With a Stetson and a Smile & The Bridesmaid’s Bet

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  She wasn’t expecting him to take her into his arms.

  Shivers ran down her spine, a reaction she chalked up to the fresh air breezing through the open door as they neared it.

  Once outside in the darkness, Francesca hesitated on the lit pathway that led toward the country-western band.

  Another couple brushed by them, hurrying in the direction of the patio. “I love this song,” the woman said to the man she tugged along with her. “Come dance with me, honey. Hold me.”

  Francesca didn’t move.

  “You okay?” Behind her, Brett’s voice tickled her nerve endings.

  She remained still, frozen by a thought that was adolescent and silly and about as likely to happen as a twelve-year-old’s romantic daydream about an older boy.

  If Brett danced with her, if he held her…if he even touched her…she might stop breathing.

  The certainty of the thought was scary. It was as if it had been simmering in the back of her mind since the moment he’d entered her father’s kitchen yesterday.

  She couldn’t risk going toward the dance floor just yet.

  To the clickety-clack of her new high heels, she rushed in the opposite direction of the patio and the country band and stumbled upon a small courtyard surrounded by rose bushes and low trees strung with white fairy lights. At the center she halted beside a sundial set on a waist-high pedestal.

  Brett had followed her. “Franny?” His voice was puzzled.

  As she turned to face him, the breeze blew, rustling up a faint scent of roses and chilling Francesca’s stockinged legs. Her short dress ruffled against her thighs.

  Any notion of giving him some vague excuse for not wanting to dance with him or of making a lame joke about her two left feet evaporated. Brett was staring at her legs. And then his gaze moved up, over her body, a man’s gaze of appreciation.

  Goose bumps sped over her skin, fast as a kid with a baseball mitt running away from a broken window.

  From between his teeth came the sound of a light, sweet wolf whistle and he shook his head slowly. “Franny—no—Francesca. What happened to you? Where’d you go?”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  He moved closer and she retreated, the small of her back pressed against the pedestal. “You’ve been in my head all these years,” he said. “A little urchin with brown eyes and a stubborn chin.” He shook his head again. “You weren’t supposed to change.”

  Another spurt of breeze blew by, flattening her dress against her body. “You’ve been gone a long time, Brett.” She swallowed, trying to ease the croak in her voice.

  “That long?”

  She swallowed again. “Long enough for me to grow up.”

  He was silent a minute, then he laughed ruefully. “Doesn’t seem like your brothers have accepted that.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  “So then why should I?”

  She stared at her feet, unfamiliar in their pointy-toed high heels. Because I want you to see me as a woman. Her teeth came down on her tongue to stop the silly, adolescent-daydream words.

  “Francesca…”

  He was moving closer again, and she tried to move back, but one of her heels caught on the pedestal base behind her and she lost her balance. Brett made like he was going to catch her and, desperate to keep free of his touch, she twisted, her hand grabbing the metal pointer of the sundial to keep herself upright.

  It bit sharply into her hand. “Ouch!”

  “What happened?” He reached for her fingers, but she whirled away in time.

  “Nothing. Just a little cut.” And a large dose of embarrassment, she thought. See her as a woman? Brett was seeing her as a klutz.

  “Let’s go get some disinfectant for that.”

  “No way!” Francesca made a wide circle around him and headed toward the main path. “I hate the stuff. Stings like the dickens. I’ll run water over it in the ladies’ room.”

  He was following her again and she avoided looking at him by walking briskly to remain in the lead.

  His voice stopped her outside a door marked Women. “Francesca,” he said.

  “Yes?” She swung around slowly.

  Fairy lights were strung in the trees here, too, and they backlit Brett, dazzling her. “You grew up beautiful,” he said.

  Her knees melted. The throbbing of her cut hand suddenly triple-timed to match the startled beating of her heart. And Francesca realized it took less than Brett’s touch to rob her of air.

  ON THE LARGE PATIO hosting the country-western band, Brett kept an eye on Francesca from a table placed deep in the shadows of bordering shrubbery. He nursed a beer, his gaze not leaving her as she attempted the intricate steps of a line dance.

  She turned the wrong way, laughed, then pushed that gleaming hair of hers out of her eyes. In the dimly lit dance area, the stars on her dress winked like a thousand shiny enticements.

  Just as he’d imagined the evening before, the dress displayed her body in a way that boyish jeans and oversize T-shirts couldn’t. Rounded and slender in all the right places, Francesca was built like a womanly gymnast—taut muscles and full breasts.

  As if responding to his thought, two men moved from another line to take up places beside her. Brett gripped his beer hard.

  He was going to keep his distance.

  After she’d tended to her hand—he’d scrounged a bandage from the club personnel—she’d avoided his gaze while telling him she didn’t want that dance after all. Her reasons had been less than clear, but he’d let her off the hook without a fight.

  Though she didn’t know it, he was aware of her bet with Carlo. She was looking for a hot prospect and needed freedom from her brothers to accomplish it.

  But not freedom from him.

  No, he’d assigned himself the task of watching over her for the evening. Any man who was going to get Francesca was going to have to pass muster with him first.

  One of the men beside her bent toward her ear. She looked up at him and smiled, her eyes shadowed and mysterious. The ends of her smooth dark hair brushed against her star-strewn dress, and now the second man leaned toward her.

  Brett’s gut burned. Damn. She was innocent and gorgeous and he wanted to keep her safe.

  “Hi.” In front of him, a feminine voice intruded. A tall blonde slid onto the chair opposite him. “Taken?”

  He shook his head. From the corner of his eye, he checked out Francesca again. Flanked by the two men, she was still gamely attempting the dance.

  “Having a good time tonight?” The blonde’s long fall of hair reminded him of Patricia.

  His insides twisted, but he forced out a brief smile. “Sure.”

  “I just got dumped,” the woman said. The last half of her glass—the olived toothpick made it look like a martini—went down in one gulp.

  The big-beat country song ended and Francesca was clapping. So were the men beside her, both smiling down at her.

  Brett glued his gaze on them. The blonde beside him was still talking.

  “He was a rat, but a generous rat. You know. Flowers. Jewelry.” Her other ringed hand moved, and Brett realized she held a second drink. Her black, highly arched eyebrows rose. “You want one?” She gestured toward her glass. “Vodka martini.”

  “No, thanks.” The first guy who had spoken to Francesca, long haired and tight jeaned, bent close. Brett kept his eyes on him as Francesca nodded, then smiled another time.

  “As I was saying.” The blonde across from him again. “He really had me going. He said all the right words. Made all the right moves. Gave me a diamond.”

  Brett kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t believe this lady was confiding in him. He’d never been the girl’s-best-friend type.

  Francesca did another smile-nod-smile as the long-haired one leaned toward her and talked.

  The woman beside Brett downed her next martini in two gulps, and he figured it was the vodka and vermouth that had chosen him as her confidant. “So tell me,” she
said, her voice insistent. “You’re a man. Why would he do it?”

  Brett stared at the blonde. Men did disappoint women. That guy could do a number on Francesca. Some other man she met tonight might break her heart.

  Could? Might? Hah! It was practically a certainty.

  God and he knew life didn’t run smoothly, even if you had beauty and youth on your side.

  The thought panicked him. He glanced over to check on Francesca. The long-haired man bent even nearer her ear. More smiles were exchanged.

  Brett’s hand tightened on his sweating bottle of beer. The band hadn’t started their next song, so the patio wasn’t noisy enough to warrant the other man’s closeness.

  “Who’s she?” With a three-olive toothpick, the blonde gestured toward the dance area. “The woman you can’t keep your eyes off.”

  “A friend.” How annoyed would Francesca be if he wandered over?

  She laughed. “Yeah, and the rat’s going to give up his cheese and come back to me.”

  It was Francesca who was laughing now. She put her hand on the sleeve of the guy talking with her. He grinned and covered her fingers with his.

  Brett stood. He would just introduce himself. Let this potential rat know that Francesca had people looking out for her. Just as he took a step forward, the rat gave Francesca a two-fingered salute and strode away. The other man who’d been hanging by her trailed behind.

  Brett could relax now. Could resume his seat across from the blonde and take her drunken meandering as a reminder of how risky love was.

  Or…

  He could take a step forward in a suddenly formed plan he had for Francesca. The one where it was he who helped her win Carlo’s bet.

  Why not? For her pride, or the money or both, Francesca was determined to win that bet by the day of Elise and David’s wedding. But that deadline could lead a naive young woman to trouble or pain.

  The band started up something slow and country. Brett imagined Francesca in the long-haired rat’s embrace, his big hands on her body.

  Brett found himself striding toward her. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, she didn’t see him coming. He grabbed that hand that had been touching the rat and pulled her into the circle of dancers.

  Then he pulled her into the circle of his arms.

  God. Her dark and grown-up eyes stared up at him, and he wanted to answer all the questions they asked.

  He’d say anything to make her smile.

  “You looked…” As if she could be hurt on this manhunt. As if he could step in like he’d done all those years ago and make everything better.

  And then he stopped thinking and started registering how Francesca felt in his embrace. He took in a deep breath and that perfume she’d tested on him the night before entered his lungs.

  His body hardened.

  It didn’t surprise him. Over a year and a half had passed since he’d held a woman. But he didn’t want to scare Francesca by a purely natural reawakening of physical response, so he edged away from her.

  It seemed to him she sighed.

  Keeping her inches away, he shuffled his feet to the slow beat of the music.

  He took in another breath of that sweet and spicy perfume. It joined with another warm scent—her skin, he guessed—and suddenly his head dizzied with the mix of the fragrance and the flashing stars on her spangly dress.

  “Francesca.” Like a man with handfuls of unexpected treasure, he stared down at her, amazed.

  She looked up, her eyes going wide at what she saw on his face. And what did she see? Arousal, surprise, that odd resurgence of the all’s-right-with-the-world feeling?

  His hand rested on her shoulder and the soft ends of her hair slid across his knuckles, sending more sparklers of sensation up his arm.

  “Why are you doing this, Brett?” she asked.

  Dancing? Feeling? “Because I want to take you out,” he answered. “What do you say?”

  3

  ELISE PULLED a paper napkin from the dispenser on Francesca’s kitchen table and wiped her hands free of sandwich crumbs. “Well,” Elise said impatiently. “What did you say?”

  Francesca gathered up their plates and turned toward the sink. “What should I have said?”

  “Francesca…”

  “Okay, okay.” Francesca surrendered the secret she’d been hugging to herself for the past fifteen hours. “When Brett asked me if I’d go out, I said yes.”

  Elise stared at her, her chin sagging in obvious surprise. “Francesca Milano dating Brett Swenson?”

  Maybe she should take her best friend’s disbelief as an insult, but to be honest, Francesca had been just as startled by the notion herself. “It sort of popped out of my mouth,” she explained. “My head was thinking ‘no way,’ but my—”

  “Good sense must have gone to Tahiti!”

  “Elise…”

  “Francesca…” Elise sank back in her chair in an attitude of despair. “You’ve got to know better than this.”

  With quick movements, Francesca loaded her dishwasher. Yes, she’d known the idea of tomboy Francesca on a date with gorgeous Brett Swenson bordered on the impossible, but she’d been dizzied. Those fairy lights. The intensity of Brett’s blue eyes. The strength of his arms around her and the almost painful flutter of her heart when his hands had brushed her skin.

  She’d thought if he touched her she’d lose her breath. Instead she’d lost her head.

  Swallowing, she turned toward Elise slowly. “I know it’s like the peacock and the mud hen, but…”

  Elise shook her head. “That’s not what I mean at all!” Frowning, she jabbed her finger in Francesca’s direction. “You keep forgetting to look in the mirror.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Brett Swenson or any man would be lucky to have you. Problem is, Brett Swenson isn’t looking to have anyone.”

  Now why should those words make her ache? “I know,” Francesca answered honestly. “But he did ask.”

  Elise worried her lower lip. “Which bothers me. But I am glad you’re under no delusions.”

  Not delusional. Not even hopeful. Just… “I know I could have refused.” It had even crossed her mind for half a millisecond.

  “But?” Elise prompted. “Because you also know you shouldn’t be wasting your time with nonpotentials.”

  Right. There was that bet at the end of the month. Her need to win the guy gamble. And that other need she had, deep inside, to finally, finally fall in love.

  “But—” Francesca didn’t know the reason she’d agreed herself, so she tried making it up as she went along. “But maybe I figured we both needed an easing-in.”

  Elise raised her blond eyebrows in perfect arches.

  Francesca felt the beginnings of a cold sweat. “Hey, with my dismal dating scorecard, I could use the practice,” she said quickly. “And Brett, maybe Brett wants to dip a toe back into the dating pool.”

  Elise crossed her arms over her chest. “As long as it’s just a toe.”

  “C’mon.” Francesca smiled. “I have four brothers singing that song. Just be happy I’m going out instead of sitting at home with my cat and reruns of ‘Happy Days.”’

  Her best friend rubbed a crimson-tipped finger over her nose. “You are pretty pitiful.”

  “See? Now help me find something to wear tonight.”

  Clapping her hands together, Elise popped out of the chair. “Oh! Closet combing. My favorite. Where’s he taking you?”

  Francesca stopped herself in the act of biting off her thumbnail. “He left it up to me. I chose the fun center.”

  Elise looked ready for another heart attack. “The fun center? Pee-wee golf? Bumper boats? Those machines that go ding-ding-ding? That kind of fun center?”

  “Pinball machines, Elise. And yes, that kind of fun center.” Francesca braced herself for her friend’s next explosion at her unconventional choice.

  “Whew.” Wiping her brow dramatically, Elise dropped back to the seat of her ch
air. “You should have told me that in the first place. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  It was Francesca’s turn for bewilderment. “Huh?”

  “Sweetie,” Elise said. “You had me worried for a bit there, about Brett breaking your heart. But you are a smart girl.”

  Francesca was really glad to hear that, of course, but she couldn’t suppress her second “Huh?”

  “The fun center’s no date,” Elise proclaimed.

  “That’s just a boys’ night out.”

  BOYS’ NIGHT OUT. Elise’s comment echoed as Francesca stared at her reflection. With a tiny groan of regret she pulled off her baseball cap and tossed it on the bed. Jeans, tennies and an “I Stop For Roadkill” sweatshirt were statement enough.

  The statement being: Boys’ night out.

  Because the minute Elise said it and the more Francesca thought about it, that was probably what Brett meant to suggest anyway. Yeah, yeah, he’d said she’d “grown up beautiful” and all, but that didn’t guarantee he’d asked her out on a date date.

  Heck, the poor man was new to town and lived just a few doors down. He probably wanted company. He’d probably tried Nicky, Tony, Joe and Carlo first. Pop even. But Tuesday nights the men in her family all had commitments—jaycee meetings, basketball leagues, Pop hit the bingo game down at the local church and always took at least one of her brothers and three or four of their senior residents with him.

  Only Francesca had been available to “date” tonight.

  Good thing she’d suggested the fun center—the first thing that had popped into her mind—instead of a dead giveaway like an ocean-view restaurant or a picnic bonfire on the beach.

  Yeah, she and Brett, just two good buddies, were going to spend the evening playing games.

  Kid games, not man-woman games.

  And in her tennies, second-best jeans and the sweatshirt Nicky had given her for Christmas, she’d make clear she understood her good-friend, just-one-of-the-boys status. Thinking again, she made a grab for the ball cap. An additional reminder wasn’t a bad idea.

  Tugging it over her hair, she looked straight into her reflected gaze and vowed not to make the mistake of considering this a real date.