She wrapped her hands around the spindle on her side of the bed. “Where do we go from here?”
As always, he had a ready answer. “You, me, and Ripley ride off into the sunset in a silver Triumph Spitfire.”
Once he said it, she couldn’t get the image out of her head. She trailed one finger along the sleek, varnished bed frame as she took a step toward him. Then another and another. “I need you to be serious.”
He watched her every move. “I’m very serious.”
“I’ve been trying to figure us out since you showed up on Saturday.”
“Did you make an Excel spreadsheet?”
“I tried.” She inched closer to him. “But it turns out we defy mathematical formulas.”
“So what are you saying?”
“All I know is this: We’re not done.”
“We’re never going to be done.” His eyes darkened in the sun-dappled shadows. “I want you in my life. I always have. I always will.”
She took a deep breath, aware that she was poised on a precipice. He reached out and pulled her to his side.
“It’s your line now,” he prompted.
She reached up and adjusted the crisp white pocket square peeking out of his jacket. “I love you. And your little dog, too.”
He flattened his hand over hers. She could feel his heart beating under the thin layers of wool and cotton.
“I love you, too. My temptress in a T-shirt.” This time, his smile was a slow, wicked grin that robbed her of thought. “Put your hands up.”
One year later
“Honey, I’m home.”
Ryan’s voice echoed down the hall to the master bathroom, where Emily reclined in a bathtub brimming with bubbles.
She listened to the scrabble of Ripley’s paws against the hardwood floor as Ryan greeted the dog, then heard the distinctive pop of a cork. A minute later, Ryan appeared in the doorway carrying two flutes of champagne. “Got room for one more in there?”
“Always.” She slid over to one side.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this bathtub.” He rested the glasses on the ledge of the tub and sniffed the air. “Peach?”
“Hibiscus.”
“I didn’t want to say anything at first, but you need a bathtub intervention.” His voice was muffled as he stripped off his shirt and jeans. “This is serious, Em. I want you to admit you have a problem.”
She laughed and turned on the faucet to add more hot water.
“That sounds like denial.”
“Denial and hibiscus,” she said. “And don’t pretend you’re not my enabler. You saw how I was with this bathtub the very first time the Realtor showed us the house.”
“Your reaction to this tub is the reason we bought the place.” He sloshed in beside her, heedless of the water spilling over the rim. “There’s a lot to be said for getting you naked.”
“So what’s the problem?” She gave him a long, slow kiss. His hands skimmed over her body under the bubbles.
“What problem? What are we even talking about?”
When they came up for air, he handed her a champagne flute, and she took a sip. “Yum. What are we celebrating?”
“We wrapped the shoot today. Right on schedule. And under budget, thanks to our genius line producer.”
“Like, two dollars under budget.” She feigned modesty.
He nibbled her earlobe. “You’re so hot when you’re beating studio financial targets.”
“I try.”
He glanced at the screenplay pages stacked on top of her folded bathrobe. “Did you read the latest rewrite?”
“Almost done. This version’s great. Really scary and gross, but great. That scene with the demon-hybrid thing and the vampires? I may have to sleep with the closet light on tonight.”
He leaned back against the cool white porcelain and stretched out his arms. “If I hire the right director, you may never sleep again.”
“Get me some numbers and I’ll start putting a preliminary budget together.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re so much more comfortable than one of those inflatable bath pillows. Oh, and speaking of vamps, my mom called today. Bev’s getting married.”
He wrapped his other arm around her. “Let me guess: Brad the concierge?”
“No, some guy she met on that Alaskan cruise they took in September. A widower. Mom says he’s lovely. Well, her exact words were, ‘A little stodgy for my taste, but perfect for Bev.’ She says they’re blissfully happy together. They’re having the wedding in Valentine, Vermont.”
“Is Bev going to wear the boa constrictor dress?”
“It’s not that kind of wedding. They’re keeping it low-key.”
“Are we invited?”
Emily lifted her head and gave him a look. “I left her son at the altar. What do you think?”
“Technically, you passed out halfway down the aisle,” Ryan corrected. “And Grant seems to have recovered.”
This was true. Six months after the Wedding That Wasn’t (as it came to be known), Grant met a sweet and ruthlessly efficient hospital administrator named Heidi, and the two of them had been inseparable ever since. Even the tickets to Bora-Bora had not gone to waste—Andrew had surprised Caroline by whisking her away for a belated honeymoon in paradise. (“I think you scared him straight,” Caroline confided to Emily. “He saw what happened to Grant’s relationship, and he figured he might be next.”)
Ryan plucked Emily’s champagne glass out of her hand and took a sip. “Ask me what else we’re celebrating.”
She reclaimed the glass and took a retaliatory sip. “Do tell.”
“I have a week off before I head to Vancouver to start preproduction on Dark Matter.”
“Seven whole days?”
“Seven whole days. I was thinking we could do something fun.”
“Ooh, like what? We keep saying we’re going to drive up to Carmel.” She passed the champagne back to him.
“I was thinking something a little crazier.”
Something in his tone made her sit up straight, her pulse picking up. “How crazy?”
He set the empty glass aside. “Will you marry me?”
Both hands flew to her mouth. Hibiscus-scented bubbles flew everywhere. “Oh my God.”
“I was going to wait until tomorrow to ask you. I was planning to whisk you away to a suite at the Ritz and do flowers and candles and the whole nine yards, but you know I have no impulse control.” He watched her face expectantly. “So?”
Her cheeks actually ached from smiling. “Ask me again.”
“What? Why?”
“Two-to-one ratio, remember?”
“Are you kidding me?” More bubbles flying. “That doesn’t apply to you!”
“Hey. If it’s good enough for a bunch of models, it’s good enough for me.”
He dropped his head back and appealed to the ceiling. “You’re killing me here.”
She cupped her ear, waiting.
“Fine.” He grabbed the other glass of champagne and took a swig. “Will you marry me? Or do I have to make your decision tree limbless?”
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” She cupped his face in both hands and kissed him. “That’s four yeses to your two proposals, thus preserving the two-to-one ratio.”
“As long as we’re all squared away, mathematically.” He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her back. “You know, there’s a twenty-four-hour tattoo parlor down on Sunset.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know if I can see myself doing the ring tattoo again.”
“I can. It’s very cinematic. Opening scene: Hot young thing walks into a tattoo parlor. Right behind her is our hero—brilliant, talented, and ridiculously good-looking.”
“And reeking of Drakkar Noir.”
Ryan ignored that. “Our heroine can’t contain her desire for him. They nauseate even the grizzled, chain-smoking tattoo artist with their public displays of affection.”
Emily held out her left hand, study
ing the pale etching of his name on her ring finger. “So you’re proposing a sequel.”
“Not just a sequel—a sequel that’s better than the original.”
“Is that even possible?”
“It’s rare, but it happens. Evil Dead 2 was far superior to the original.”
“Evil Dead 2?” She burst out laughing. “You’re using a movie called Evil Dead 2 as the model for our marriage?”
“The whole thing was genius! The hero had a chain saw for an arm!”
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Hey, I’m up for the challenge if you are.”
“If you’re in, I’m in,” she assured him. “Always. Here’s to a perfect Hollywood ending.”
“To us.” Clink. “Big kiss, fade out, roll credits.”
Beth Kendrick grew up in New England, but now lives in sunny Arizona, where she dreams of white Christmases and colorful fall foliage. She hasn’t watched a horror movie in years, as doing so requires her to sleep with the closet light on. (Yes, really.) She is the author of The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service and The Bake-Off, along with six other novels.
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Don’t miss Beth Kendrick’s next delightful novel,
CURE FOR THE COMMON BREAKUP
Available in May 2014 from New American Library
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.”
“He’s so hot.” Summer Benson nudged her fellow flight attendant Kim. “Even his voice is hot.”
“Welcome to our flight from New York to Paris.” Aaron’s voice sounded deep and rich, despite the plane’s staticky loudspeaker. “Flying time tonight should be about seven hours and twenty-six minutes. We’re anticipating an on-time departure, so we’re going to ask you to move out of the aisles and take your seats as quickly as possible.”
Summer leaned back against the drink cart in the tiny first-class galley. “Ooh, I love it when he tells me what to do.”
Kim, a tiny Texan with a sleek blond bob, rolled her eyes and started checking the meals that had arrived from catering. “Get a room.”
“As soon as we get to Paris, we will,” Summer assured her. “And then we’re going to walk by the Seine and go to the Eiffel Tower and eat pain au chocolat. If it’s cheesy and touristy, we’re doing it. I actually packed a beret.”
“I was wondering why you had two gigantic carryons,” Kim said. “That’s a lot of luggage for a three-day layover.”
“One bag’s half-full of scandalous lingerie,” Summer replied. “I left the other half empty so I can buy more scandalous lingerie.” She frowned at a snag in her silky black nylons. “These eight-hour flights are hell on my stockings. This pair was my favorite, too. They’re all lacy at the top. Hand embroidered.”
Kim’s jaw dropped. “You’re wearing thigh highs? All the way to Paris? Do you hate yourself? Do you hate your veins?”
“When I’m on a flight to Paris with my boyfriend, I don’t wear support hose. Not now, not ever.”
“And do you hate your feet?” Kim glanced down at Summer’s patent leather pumps. “I don’t have a ruler with me, but I’m guessing those heels are higher than two and a half inches.” She shook her index finger. “Airline regulations.”
“Airline regulations also state that we have to wear black shoes and black tights with a navy uniform,” Summer said. “That doesn’t make it right. Besides, France has laws against ugly shoes. You can look it up.”
“You’re going to be begging for flats by the time you’re through with the salad service,” Kim predicted.
Summer had to admit that her coworker had a point—international first-class service didn’t offer a lot of downtime. Between distributing hot towels, drinks, place settings and linens, appetizers, salads, entrées, fruit and cheese, dessert, coffee, cordials, warm cookies, and finally breakfast, a sensible flight attendant would wear comfortable footwear.
Summer had never been accused of being sensible.
“The only thing more high-maintenance than the meal service is me,” she said. “I refuse to be hobbled by a few plates of lettuce.”
Kim ducked out of the galley with a pair of plastic water bottles. “Hang on. I’m going to go check if the pilots want anything before takeoff. Want me to say hi to your boyfriend?”
“Sure, and ask if he has any M&Ms. I forgot to bring a fresh supply, and he knows I’m an addict.”
Two minutes later, Kim returned from the flight deck, walking as fast as her polyester pencil skirt permitted. “I just saw Aaron!”
“Score.” Summer held out her palm as Kim handed over a little bag of candy. “He truly is the best boyfriend ever.”
Kim clutched Summer’s forearm. “Forget the M&Ms. He has a diamond ring for you!”
Summer braced both hands on the narrow, metal-edged countertop.
“It’s gorgeous!” Kim squealed. “He was showing it to the copilot when I opened the door.”
Where was an oxygen mask when you needed one? Summer inhaled deeply, smelling stale coffee grounds and the plummy red wine Kim had just uncorked for a passenger.
“I…” She waited for her emotions to kick in. She should laugh. Cry. Faint dead away. “Shut up.”
“He’s going to ask you to marry him!” Kim looked as if she might faint dead away. “How romantic. He’s going to propose in Paris!”
And just like that, the emotions kicked in. Complete, overwhelming terror, along with a side of denial. “Are you sure?”
“Why else would he have a diamond ring? And you should have seen his face.” Kimberly clasped both hands next to her cheek. “He looked so nervous. It was adorable. He made me promise not to tell you.”
“Oh my God,” Summer rasped.
“I know!”
“Oh my God.” She grabbed the nearest bottle of wine and took a swig. “Oops. Don’t serve that.”
“You know where you should go?” Kim’s eyes sparkled. “There’s a great little boutique hotel right off rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Hotel de la something. I’ll Google it. Super swanky, super secluded.” She shook her head. “You are so lucky. I guess wearing thigh highs and four-inch heels was a good call after all.”
Summer took another bracing sip of wine and wiped her lips on the back of her hand. “I can’t believe this.”
“Me, neither!” Kim planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve done the impossible. You got Aaron Marchand to propose. You’ve landed the unlandable bachelor.”
“Well.” Summer realized, as she forced herself to release her death grip on the wine bottle, that her hands were shaking. “I haven’t landed him yet. I mean, this ring is still speculation and hearsay at this point.”
“Oh, please. I know an engagement ring when I see one.” Kim pursed her lips in a little pout. “One less tall, dark, and handsome man for the rest of us.” She paused and gave Summer an assessing look. “Why are you freaking out?”
“I’m not freaking out.” Summer straightened up and cleared her throat. “But, you know, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Come on. You wouldn’t say no to Aaron Marchand.”
“There’s no telling what I will or won’t do.” Summer fluffed her hair.
“You know, I hope you do turn him down.” Kim brightened. “Throw the ring right back at him and spit in his face. Then give me a call so I can pick him up, dust him off, and be his rebound girl.”
“Hold that thought. I have to go do the dog and pony show.”
Summer took her place beneath the TV monitor while the safety demonstration video played. She pointed out the emergency exits at the appropriate moment and scanned the sea of faces, looking for any sign of potential troublemakers.
But tonight the passengers looked docile and weary, most of them ignoring her as the video droned on about inflatable slides
and flotation devices. An elderly couple was already sleeping in the third row, the wife resting her head on her husband’s shoulder.
Summer found a soft navy blanket and draped it across the couple’s armrests.
Then, while the lead flight attendant was requesting that everyone turn off all portable electronic devices, Summer dashed to the bulkhead and dialed her best friend, Emily’s, number.
When Emily’s voice mail picked up, Summer started raving into the receiver: “Hey, I know you’re filming in Vancouver and you probably have about thirty thousand things going on right now, but I need a consult. I’m about to take off for Paris with Aaron. The pilot, remember? The one who’s all perfect and dreamy and nice? Well, he’s about to ask me to marry him and I’m freaking out. What should I say? What should I do? Seriously, Em, I’m scared. Call me back.”
She hung up, rested her forehead against the cool, curved plastic wall of the cabin, and forced herself to arrange a sunny smile on her lips before she turned back to the passengers. As she conducted her final safety compliance check (“Fasten your seat belt, please…. Here, let me help you with that tray table”), she was waylaid by a passenger with an English accent and a red soccer jersey. He exuded entitlement and the smell of stale beer, and she guessed he was either a professional athlete or a professional musician.
“Could you take this, doll?” He handed her a magazine that had been left in his seat pocket.
“Of course.” When Summer took the magazine from him, he brushed his fingers against hers.
“You’re absolutely gorgeous. Has anyone ever written a song about you?” He met her gaze, then gave her a thorough once-over. Charming, cocky, and incorrigible. A year ago, she would have been all over him.
But she had finally outgrown bad boys. She had finally moved on to a good man.
“Twice, actually.” Summer laughed at his expression. “What, you think you’re the only rock star to ever fly commercial?”
“Anyone written a song about you that people have actually heard?” He ginned gamely. “Won Grammys? Gone platinum?”
“Sounds like someone could do with a big glass of ice water.”
The Week Before the Wedding Page 24