Instead of groaning, he high-fived me. As if I needed more proof we were meant to be.
I leaned down to grab the bag and wine bottle. Blue Moon Bay had a negligible crime rate, so it was safe for Bryson to leave his bike outside. “So, what did my subtext say to you, anyway?”
“It said, ‘bring wine.’”
I batted my eyes at him. “For the record, you’re a prince among boyfriends.”
“Yeah, I know.”
That comment gave me pause—just for a second. Most men would come off as arrogant saying that with a straight face. Bryson, I decided, pulled it off. Chill was his default state. It made sense that a guy like him would become a professional therapist and life coach. In his calming presence, I felt I could handle anything.
That was it! I had to convince Bry to be my date for tomorrow’s wedding.
I fumbled for my key ring, mentally rehearsing how I’d make my big ask. Be my date for the Blue Moon Heights society wedding of the year? Hobnob with snobs, scarf canapés? Rescue me from loneliness and mortification? Please don’t leave me alone with this, not if you love me . . . nope, that was right out. We’d not said the L-word. Not yet. Not when everything was going so well—almost too well, given my history of big fails in the relationship arena.
My heart was pounding as I got out plates and silverware and walked them five feet over to the coffee table. My mini-house wasn’t much more than one big room, with a single-burner “kitchen” in one corner, a high loft bed in an alcove, one closet, and a sub-compact bathroom that felt spacious, magically (that spell was Gran’s housewarming gift). Built for one, my place was comfy as heck—and it freed most of my property to be an herb garden. But now that Bryson and I were spending so much time together I couldn’t help but wonder if I . . . we? . . . needed a larger space.
He’d peeled off his jacket and was pouring red wine into two long-stemmed glasses. As he handed me my wine, his blue eyes met mine in a loving gaze and a familiar warmth sparked through me. “So,” he said. “How’d it go with that fancy wedding cake you were stressing about this morning?”
Talk about the last thing on Earth I wanted to discuss. “Um . . . it ended up looking really good.” On the outside, I thought.
On the inside it was a useless dud. Like the bride.
He beamed. “I knew you could do it, Haze.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just glad this long day is over.” I settled onto the couch, unlaced my tall black granny boots, and kicked my socked feet onto the coffee table, on top of a stack of baking and gardening mags. I made room for him to scoot in next to me before I spread the fuzzy blanket over us both.
I know. I’m a hot date.
Bryson threw his arm around me, and I curled my body toward his warmth. Instead of kissing me, though, he just rubbed my back, then grabbed the remote and queued up our Netflix favorites. Did he sense I wasn’t up for a make out session but just craved some quiet closeness? Darn it, the man was almost too good at guessing how I was feeling.
From the day we met, Bryson was tuned into me in a way no other guy ever had been. I’d even wondered if he might be a witch himself, since male witches tend to be very empathic. But my subtle questioning along those lines, on our early dates, had revealed that nope, he didn’t even believe in magic.
Which meant I had to be very careful about how I brought up this wedding and my reasons for attending.
“Bry? There’s this wedding . . . you probably don’t want to go.” I sighed. “To be honest, even I don’t want to, but—”
“Babe, I’m in. What’s the dress code?”
“You’re in? Oh my God, you’re in.” I sighed with a relief so deep that my dread of the wedding vanished like magic. “Suit and tie,” I said, remembering his question. “It’s at the Heights Country Club.”
He pulled out his cell phone and hit the calendar app. “Cool, what month?”
“Uh . . . it’s tomorrow.”
His eyebrows went up. “Tomorrow?”
“I just got the invite.” I shrugged helplessly. “These are the rich customers whose wedding cake I made. Grandma Sage really wants me to go because . . . ah . . . they invited me.” Sure, it would have been easier if I could have told him about the cake spell I was charged with completing, but that was the thing about dating a nonmagical person. Telling him about that part of me would change his life forever. I figured we needed to be dating for at least six months before I rocked his entire worldview.
“Ok, where exactly is this country club?” He sounded wary at this point, and I didn’t blame him.
“High in the hills, where the air is thin but perfumed with diamond dust. Here.” I reached for my purse, which was on the floor, and pulled out Estelle’s invite.
“Whoa . . . ” He stared at the card as if it were a newspaper announcing war had broken out. “So I guess engraving’s still a thing.”
“You really don’t want to go to this with me, do you?” I hated the insecure sound of my own voice. “You’d rather do something more fun tomorrow. Or you don’t own a suit. Or . . . ”
You don’t love me. Damn it, I asked for too much. Too soon. My fault. I ruined everything, as usual.
“You know what? Let’s just forgot the whole thing. More Thai green curry?” I gestured to the takeout boxes on the coffee table, eager to change the subject. “I think there’s still some coconut rice left . . . ”
“Haze, look at me.” He tipped up my chin with his hand. “The only thing I want to do tomorrow is put on my one suit and go to some rich stranger’s fancy wedding. With the woman I’m falling in love with.”
I must have looked pretty flabbergasted, because Bryson was smiling all the way to his eyes when he kissed me gently. My lips responded to his touch, and I unconsciously leaned toward him. His hand reached out to smooth my hair, sending warm tingles through my scalp and down my spine. He pulled back from the kiss, still caressing my hair, and looked into my eyes, his own no longer laughing but sincere and serious.
“Phew. I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks.”
“I . . . ” I was too stunned by his words to manage any of my own. “Ah . . . ”
“It’s ok.” He lightly kissed my cheek and murmured in my ear, “Just wanted you to know how I feel. I’m not one of those insecure types who needs to hear it back right away.”
“Uh . . . ? Um . . . ” I wanted to tell him I loved him too, but his admission had made me so emotional that proper words wouldn’t come out.
“Here, let me distract you from the awkwardness of this moment with a dramatic reading.” He grabbed the invite off the coffee table and read it in a silly pretentious accent: “Ms. Ashlee Marie Stone and Mr. Frederick Andrew Kensington the IV request the pleasure of your company at their marriage, Saturday the Eighth of November at 6 o’clock PM in the evening . . . like, who didn’t know that was the evening?”
I giggled. Then I looked up and saw that Bryson’s face was twisted with conflict. “What’s up?”
“Crud, I just remembered. I’m signed up to be at a continuing ed workshop for therapists all weekend. In Portland.”
Portland was a couple of hours drive to the north. There was no way he’d make it back in time. It stood to reason, I told myself. His saying the L-word and going to the wedding would have been too good to be true. Something had to be subtracted to balance the universe.
I’d have to cowgirl up and face this hexed wedding alone.
Bryson kissed the top of my head gently. “Sorry I can’t be there for you while you upstage some poor bride.”
I’m pretty sure Ashlee would have laughed her butt off at the idea of being upstaged by me, but Ashlee wasn’t here. Luckily.
I’m not even sure what I said in response, because his skin smelled so good that it turned my brains to mush.
Maybe it was just as well I was dateless tomorrow. I’d need my wits about me if I had any hope of completing this spell. Giving Gran, and myself, confidence that her magical legacy was in good hands
.
As Bryson tilted my head back to kiss me, my phone buzzed on the side table. Max Max Max flashed on the screen. That same nostalgic ache lit up in my chest as when I'd seen her at Java Kitty, but I turned my phone over.
And went right back to spooning with Bryson.
Mere months ago, a call from Max would have made my universe complete.
Now I was reclining in a blissed-out state with a gorgeous guy who, it turned out, loved me. My standards for universe completeness had shot up.
Besides, I was tired of making allowance for her quirkiness. She flat-out wasn't a good friend to me. Hadn't been a good friend to me since that terrible night so long ago.
Grad night.
Well, there was no point in rehashing ancient history.
Yes, once upon a time we’d been closer than sisters. She was still the only person outside the family I’d ever told that I was a Green Witch. But maybe I just didn't need Max in my life anymore.
Maybe I had everything I needed, right here on this couch.
Chapter 3
At 6 PM the next afternoon, Trixie and I were huffing and puffing up the twisty mountain highway that led to Blue Moon Bay Heights. Pine and eucalyptus trees scented the cool autumn air through my open moon roof. Panic dreams about Ashlee’s wedding had haunted me in the wee hours, but after I gulped down some coffee, sleepwalked through my shifts at the bakery, and wiggled into a fancy dress, my terror had faded, mostly, to resignation.
The twisty road forked again. As we chugged up the final hill to Country Club Crest, the forest to my right vanished, replaced by a wall of evenly-spaced, bare aspens. To my left, a steep cliffside offered a heart-stopping view of the sun poised to set over the Pacific. Whitecaps crashed into the jagged rocks below.
At the top of the hill loomed a sprawling compound. Tennis courts, already lit for evening. In the distance, the green of a golf course.
Trixie whistled. “Fan-cee. Gosh, doll, sure you’re dressed right for this shindig?”
Blink. Did I just get fashion-shamed by my own car?
“I’m not trying to pass myself off as one of the elite.” I said grouchily. “As long as I don’t get bounced out, I figure I’m ok.”
“That’s a grrrrreat goal. You have at fine chance of achieving it . . . there, was that more positive?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, thanks for the support.”
“See what you miss by turning down my chat levels?” Copying the Porche and Tesla ahead of her, Trixie pulled up to a roundabout lushly planted with climbing jasmine over a garden fountain. Trixie muttered something that sounded like, “hope I don’t get bounced out.”
Aw. My stony heart melted a little. “Trix, are you feeling insecure, too?”
“Uh, noooo, doll, why would you say that? I’m just worried this young buck is going to be tempted to take me for a joyride. You know, because I’m so . . . red.” She whispered the word like a scandal.
“You’re more of a maroon shade.” One that was popular circa 1991. I hid my smirk.
A lanky youth in scarlet livery opened my door and waited politely while I climbed out, feeling shaky on my gold stiletto heels. A gift from my fashionable sister, Cindra, three Christmases ago, but I’d never had occasion to wear them before.
What with my hairnet lifestyle.
Well-dressed guests were drifting from the roundabout toward the country club. I hobbled along after them, careful not to trip over my dress.
I’d ended up wearing a semimetallic wrap dress that I’d fished out of a bag my older sister dropped off months earlier. Beatrix was a sport shopper who tired of clothes the moment she’d smuggled the shopping bags past her husband’s TV chair and into her overflowing closet. This latest kill was copper-colored, with a plunging v-neck that required a torture device of a bra. Though I’d done my best with the iron, the dress had been festering in a plastic bag since July.
I had no illusions I was pulling off a look.
“Stunning, my dear. All you girls look stunning.”
I glanced up. A woman Gran’s age, in a terrifying mink coat, gave me a knowing look and lifted her champagne flute. Who was she toasting . . . me? Or all women younger than her, who she apparently thought of as girls? I stammered, “Thank you.”
Weirdly, several other strangers in the crowd were shooting conspiratorial grins my way.
Before I knew it was I grinning back, grateful for the unexpected niceness of the other guests. Here I’d been so worried I’d be snubbed. But, no, these nice rich people loved me. Accepted me. Welcomed me with open—
“Miss, what on earth do you think you’re doing here?” A tall man in an elegant grey suit yelled from across the lush lawn. Perhaps he wasn’t talking to me? “Yes you, girl with the long dark hair that should be in an updo but isn’t.” Eek, was he calling out my fashion don’ts, too? Of course the man himself looked photo-perfect in his grey tailored suit. He looked mid-thirties, with dirty-blond hair, a muscular build, and craggy, striking features. “Come on, you know you shouldn’t be running loose out here.” He made stern eye contact and waggled his finger. “No more raspberry cosmos for you at the open bar, do you hear?”
Cosmos, what cosmos? My heart thumped while two preteen girls in scratchy-looking party dresses rubbernecked my humiliation. Who the hex was this guy anyway? The fashion police? Undercover wedding security?
“All right, missy, don’t move a muscle.” As if I could. To my horror, he sprinted across the lawn to accost me. My face was threatening to crumple into tears. I’d never been kicked out . . . of anything. Of course, I’d also never tried to get into anything that a person was likely to get kicked out of. “Now let’s get you back to the photography area,” the man went on. Wait, what? “Yes, yes, I know your feet ache and you’re thirsty for more vodka, but you need to stay in your proper place with the other bridesmaids.”
“Bridesmaids?” I spat out the word. “So you’re just . . . the wedding photographer?” Not security. Not bouncing me. I could have squawked with relief. “There’s been a huge misunderstanding,” I explained breathlessly. “Ashlee would never ask me to be a bridesmaid. I’m the cake baker, barely a D List guest. I’m E List, possibly F or G.”
“You don’t have to say the whole alphabet, I get it.” A look of horrified realization had taken over his handsome features. “So that dress thing’s just an awkward coincidence?”
He gestured across the lawn and I suddenly spotted the gazebo a couple hundred feet away where eight or nine women milled about. All in copper-colored dresses, each one clearly custom designed to accentuate the wearer’s shape. Some were v-neck. Some halter-neck. Some were knee length. Some maxis with slits.
My dress fit right in . . . even if I didn’t.
“Hey, why don’t you borrow your date’s jacket?” The photographer had dropped his condescending tone. He sounded concerned for me. Sympathetic. If I didn’t know better I’d say he respected cake bakers more than he did Ashlee’s friends. Which gave me hope for the world. “Just to be safe,” he added. “You could wear it buttoned up, for the entire reception. Hey, where is your date?”
“Oh, um, I don’t have one.”
I was about to add, “Because my boyfriend’s got a work thing today,” but that seemed like overkill. Why should I bog him down with some big story, about a guy he didn’t even know?
Great, now I was overjustifying to myself why I didn’t mention Bryson to a gorgeous stranger.
A stranger whose piercing blue-green eyes were locked on mine, in sympathy. “That’s a damn shame, kid,” he said. “I’d loan you my jacket, but I don’t know you from Eve. You could be a kleptomaniac. Or heavy armpit sweater.” My face flushed and I felt ready to die of mortification . . . till with a wink he shucked off his jacket and presented it to me. “I’m David, by the way.”
Gratefully I slipped on the jacket. It smelled like his peppery cologne, delicious. “Hazel. Greenwood. Nice to meet you, even if it started out, well—”
“
Sorry about barking at you like that,” he said, grimacing. “My nerves are shot. To be honest, I’ve never worked with bridesmaids who behave this way.”
“Do you mean drunk, entitled, or insane?” Oops, my ramble mode had crossed the line into catty mode. My cheeks turned hot. “Sorry, I—“
“Don’t be.” He smiled, and I couldn’t help but notice his smile was dazzling. “I’m here as a professional, like you, but I’m starting to feel like a babysitter.”
I laughed. “Bet the pay scale’s better.”
“That helps,” he conceded.
A waiter in black and white approached us, balancing a tray of champagne flutes.
“This stuff helps, too.” David took two and handed one to me. “Veuve Clicchot,” he murmured. “It’s always Veuve at these things. It’s an unwritten law.”
“You do a lot of fancy weddings?”
“I photograph all the Kensington events, and a lot of others in the Heights, too. Keeps the lights on in my studio.”
He said it almost defensively, but I hadn’t been about to judge him for “selling out.” On the contrary, I was thinking of what tricks and gimmicks I could possibly try to keep our bakery lights on in the face of Java Kitty’s magical mayhem. “Amen to paying the bills,” I said.
“Spoken like a true adult.”
We clinked our flutes as the sun disappeared below the horizon, and I savored the sensation of outrageously expensive bubbles sliding down my throat. Feeling like an extra in a movie about rich people, I stole another glance at the bona fide bridesmaids. They were eight different flavors of gorgeous. It made no sense that anyone would mistake me for one of them.
I kept trying to think up a way to mention Bryson. One that didn’t feel forced, like “Oh by the way, I have a boyfriend.” Stop overthinking it, I told myself. David was good looking, charming, talented. No doubt he was already married.
To a man.
A man who was much hotter than me.
“Well, well, look who got himself to the church on time,” David murmured, and I glanced up along with everyone else sipping champagne on the lawn as Drew Kensington ambled past us, dazzlingly Greek godlike in his bespoke black tie ensemble. White teeth, haughty nose, long legs. Big-boss shoulders like those billionaires on the covers of romance novels.
Fangs and Frenemies Page 3