Catching Claire

by Cindy Procter-King

  What other delights would the weekend hold in store?

  “Isn’t there someplace else you’d rather be?” Most men would rather chew sawdust than attend a bridal fitting.

  His mouth quirked. “Ashamed of me?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Then let me come in with you. You look like you’re about to walk the plank.”

  “Tanya’s mother has that effect on people. And…I love Tanya, but she’s been a bit of a Bridezilla lately. Her mom’s anxiety is rubbing off on her.”

  “So, let Mrs. Helms see you walk in with the stripper from the party. Her head will implode.”

  “How will she know you’re the stripper?”

  “Ten-to-one someone will fill her in.”

  Claire’s heart beat as rapidly as hummingbird wings. She could really fall for this guy. “Okay.”

  They grabbed her purse and the helmets. Together, they entered the ritzy salon, which featured six private dressing rooms and a central runway. Claire directed Ridge toward a fancy white reception desk.

  “The Helms-Winslow wedding,” she requested. “I’m the maid of honor.”

  The receptionist eyed Ridge. “This way, please.”

  He carried the helmets as the woman escorted them to Tanya’s salon. In the halls, stylists hustled back and forth collecting gowns from the racks for their assigned brides.

  The receptionist led them into a room packed with Tanya’s bridal party decked in dresses in hues of fuchsia, coral, goldenrod, and tangerine—Tanya’s “sunset” colors. Janie, Alicia, and Tanya’s two petite younger sisters surrounded Tanya at a brightly lit mirror. Meanwhile, a red-faced Mrs. Helms adorned in a tailored skirt suit attempted to corral Teacup, Tanya’s airheaded Yorkie. Teacup’s rhinestone barrette bounced as the dog yipped at the hem of Tanya’s beautiful wedding gown.

  Tanya sobbed into mirror, “It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s all wrong!”

  Ridge’s face whitened. “This is nuts,” he whispered.

  Claire lifted her eyebrows. “This is estrogen overload.” She sat him on the velvet bench closest to the door. As he placed the helmets on the floor, she said, “My advice? Don’t breathe a word.” Dropping her purse and jacket onto the bench beside him, she bee-lined for her best friend.

  Tanya caught Claire’s reflection in the mirrors. “Claire! Finally!”

  Tanya’s perfectly coiffed mother snatched up Teacup. Mrs. Helms whirled on Claire. In the next instant, the woman’s gaze winged to Ridge.

  “Who’s that?” Mrs. Helms demanded.

  Claire smiled. “My friend, Ridge.”

  Janie’s eyes popped. “The stripper!”

  “From my party!” Tanya hooted.

  Mrs. H. shrieked, “You brought a stripper to my baby’s fitting?”

  The sisters gasped. One whispered to the other, “No wonder we weren’t invited to the second shower. It was a tacky-fest.”

  “The party was just supposed to be Tanya’s friends,” Janie explained.

  Mrs. Helms stormed toward Claire. Alicia, lifting her goldenrod skirt, intercepted the woman. Gripping Teacup, Mrs. H. heeled around so sharply she would have done a marching soldier proud. She strode to Ridge.

  Alicia murmured to Claire, “Sorry about the ride.” She glanced at Ridge. “My assistant screwed up the cupcakes for a thirtieth anniversary party tonight. I had to re-do them.”

  Mrs. Helms deposited the excited Yorkie on Ridge’s lap. “Make yourself useful.”

  His mouth firmed, but he held the squirming dog.

  Mrs. Helms’s sharp gaze landed on Claire. “At least tell me you brought your sandals.” She planted her hands on petite hips.

  Claire’s heart sank. In the flurry of throwing on her clothes after Tanya’s frantic phone call, both she and Ridge had forgotten her footwear. But she wasn’t five years old. She wouldn’t allow Mrs. H. to treat her like the insecure child she’d once been.

  She squared her shoulders. “I left the sandals in Ridge’s apartment.”

  “But I gave your stuff to Lacey,” Alicia said.

  “Ridge fetched the bags for me while I took a shower.”

  Tanya’s youngest sister smirked. “You showered with a stripper?”

  Claire glared at Tammy. “No.” She’d rectify that soon enough—if Ridge wanted her.

  Mrs. H. sighed. “You forgot the sandals. How will we know the proper length to hem your dress?” She beckoned the stylist hovering in the background. “Alberta! Plan B.”

  Alberta selected a coral gown from a rack by the wall and pressed the garment into Claire’s hands. The shiny fabric scrunched.

  “Get dressed,” Mrs. H. ordered Claire. “You can borrow Tammy’s sandals.”

  “But my dress is purple.”

  “Not anymore.” Mrs. H. collected the sandals from Tammy. “I doubt you’d fit the purple, dear. You were supposed to lose ten pounds for the wedding, not gain five.” She piled the sandals atop the coral dress.

  Claire’s face burned. She hurried into the dressing room. Ridge called after her as she slammed the flimsy door.

  She couldn’t face him. Couldn’t face any of them.

  But she had to.

  Steeling herself, she changed in record time and turned to the mirror.

  Blech. The coral made her skin look sallow, and the cut of the dress mismatched the others—it had no waist. Plus, the yards of fabric could easily clothe Tanya, Claire, and Tanya’s mom.

  The nerve of Mrs. H.!

  Claire clomped out of the dressing room in the pinching sandals. “This damn dress is three sizes too big!”

  Tanya’s face caved in. “Now you know my problem. I lost too much weight!”

  And Claire had lost five pounds. She’d lost them; she hadn’t gained them.

  Mrs. H. soothed her daughter. “Tanya, sweetheart, we’ll have the gown taken in. It’s just a half-inch at the hips.”

  “But what about Claire? She loves purple. She’s my maid of honor. She should wear a special color.”

  For Tanya’s special day. Claire blew out a breath. This wedding wasn’t about her.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” she said, hugging her best friend. “We can fix this.”

  A sharp whistle rent the air. Ridge! He’d slipped her mind.

  Carrying Teacup, he strode into the midst of the chattering women and dumped the yipping Yorkie into Mrs. H’s arms. “You are the rudest person I’ve ever met,” he said.

  “Well.” Mrs. H. huffed. “I’m not the one who went crawling after a stripper.”

  His face hardened. “Claire didn’t crawl after me. She had too much to drink, and I took care of her. Which is more than I can say for—” He pointed at Alicia. “You.”

  Alicia gaped. “Me?”

  “The party was at your apartment. That makes you at least partially responsible for how much alcohol was consumed. You allowed your friend to play bartender the entire evening. You had to notice how sloshed she was, but you left her alone.”

  “I thought she’d fall asleep right away.”

  “Alone.” He turned to Tanya. “You need to dial it down.”

  Claire stuck up a hand. “Wait a minute.”

  “I can’t. The woman I met last night goes after what she wants. The woman I thought I was getting to know this morning stands up for herself. Claire, you’re beautiful, you’re strong, and you deserve a hell of a lot more consideration than you’re getting from your friends here today. If you want to escape this lunacy, I’ll be outside.” He returned to the bench and grabbed the helmets.

  All the women, including the stylist, watched in silence as he left, boots thudding down the hall.

  Tanya’s mother patted Teacup’s head. “What an ass.” Mrs. H. looked at Claire. “If we take in the coral six inches either side, that dress will look very nice.”

  Claire gritted her teeth. “I can fit the purple.”

  “Maybe so.” A hint of resignation threaded Mrs. H.’s voice. “However, I’m think
ing a different style for the maid of honor will help you stand out.”

  Tanya shook her head. “Claire gets the purple. My wedding, my say.” She clasped Claire’s hand. “The purple looks gorgeous on you, and your friendship is golden to me. Now, go after Ridge. He’s obviously into you. We’ll hem your dress ourselves tomorrow, if that works for you. Together. Like the best buds we are.”

  “Aw, Tanya.”

  They hugged again. The other bridesmaids murmured their approval. Even Tanya’s mother looked contrite.

  “It’s true, dear,” Mrs. H. said. “The man did appear besotted. He had the balls to confront me, and that’s something.”

  Claire glanced around at the women. This wedding was driving everyone crazy. But it wouldn’t ruin her chances with Ridge.

  Wearing Tammy’s sandals, she hobbled to the bench, retrieved her jacket and purse, and hurried after him.

  “The dress!” Alberta called.

  “My shoes!” Tammy cried.

  Mrs. Helms’s voice carried down the hall, “Hush, Tams. Claire will return the sandals to Tanya tomorrow. And, Alberta? That dress—I asked for the next size up, not a tent.”

  Stuffing her arms into her jacket, Claire raced out of the salon. Ridge sat on the rumbling motorcycle with his back to her. The helmets rested on the sidewalk near his boot.

  “Ridge!” Catching up to him, she placed her hand on his muscular forearm. His head turned. “Sorry about that zoo,” she said. “Now you know why men just like to show up at weddings. Planning them is the pits.”

  He grinned. “You came after me in that dress?”

  “I’d run after you naked. The wedding is two weeks away. Tanya’s stressed.” She paused. “We’ve been best friends forever. She usually treats me like a sister. And her mom…” She shook her head. “Mrs. Helms doesn’t intimidate me anymore.” Claire was responsible for how she perceived herself. Not her deadbeat biological father. Not the bullies in high school. And not Tanya’s mom. “Her husband left her for a younger woman when the girls were little. She became a control freak.”

  He shrugged. “Hey, I get it. Nobody’s perfect. I’ve been told my dick’s too long.”

  Claire laughed.

  “Seriously. The last girl found it intimidating.” He touched her cheek. “And she hasn’t been around for a long time, Claire.”

  “Then I look forward to learning about your dick myself...after a few dates.”

  “No more definitely tonight?” he asked.

  Right. After their kiss at his apartment earlier, she’d hinted at getting jiggy with him a lot sooner. “We might have something special, Ridge. I’d like to wait.”

  He patted the passenger seat. “Hop on.”

  “A last favor.” She strapped her purse onto the carrier. “I need a date for the wedding.”

  “You want me to be your guest?” he asked as she picked up the helmets.

  “I’d like you to be more than that. But a plus-one at Tanya’s wedding is a start.”

  “Sounds great.” He kissed her, long and soulful, while the motorcycle rumbled between them. “Where to?” He accepted his helmet.

  “My place, so I can change. Then you owe me lunch.”

  He chuckled. “I like this take-charge side of you.”

  Good. Because she liked it, too.

  Claire strapped on her helmet, climbed up behind him in the ugly coral dress, and bunched the heavy fabric around her thighs. “Let’s go!”

  The End

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  As a child, Cindy dreamed of becoming a writer. Well, okay, thanks to her grade three teacher reading a chapter of The Little House on the Prairie books to Cindy’s class everyday, Cindy actually dreamed of becoming Laura Ingalls Wilder. It made so much sense. After all, Cindy’s blond older sister always got to wear blue while Cindy with the “dark as cinders” hair was often relegated to wearing dull old pink—just like Laura. Laura was part of a pioneer family, and until Cindy went to school she lived in a miniscule farming community where her father and grandparents were born. What further confirmation for her future does an eight-year-old with an avid imagination require?

  Cindy earned a degree in English Lit from the University of Victoria before unleashing herself on the unsuspecting workforce. However, she quickly realized her aversion to fluorescent lights and the numbers 9-2-5 wouldn’t gain her kudos from her various bosses. Luckily, her husband whisked her to a tiny logging town where she couldn’t find a job, unless you count a stint as secretary to the warden of a minimum security prison. There, Cindy began writing novels, and she hasn’t looked back. Because, honestly, what other employer in their right mind would want her?

  Cindy’s mission in life is to see her surname spelled properly—with an E. So take heed. That’s P-r-o-c-t-E-r. Not, no, never, under any circumstances should you spell Procter with two O’s. Cindy lives in British Columbia with her family, a cat obsessed with dripping tap water, and Allie McBeagle.

  Website – http://www.cindyprocter-king.com

  Blog – http://www.museinterrupted.com/

  Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/cindyprocterkingauthor

  Twitter – http://www.twitter.com/cindypk

  Email: mailto:cindy@cindyprocter-king.com

  SNEAK PEEK AT DECEIVING DEREK

  Story 1 in Love & Other Calamities

  “Someone’s stealing my underwear! I need to find out who!”

  Arching an eyebrow at the indignant female voice, Detective Derek McAllister raised his gaze from his computer screen. Hello. A slim blonde in a slinky red dress stood on the other side of his desk in Rosewood’s police station. Sparks radiated from the woman’s blue eyes as she dangled a scarlet G-string inches from his nose. Her hand jerked. The scrap of silk flipped off her fingertip, bonking his Mariners coffee mug and plopping onto his notebook.

  Derek glanced at the front counter. Both Biggs, the balding desk sergeant, and Harding, a lanky patrol officer who shadowed Biggs like a starved-for-attention sidekick, looked back at Derek and chortled. Biggs twirled a finger near one cauliflower ear, mouthing, “Craaazy.”

  Like Derek needed Biggs to tell him. Thanks a lot, boneheads. Sending me the kook, huh?

  Both uniforms were working the night shift. Although Derek had reported a slow afternoon, there was still plenty to do before the bars closed and mid-July crap hit the fan. For instance, Harding. Instead of chuckling over the Funnies, the dope could be checking parks and alleys. And Biggs…rather than playing Sudoku and flirting with the female clerk, the guy could at least check email.

  “Well?” The blonde at Derek’s desk stared him down. “Are you going to shuffle me off like they did—” she flicked a hand toward Biggs and Harding “—or take me seriously?” Her golden hair shimmered beneath the bright lights in feathery layers.

  Hell, why not? Elbows on his desk, Derek hunched forward in his swivel chair. Taking initial theft reports wasn’t his responsibility. His job was to investigate. However, he sensed frazzled nerves beneath the woman’s righteous ire. And, considering the nature of her complaint…

  He wanted to get a good sense of the problem and who she was so he wouldn’t need to do a second interview later. If kook-job poured off her in bucketfuls, he’d rather pacify her and escort her safely home than subject her to potential ridicule by directing her back to the guys up front. Sending her away to roam the Seattle suburb in her current state of agitation was out of the question.

  Derek calmly eyed the G-string. He slipped a pen beneath a lacy strap and lifted the lingerie as carefully as if he were handling a piece of forensic evidence.

  “Is this the underwear in question, ma’am?” he asked.

  Her chin tipped up. “I’m a Miss. Miss DeMarco.” Her blue gaze darted away a moment. “No, that’s not the underwear I’m talking about. That underwear
isn’t missing. Is it, Detective?”

  That depends on whether you’re wearing any. Derek stifled the urge to lean across the desk and check the presence or absence of panty lines beneath her luscious red dress.

  “All right, then. What underwear of yours is missing?” A question he certainly hadn’t anticipated asking upon his return to the station. On a seedy street corner, maybe.

  “My lingerie designs. The prototype samples.” The blonde snatched back the G-string. “This thong is a prototype, too, but thankfully the thief didn’t nab it.”

  “Are you sure it was a thief?” Derek still had panty lines on the brain.

  “Yes, Detective McAllister,” Miss DeMarco said with strained patience. “You are Detective Derek McAllister, right? That’s the name she—I mean, the men at the counter gave me.”

  Derek arrowed a glance to the desk. Biggs, looking back again, rolled his eyes. Harding scratched his stomach and snickered.

  “They would be right.” Derek tapped the cheap brass nameplate beside his computer. Miss DeMarco’s nervous gaze tracked the movement.

  Her shoulders squared. “Well, Detective McAllister, usually when there’s a burglary, there’s a thief involved. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yep. Usually, I would.” Unless she’d imagined the whole thing. Anxiety hopped off her slender curves like ants attacking a sugar bowl. Maybe she was paranoid. What a shame.

  She hoisted a gigantic shopping bag off the floor. Derek’s lips tugged into a smile as she plunked the bag onto his desk, dug inside, and pulled out a skimpy lingerie top. She tossed the G-string—pardon him, thong—and pink lingerie onto the desk, then rummaged through the bag again.

  “Damn it, I wanted to make sure he—I’m pretty sure the thief is a he—didn’t steal more samples, so I grabbed as many as possible before catching the bus over.” Out flew blue underwear and a yellow slip thing. “Trouble is, these prototypes take up so much room I’m having trouble finding my wallet.” The shopping bag coughed up a purple bra and some flimsy, pale green panties.