“And then you have to sleep with the closet light on.” He nodded. “I remember. But you should check out The Tunnels. It’s got a steamy love scene set in this big, underground tunnel at a college campus.”
“A tunnel,” Emily repeated. “At a college campus. Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Yeah, there’s a very cute heroine who has a thing for bad boys and loud indie rock. We stuck the scene in there during a last-minute rewrite, but it’s great. My favorite scene from all the movies I’ve done.”
She finally relaxed a little bit. “Let me guess: The love scene gets interrupted by a chain saw–wielding psycho.”
“Nope, the heroine makes it to the end of the movie. The screenwriter wanted to kill her off, but I just couldn’t bear to let the psycho dismember her.”
Emily laughed. “You sentimental softie.”
“It was more about audience test scores.” He grinned, and she had to fight a sudden overwhelming urge to reach up and rest her palm on the side of his face.
Ryan must have been experiencing a similar urge, because when a breeze rustled through the pine trees, plastering a few strands of Emily’s hair against her freshly glossed lips, he brushed one finger across her cheekbone to tuck the hair behind her ear.
She flinched and backed away.
“Sorry.” He crammed his hands into his jacket pockets. “I didn’t realize…”
Emily cleared her throat and took charge. “So you came to Valentine, Vermont, the week before my wedding to film a movie?”
“To consider movie locations, yes.” He opened his palm, the picture of bewilderment. “And here you are. Crazy, right? What are the odds?”
She gave him a look. “The odds are astronomically slim.”
“Maybe it’s fate.”
“It’s not fate,” she said firmly. “How long are you going to be here?”
“Hard to say. Maybe overnight; maybe a few days.”
“And you’re staying at the Lodge.”
“Yeah, and actually, I have few hours free tonight. We could—”
“Here’s what’s going to happen right now: I am going to go back upstairs and take off this dress. You are going to go do whatever it is that film producers do. We are both going to stay out of each other’s way, and we are going to pretend this whole thing never happened.” Her eyes widened as a truly chilling thought occurred. “And if you happen to see my mother, run the other way. Right now is not the time to catch up.” She gestured to her gown and pearl necklace. “As you can see, I’m pretending to be a grown-up.”
“Got it.” He didn’t move. “God, you look good, Em.”
“Ryan!”
“Right. Okay.” He nodded. “The timing isn’t good.”
“The timing is never good for us.” She looked away. “I’d say we’ve already caused each other enough trouble, wouldn’t you?”
“Hold on a second.” He started smiling again, but this smile was not entirely genial. She recognized this smile as his let’s-make-a-deal smile. God help her. “We’ve seen each other naked. And now you’re saying we can’t even have a conversation?”
Annnnnd now she couldn’t stop picturing him naked.
She felt the underside of her hair start to grow heavy with sweat. Any second now, Bev or Georgia would come looking for her. And even though it had been ten years, she knew better than to get into a debate with Ryan Lassiter.
So she took the only option left to her—she changed the subject.
Emily turned her attention to the dog sitting patiently behind Ryan. The shaggy retriever had a relatively slight build and graying fur along her muzzle.
“You have a dog now?” she asked.
“I still have a dog,” he corrected.
“What do you mean?” She rocked back on her heels, wincing as a stray pine needle sank into her bare foot. And then she remembered. The day before she’d left for good. The roly-poly little yellow puppy. The chewing, the howling, the peeing on the carpet…
“This is the puppy?”
Ryan scratched the dog’s head. “Lieutenant Ellen Ripley, reporting for duty.”
“She grew.”
“She did. She’s a senior citizen now, in dog years.”
“I can’t believe you kept her.”
Ryan’s easygoing grin vanished, but all he said was, “She’s been all over the world with me. She’s drooled on some of the best agents in the business, played fetch with Oscar nominees.”
Which meant that Ryan also spent time with Oscar nominees. Emily couldn’t reconcile this with her image of him as a starving young slacker, but judging by his expression, he couldn’t reconcile the lace and pearls with his memories of the leather miniskirts and body shots of tequila.
He shook his head, his expression half-amused and half-disappointed. “Look at you. Emily McKellips, what the hell happened?”
“I told you: I grew up, settled down, and became one of those practical, predictable people you hate.”
“You did not.”
“Oh yes, I did. I have an MBA now. I’m a financial planner. I set the table, I make my bed—”
“You straightened your hair.” This seemed to offend him more than anything else. “So who’s this guy you’re marrying?”
“His name is Grant, and he’s wonderful.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow at her defensive tone. “Is Grant a financial planner, too?”
“Surgeon.” She took a deep breath. “He just joined the organ transplant team at a very prestigious hospital in Boston. We’re moving to the suburbs and buying a house with a white picket fence. And I don’t really feel like introducing the two of you so—”
“Too late.” Ryan lifted his chin as Emily heard Grant’s voice calling her name. “Here comes the groom.”
“Everything okay, angel?” Grant sounded worried.
“Angel?” Ryan looked confused for a second, then burst out laughing. “You?”
Emily felt Grant’s hand on her back and shook him off, covering her face with her hands. “You can’t see me in my dress! It’s bad luck!”
“Angel?” Ryan repeated.
“Calm down.” Grant put his hand right back on her shoulder. “My mom asked me to come down here and make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” Emily insisted, wishing it were true.
“And don’t worry, I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the classic Triumph Spitfire in the parking lot.”
“That’s mine,” Ryan said. “1968, original chrome work. I restored it myself.” As soon as he started speaking, Ripley the retriever inched forward to greet the newcomer.
“Yeah?” Grant gave the dog an absent pat on the head. “How long did that take?”
“Five years, give or take. I had to track down all the engine parts on eBay.”
Emily stared straight up into the sky as she introduced her past to her future. “Grant, this is Ryan. Ryan Lassiter. He’s, uh—”
“Oh, I know who you are.” Grant straightened up and got serious.
Emily stiffened, instinctively hiding the scar on her left ring finger deep within the folds of her frilly skirt. “You do?”
“Sure. You’re a horror movie legend.” Grant offered his hand to Ryan, who shook it.
“You’ve seen my work?” Ryan asked.
“Well, no,” Grant admitted. “I don’t watch too many movies. I don’t have much of a life outside the hospital—ask Em, she’ll tell you—but I’ve got this patient who loves you. Amazing kid. He’s seventeen, and he’s been in and out of the hospital for the last three years. He’s on the transplant list for a new heart. Anyway, he loves your stuff. I can’t tell you how many conversations we’ve had about heart valves while he watched that movie about the soul-sucking demon on his DVD player.”
“Vespers of Death,” Ryan said. “That was my first studio picture.”
“Yeah. Hey, listen, I hate to be an annoying fan, but is there any way I could get your autograph? It would mean the world to this
kid.”
“Sure.” Ryan’s expression changed several times, but Emily couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Tell you what, I have a few DVDs signed by the whole cast. I’ll have my assistant FedEx them to you.”
“Thanks, man, that would be great.” Grant turned to Emily with a huge smile. “How do you two know each other, anyway?”
Ryan looked at Emily, his eyes gleaming. Emily, still light-headed from the constraints of her corset, answered, “Oh, Ryan and I went to college together.”
Grant looked even more confused. “You’re here for the wedding?”
Ryan shook his head. “Scouting some film locations, actually. Running into Em was a happy coincidence.” He clapped the groom-to-be on the shoulder and said, “Well, best wishes, buddy! And best of luck—you are gonna need it.”
Before Grant could reply, Emily threw herself between the two men and started dragging Grant back toward the parking lot. “Sweetheart, you have to go back inside! I’m very superstitious.”
“Leaving so soon?” Ryan called after them. “I thought we were going to have a drink and catch up.”
“Good-bye, Ryan,” Emily threw over her shoulder as she propelled Grant toward the Lodge.
Grant stopped short at the edge of the parking lot, his gaze ping-ponging between Ryan and the silver Triumph convertible. “You’re on,” he called back to Ryan. “Meet you at the hotel bar in ten minutes?”
“Last one there buys.” Ryan walked off toward the Lodge’s lobby with Ripley padding along behind him. As soon as he disappeared around a corner, Grant turned to Emily.
“What on earth is going on with you?” he demanded. “Who was that guy? Why are you so angry? Why are you out here in bare feet?”
Emily slumped back against a thick wooden railing, no longer worried about possible damage to the gown. “I’ll explain everything, honey. I promise. But first, I need to unlace this thing and breathe for a few minutes.”
“Okay, so the guy you met back there? That was Ryan. Ryan Ryan.” After she’d replaced the Priscilla of Boston gown with a ruffled black sundress, Emily tried to explain the whole situation to Grant as they headed back downstairs.
“Ryan Ryan?” Grant stopped on the landing. “I thought his name was Ryan Lassiter.”
“No, I mean he’s the Ryan. My Ryan.” Emily braced herself for Grant’s reaction, and when he continued to regard her with a quizzical stare, she blurted out, “My ex-husband.”
Grant’s expression went from quizzical to dumbfounded. “That guy?”
“Yes.”
“Ryan Lassiter, the movie producer, is your ex-husband?”
“Well.” She could feel herself blushing. “Yeah.”
“But I thought you said your ex-husband was a delusional, irresponsible slacker. I thought you said he had no impulse control. I thought you said he was completely out of touch with reality.”
Damn the smarty-pants doctor and his steel-trap memory. Emily shifted her weight from foot to foot. “He was.”
“Then how did he end up making a bunch of movies?”
She let her hands rise and fall in large swoops. “Impulse control and a firm grasp on reality are probably a liability in Hollywood. Listen, I completely understand if you’re upset.”
He blinked. “I’m not upset.”
“But, truly, I had no idea he would be here. I didn’t invite him.”
“Do you want to invite him to the wedding? Because I don’t mind.”
Now it was her turn to draw up short. “You don’t?”
“Not at all. I’m sure one extra guest won’t be a problem.”
“He’s not invited.” Emily started back down the stairs. “And I promise you, honey, you have nothing to worry about.”
At this, Grant smiled. “I’m not worried.”
“Good.” She took his hand. “You shouldn’t be.”
When they reached the ground floor, he kissed the top of her head. “I’m not.”
“Okay, then. But I still don’t want to go have drinks with him.”
“Why not?”
“Because. I know he seems all glib and charming when you first meet him, but trust me, the man is ruthless and conniving when it comes to getting what he wants. And he always has a hidden agenda. Always.”
“What, you think he’s come to steal you away from me?”
“No, of course not.” She managed—barely—not to melt into a puddle of humiliation. “I just meant—”
“Let him try. Mr. Hollywood.”
Grant didn’t sound the least bit threatened by the idea of another male showing up to challenge him on the eve of his wedding.
And he had no reason to be. He was Emily’s dream man and Ryan was just…well, he was Ryan.
“I can’t believe you two were ever together,” Grant continued. “You could never really love a guy like that. It’s just not who you are.”
He sounded so proud of her inherent goodness that Emily stopped trying to dissuade him. She desperately wanted to be the kind of woman he thought she already was.
“Let’s bail.” She pivoted and tried to urge him back up the stairs. “Forget Ryan Lassiter. Let’s just go back to our room and—”
“Hang on.” Grant tapped at the screen of his smartphone. “I’m Googling him right now.”
“Don’t do that.” She grabbed for the phone, but he fended her off with one hand.
He scanned the text on the screen, smirking. “Wow.”
“What?” Emily crowded in for a look.
“He’s quite the player. Says here he just went to a film premiere with a ‘sultry Brazilian designer-slash-model.’”
Emily practically gave herself whiplash trying to see the images. “What?”
“Yeah. And his last girlfriend was an actress who won an Indie Spirit award.” Grant headed down the hall toward the bar, chuckling as he went. “Steal you away—come on. What’s Mr. Hollywood going to do with a nice girl like you?”
Halfway through the lobby, they spied Mr. Hollywood himself, half turned to the wall with a cell phone pressed to his ear. His demeanor, which had been so flip just a few minutes ago, was now grim and businesslike. Emily had never seen him like this.
“Brokering some multimillion-dollar deal, probably.” Grant acknowledged him with a wave, and Ryan waved back and indicated that he would meet up with them shortly.
As Emily followed her fiancé into the bar, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder to marvel at the total transformation of her ex-husband.
Ryan’s gaze met hers and he didn’t look away. He stared at her with obvious, almost proprietary desire, and she knew exactly what he wanted to do with a girl like her.
“You okay?” Grant placed his hand over Emily’s on the bar top, which had been handcrafted out of reclaimed wood from an old barn. “You keep fidgeting.”
“I’m fine. Just a little stressed about all the wedding plans.” She grabbed the wine list and scanned the text. Her chest felt tight and adrenaline was still surging through her. “Let’s see…What do I want?”
Grant glanced at the list for all of two seconds. “You want the sauvignon blanc.” He signaled to the bartender. “A glass of the Cakebread, please.”
The bartender poured the wine and gave it to Grant, who offered it to Emily, who was just about to take it when she remembered.
“Oh, wait.” She lowered her hand with a sigh. “What am I thinking? I can’t have wine. I’m on the dress diet till Sunday.”
Then Ryan ambled in. Swaggered in was more like it. He carried himself like a gunslinger looking for a shoot-out, and Emily really, really didn’t want to get caught in the cross fire.
When he noticed the glass of white wine in Grant’s hand, his grin widened. “You’re drinking chardonnay? Bold choice.”
“It’s sauv blanc, and it’s for her.” Grant passed the glass to Emily, who decided that if there was ever a time to suspend the dress diet, this was it. She took a sip with shaking fingers, and ended up spil
ling a droplet of wine on her wrist.
Desperate and distracted, she didn’t bother reaching for a cocktail napkin. In a throwback to her college days, she lifted her arm to her mouth and licked off the spillage.
Both men watched her licking her wrist.
Oh God. She closed her mouth and put the glass down. Grant looked faintly amused at her momentary lapse in perfect manners, and Ryan…
Ryan was clearly thinking about licking a lot more than her wrist.
Grant draped his arm around the back of Emily’s chair as he turned to the bartender again. “I’ll have a beer, please.”
Ryan took a seat on the other side of Emily and spread his knees apart until the side of his leg brushed against hers. “Glenlivet on the rocks.”
Screw the dress. Emily knew she’d need something stronger than sauv blanc to get her through this little tête-à-tête. “I’ll have, um, a shot of vodka. Chilled, please, with a splash of grenadine.”
Ryan snorted with derision. “You’re such a girl.”
“Shut up.” Emily glared at him as she pushed her still-full wineglass aside. “I am a lady.”
“Right.” The gleam in his eyes was positively diabolical. “My mistake.” He leaned forward to address Grant, pressing his thigh against Emily’s in the process. “So when did you two get into town?”
“Two days ago.” Grant curled his fingertips around Emily’s upper arm. “We wanted to get here before the other wedding guests. We’ve both been working too hard lately.”
“He surprised me with an afternoon at the spa yesterday,” Emily bragged. “Then we got a couples’ massage together.”
“A couples’ massage? Seriously?” A hint of a smirk played across Ryan’s lips as he stared at Grant. “What, are your hands too tired from surgery to rub her back yourself?”
She kicked Ryan’s ankle. “Would you knock it off?”
Ryan held up one palm as he lifted his drink. “I’m just saying, if that were me, I’d be rubbing you down myself.”
She looked around for a handy steak knife with which to stab him into silence. “Well, it’s not you, so why don’t you just—”
“Excuse me,” Grant interjected. “Emily, may I have a word? In private?” He helped her down from the barstool and she trailed behind him to the outdoor patio.
The Week Before the Wedding Page 7