress with a full skirt and a neckline that was deep enough to be fashionable but modest enough to be tasteful. Rose thought she was a bit overdressed—the wedding wasn’t going to be as formal as those Pamela was used to on the East Coast—but nonetheless, she looked perfect, as though she’d employed a personal stylist to prepare her for the event. Which she actually might have done.
“You look beautiful,” Rose said, standing in the doorway as Pamela gathered up her purse and her shoulder wrap.
“Thank you, darling.”
Pamela couldn’t say the same about Rose. She and the rest of the wedding party were going to get ready at the lodge, so Rose was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair, now a pale pink, in a ponytail at the back of her neck. Rose’s dress, shoes, accessories, and makeup bag were in the car.
“Your hair …” Pamela began, after they were in the car and maneuvering their way along Ardath Drive.
Oh, here we go.
“Yes?” Rose prompted her. If they were going to have a fight, then she was ready to go at it. She’d had enough criticism, enough disapproval, to last a lifetime. If Pamela wanted to go there, Rose would shred her like a wolverine with an injured rabbit.
“I was wondering how you plan to wear it,” Pamela said, her voice serene. “Will it be in an updo, or down?”
Rose was speechless for a moment. Then she recovered her voice and said, “Um … Gen has a hairstylist coming to the lodge. It’s going to be up, I think. I don’t really know. I’m just going to let the hair lady do whatever she wants to do.”
“Ah. I see. I’m sure it’s going to be lovely.”
Rose tried to make sense of what was happening here, but she couldn’t. In their long relationship, Pamela and Rose each had a script, and Pamela was straying from that script. Why? What did it mean? And what the hell was Rose supposed to say in response?
The best tactic was to change the subject. “Uh … you said you wanted to talk to me about something?” She prepared herself for some attempt to manipulate her into living her life more in line with the Pamela way. Would this be about her relationship with Will? Her house? Her job? Her state of residence?
“Yes. Darling, I know you might have an issue with what I’m about to say, but—”
Here it comes, Rose thought.
“—I’ve talked to a Realtor about moving here to Cambria.”
Rose was caught so fully off guard that she almost veered off the road.
“You what ?” Her pulse was pounding, and she had to force herself to take deep breaths so she wouldn’t crash the car.
“Oh, darling,” Pamela began, enthusiasm in her voice. “I always thought you were crazy for settling here, so far away from anything … relevant. But, my goodness! It’s so lovely here, isn’t it? Every morning I wake up to find deer on the lawn. And the quiet! I can actually hear myself think. I’ve even made a few friends. Mrs. Duffy down the road from the summer house is lovely. I’ve had her over for tea twice now.”
As she drove, Rose pressed a hand to her forehead just to make sure it hadn’t flown off. So many thoughts were running through her head. What would this mean for her? Would Rose have to move somewhere else, just so they wouldn’t kill each other? And most importantly, who was this woman sitting next to her in the car?
“Mom. I—”
“Oh, I know you want your privacy,” Pamela continued. “I’m aware of that. But it’s not like I’ll be living with you, darling. I’ll have my own activities, my own interests.”
“What … what about the house in Connecticut?” Rose stammered.
Pamela waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll sell it. Or possibly not. I might want to keep it. The idea of a home on both coasts is appealing. I haven’t decided.”
“I suppose I could live in it if I have to flee for my life,” Rose muttered under her breath.
Pamela patted Rose’s arm crisply and sat back in her seat, a whisper of a smile on her face. “Oh, darling. I doubt it’ll come to that.”
Rose whisked into the suite at the lodge they would be using as their command post, her garment bag slung over her arm, a bag containing her shoes and makeup hung over her shoulder. The others were already there.
“Am I late? I hope I’m not late. I don’t know what time it is. I don’t even know what goddamned day it is. Somebody give me some champagne,” she said. “Wait. No. I almost forgot. No champagne. Goddamn it.”
Lacy went to a table on one side of the room, where an array of snacks and beverages had been laid out. She poured Rose a tall flute of sparkling cider and took it to her. “Here, honey. You’re not late, but it looks like you’re having a rough day.”
Rose set her things down on the bed, took the glass, and peered into it. “Cider. Bleh.” But she drank it anyway.
“I think I’m going to throw up. Again,” Gen said from somewhere inside the
spacious bathroom.
“Oh, jeez.” Rose peered into the bathroom, where Gen was on her knees in front of the toilet. “Food poisoning? Hangover?”
“Nerves,” Kate said. She was kneeling next to Gen, holding her hair.
“You’re kidding.” Rose propped one fist on her hip, the glass of cider in her other hand. “What’s there to be nervous about? Ryan is the perfect man.”
“I know,” Gen moaned. “I know. He’s perfect. It’s all … it’s perfect. I just … Oh.” She heaved into the bowl again.
“Ew.” Rose made a face and backed out of the bathroom.
“I’ll be okay,” Gen said. “I can do this. It’s going to be fine.”
There was a crisp knock on the door of the suite, and Lacy opened it.
“Hellooo!” The stylist breezed into the room with a sing-songy greeting. “Where’s the beautiful bride?”
Gen waved weakly from where she was kneeling by the commode.
“Oh, my,” the stylist said. “Well. We’d better get to work.”
By the time the photographer arrived in the suite to take romantic, gauzy images of Gen and her friends preparing themselves for the big day, Gen had stopped vomiting and was only slightly green. That could be worked out in the retouching stage, the woman reassured them.
With the photographer snapping away, the stylist did Gen’s hair, arranging it in an artfully messy updo of copper-colored curls. Next came the makeup, which did a lot to fix the green complexion problem.
By the time they helped her into her dress, Gen seemed to be past her nausea and was pressing forward, occasionally muttering to herself, “Just get through it. Just get through it.”
“That’s not a very romantic sentiment for the most important day of your life,” Lacy observed.
“Bite me,” Gen retorted.
Gen’s dress was a cream-colored, strapless tulle ball gown with a beaded bodice and a sweetheart neckline. Rose had worried that the yards and yards of fabric would swallow Gen, considering that Gen wasn’t very tall. But once the dress was on, along with the beaded high-heeled sandals that would give her some extra height, all of the women in the room let out a collective sigh.