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

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  He drained the black and lethal-looking stuff in his mug, then shrugged.

  She eyed him with sudden interest, for the first time noticing he’d lost weight and there were shadows under his eyes. “You’ve been acting strangely for the past few months. What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  She sat up straight. “Don’t give me that. Are you having a problem at work?”

  He shook his head. “No, Franny. But I appreciate the concern.”

  Carlo was really starting to worry her. She’d taken a chance revealing her relationship with Brett to Carlo, especially after that punch he’d given him a few weeks ago. But she needed to talk to someone, and this was not the time to share romantic troubles with her best friend, an imminent bride.

  She looked at her brother’s stony expression and sighed. “Maybe I should have talked to Elise.”

  Something flickered in Carlo’s eyes.

  A weird thought entered Francesca’s mind, and her heart stuttered. No. No.

  But Carlo’s mood had darkened at the same time that Elise’s wedding preparations had really begun. But no. He’d known David and Elise their entire lives. He wouldn’t…

  “Carlo.” She reached across the table and touched her brother’s hand. “You—you’re one of the groomsmen. David is one of your best friends.”

  “Correct,” he said, in that maddeningly cool, police detective way of his.

  “They’re very happy,” Francesca went on. “Perfect for each other.”

  “Correct,” he said again, his face giving away nothing.

  Francesca felt a little desperate. She wanted to believe such a thing couldn’t happen. Walking the relationship tightrope with Brett made her want to be certain of a big, cushy, happy-ending net below. But something told her the truth.

  “You love her,” Francesca said, the words hard to force out. “You love Elise.”

  Nothing changed on Carlo’s face. “With every breath I take.”

  “Oh, Carlo.”

  His eyes bore into hers. “But that’s just between us. Our secret. You get it, Franny? I don’t want to burden David or Elise with this, ever.”

  She nodded dumbly. Carlo loved Elise. Elise loved David. No, no, no. Breath shuddered into her lungs. “Why? Why are you telling me this now?”

  Carlo raised his brows. “See if you can figure it out.”

  She had stomped away from Brett half mad, half maudlin. She’d captured Carlo, hoping he would talk some sense into her or at least help her make sense of Brett’s distrust of love. Carlo was going to help her forge a plan, she’d thought, because…because…because the simple truth was that she was in love and wanted to be loved back.

  Carlo loved Elise. Elise loved David. Francesca loved Brett. Brett didn’t want to be in love.

  “I thought it was going to be flowers and champagne. Satin sheets and shiny rings.”

  “I know,” Carlo said.

  But that’s what she wanted it to be! That’s the dream she’d always had. The one she’d tossed off her sneakers and her blue jeans to find. It had to be out there!

  But Carlo loved Elise. Elise loved David. Francesca loved Brett. Brett didn’t want to be in love.

  Francesca sighed. “But love’s a lot more complicated than roses and rides in limousines, isn’t it? Lots more potential for heartbreak.”

  Carlo gave her another rueful smile. “Isn’t that what Brett’s already figured out?”

  And she’d thought men stuck to bachelorhood because they didn’t want to pick up their socks. What a silly fool she’d been. Accepting defeat, Francesca slumped against the back of her red vinyl seat.

  11

  WEDGED IN A CORNER of a crowded pew, Brett caught himself craning his neck for a glimpse of the bridesmaids. Damn. He whipped back around, massaging a cramp in his shoulder.

  What was he trying to do? Who was he trying to see? Couldn’t be Francesca. She’d made her choice, and he was fine with it. So what if he hadn’t slept the past two nights. The problem had nothing to do with the big hole she’d left on one side of his bed.

  A hand clamped on his shoulder. He jerked his gaze upward to meet the serious brown eyes of Carlo. Dressed in a dark tuxedo, he was escorting a behatted woman to a seat in the pew behind him.

  The woman slid into place, and Carlo squeezed his shoulder. “How you doing?” he asked.

  Brett shot him a wary glance, then looked pointedly at the hand still heavy on him. “Fine. Relaxed. Well rested.” All lies.

  Carlo left his hand where it was and raised his brows. “That so?”

  “Yeah.” The Milano family had nothing to do with his mood.

  “I thought maybe you were…hurting.”

  Yeah, right. And if he just happened to tell Carlo that his sister was the cause of that hurt and exactly where it ached, then Brett could be sure to be reintroduced to at least five of her brother’s knuckles. “I’m fine, Carlo.”

  His only real complaint was sleep deprivation.

  Carlo gave one more squeeze to his shoulder, hard enough to make Brett wince. Then he returned to the back of the church.

  Brett massaged his arm to loosen his shoulder while the wedding procession began. David and his groomsmen were up front, and just like at the rehearsal, the organist began to play processional music. The first of the bridesmaids passed Brett, wearing a simple white gown.

  Did bridesmaids usually wear white? Brett shrugged. Apparently Elise liked the color because the two bridesmaids following wore it as well.

  He looked back, just to verify the color of the dress of bridesmaid number four.

  Francesca.

  The vision of her hit his eyes like a blinding flash. His breath sucked in sharply. Out of his life for two days, and somehow he’d forgotten how beautiful she was. Sleeveless and white, the dress revealed the golden perfection of her shoulders then went on to hug the generous curves of her breasts and the slender lines of her waist and hips.

  Closing his eyes, he turned back around in his seat. Some sensation weighed on his chest, but he ignored it, promising himself a tall beer and a good rest when he got home.

  He didn’t need to open his eyes to know when she passed his pew. Her perfume, that one she’d had him vet weeks ago, reached him first. The heaviness on his chest increased.

  Two beers and a good rest.

  The rest of the ceremony went by in a haze. Elise and David must have said the right things, because fairly soon it was over. Brett stood in his pew, shuffling forward as he followed the crowd out of the chapel.

  Maybe he’d skip the reception. But what was the likelihood of finding sleep? Gauging the answer as None, he dutifully followed the directions to the reception. He didn’t hesitate at the receiving line, either, shaking David’s hand in congratulations and kissing Elise on the cheek.

  Halfway down the line stood bridesmaid number four, and up close he could see someone had performed an elaborate and sophisticated makeup job on her. “Francesca,” he said, his voice tight.

  “Brett. How’ve you been?”

  No telling what she was thinking behind the dramatic sweep of her eyelashes and the reddened curve of her lips. His hand curled into an involuntary fist. “Great,” he said. “I’ve been great.”

  She smiled, looking past him to the person following closely behind. He’d been dismissed.

  What the hell.

  He found the bar and ordered a whisky. Neat.

  The reception proceeded as all do. Food. Dancing. Brett drank.

  Using the dance band’s microphone, the best man made a toast.

  Francesca, as maid of honor, grabbed it next. She brought it toward her mouth, and the thing squealed reverb so loudly Brett thought maybe she’d burst his eardrums.

  Everyone else laughed, shook their heads and then quieted for Francesca’s short speech.

  Brett couldn’t hear it. His ears were still ringing. That weight on his chest grew heavier by the minute. He thought he was coming down
with something.

  No wonder he hadn’t been sleeping.

  Next came the obligatory garter throw. Brett stayed out of the running, instead nursing another whisky.

  Elise prepared to throw her bouquet. Jostling and laughing with embarrassment, a whole passel of single women lined up for the chance to be the next designated bride. Veil floating behind her, Elise turned her back, then checked over her shoulder.

  Whatever she saw caused her to abandon her position and stamp away. In seconds she was back, Francesca in tow. Rolling her eyes, Francesca broke free and stood at the very back of the grouped women, obviously uninterested in catching the bouquet.

  Brett found himself moving forward. Just to get a better view of the action. Then, with a big show of a wind-up, Elise let the bouquet fly.

  Obviously the sports gene wasn’t going to be passed to Elise and David’s future children on the maternal side. The flowers went high and long, flying nearer to Brett than any of the single ladies, who, in their best dresses and heels, didn’t have a prayer of grabbing the thing.

  But he’d forgotten the one woman raised by four older brothers. Four brothers who’d honed in her a competitive streak impossible to suppress. Four brothers who’d shown a girl how to move, and she sure could do it, since she’d exchanged her high heels for a pair of high-top sneakers.

  Francesca faded back, nearly bumping into him. Brett tried to give her more room, but with a table and chairs behind him, his movements were restricted.

  The bouquet was still sailing high on a collision course for the wall. Certainly no one could reach it. Then Francesca jumped, her body bowing in the best running back style. The flowers landed in her arms.

  Francesca landed against Brett’s chest. He went backward.

  To save herself from falling with him, she dug her elbows into his ribs.

  “Oomph!” With a scatter of crowd and chairs, Brett landed, hard and alone, on the polished parquet floor.

  Safely on her two feet, Francesca peered down at him, the flowers cradled in her arms. “Oops,” she said.

  She didn’t look the least bit sorry. But he didn’t think she intentionally meant to step on his hand as she turned her back on him and walked away.

  Chest heaving, Brett lay sprawled on the floor. His neck cramp was back. His shoulders ached from the Carlo squeeze. His ribs hurt. His back hurt. His fingers, the ones Francesca had crushed beneath her sneaker, throbbed.

  But not one of the pains was anything, compared to the pain of seeing her once again walk away. The realization struck him with the force of an atomic explosion.

  Carlo reached his side. He clasped Brett’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “You okay, pal?”

  “I hurt like hell,” Brett told his friend seriously.

  Carlo frowned. “You need a doctor?”

  Brett rubbed a palm over his chest. “I don’t think that will help.”

  He’d called it sleep deprivation. He’d puzzled over the ache in his chest and the strange pain that the sight of Francesca had inflicted on his eyes.

  Well, he’d figured it out now.

  Somewhere, somehow, some way, the lady in the sneakers, who’d been his tomboy princess, had grown up to become the queen of his heart.

  God, it sounded so corny but it felt so true.

  He loved her. He was in love with her.

  And all the hurt he’d been so afraid to risk by loving her was nothing compared to the pain of living without her.

  He looked over at his best friend. “Damn, Carlo. I’ve been a fool.”

  Francesca’s brother smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

  SHE’D DISAPPEARED. Brett forced himself to slowly retrace his steps.

  No Francesca on the dance floor.

  She wasn’t hanging by the wedding cake.

  The head table, reserved for the wedding party, was empty.

  He walked the perimeter of the large room again, stopping by the bar for another whisky to quell his panic.

  He needed to talk to her. Now. His heart was alive and well, and he had to tell her about it.

  Stumped, he went outside.

  It only took him a few minutes to spot a pair of size-five sneakers loitering around the back bumper of a newly washed car decorated with Just Married signs and tissue paper flowers. A bulging garbage bag at her feet, Francesca stood, frowning at a ball of twine in her hands.

  “Need help?” he asked.

  She jumped then looked up. “You.”

  “You” didn’t think she was feeling very charitable toward him.

  He took a breath. “What are you doing?”

  “Tying some tin cans together. Then tying them to Elise and David’s bumper.”

  Brett took another deep breath. “Patricia and I never set a wedding date,” he said.

  Francesca sent him a startled look, then bent her head over the twine.

  “I was thinking about that today. Thinking about why we didn’t set the date.” Brett took a swallow from his glass of whisky. “And it wasn’t because it takes five years to plan a wedding.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear any more,” Francesca said.

  “But I need to talk about it. I need to tell you—to explain.”

  Her fingers stopped fiddling with the string.

  “When she died,” he went on, “it was terrible. I couldn’t get over what a waste it was. This beautiful, vibrant young woman. I couldn’t get over what she hadn’t experienced. She’d never been a wife. Never held her child in her arms.”

  Francesca hugged herself. “I really don’t want to hear any more.”

  Brett moved closer to her, gripping his whisky tightly in his hand. “And I felt guilty because I didn’t regret she hadn’t been my wife. That she hadn’t had my child.”

  There were tears in Francesca’s dark eyes. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. I’m just trying to tell you how it was. Patricia and I…we’d been part of each other’s lives since we were seventeen. We went to college together. Then law school. When it seemed like it was time to get engaged, we did that together, too.”

  “But you loved her,” Francesca whispered.

  Brett nodded. “I did. And I’d give anything to have her back in the world.” He inhaled a long breath and then admitted something he’d kept secret for almost two years. “But I don’t think I would have married her. And in many ways, knowing that has made her death more painful.”

  Francesca swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. Then she kneeled by the bag and started taking out tin cans. “Why are you telling me all this, Brett?”

  Whump. Whump. Whump. His heart started a bass drum beat in his chest. Talking about the past was easy. “Because…because I want you to know why taking a chance on the future is pretty hard for me, Francesca.”

  She lined up the empty cans in perfect rows. Tuna size on the left. Chicken noodle on the right. “I’ve been disappointed too, Brett.”

  She didn’t have to say that he’d been the one to hurt her. He hunkered down beside her, trying to get her to look at him. “I know it’s my fault. And I’m sorry Francesca.” Whump. Whump. Whump. “But I’ve figured it out now.”

  She looked up, her gaze suspicious. “Figured out what?”

  “I’d regret it like hell if I let you go. I won’t let you become someone else’s wife. The only child I want to see you carrying is mine. Ours.”

  Whump. Whump. Whump. His heart beat so loudly he thought he might have to read her lips. Her head stayed bent over the cans.

  “I love you,” he said, desperate for her to respond.

  She rearranged the cans, and he could see her hands shaking. “You said you wouldn’t have married Patricia. But you two were engaged when she died. Why?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by breaking it off. And I think she didn’t want to hurt mine, either.”

  One last can plunked to the asphalt. Francesca kept her hand curled ov
er its open edge as she looked at Brett. “But, see, there’s the rub.”

  His heart almost stopped.

  “Since I was a little girl, you’ve been the one to make things better for me,” Francesca said. “My protector. My knight.”

  Brett couldn’t deny it.

  “And you know I felt bad the other day when you said you didn’t love me.”

  She looked down at the can, and he could see her fingers tighten on it. “How do I know you’re not saying this for the same reason you stayed with Patricia?”

  Before he could respond, she let out a startled cry. Her hand on the can opened, and he could see a long slice crossing three fingers and welling blood.

  “God, Francesca.” He grabbed the palm of her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go find a first aid kit and some disinfectant.”

  She stubbornly resisted him and slipped her hand out of his, her eyes angry. “No. I hate that stinging stuff as much as I hate your pity, Brett.”

  “Francesca, let’s get this cleaned. We can argue later.”

  She shook her head, her shoes digging post holes into the asphalt, her hand dripping blood. “No. I don’t like disinfectant.”

  Exasperated, Brett moved to run his hand through his hair, only to discover he was still holding the glass of whisky. He looked at the two inches of alcohol in the glass. He eyed the stubborn, sexy, tomboy love of his life. From the top of her sleek dark head to the bottom of her scuffed sneakers she was every chance he needed to take…every bit of life he had to reach out for.

  “Let’s recap,” he said, advancing on her. “You’re afraid I said I love you because I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She didn’t see it coming. She didn’t even try to resist when Brett grabbed Francesca’s bleeding hand and in one deft move poured the contents of his glass—whisky, one hundred proof—over the cut.

  She gasped in pain. He smiled.

  “But now you see, honey,” he said. “That point is moot.”

  “Brett.” Tears turned Francesca’s eyes to dark crystals, and he knew she believed him. He pulled her into his arms to kiss the tears, to kiss her mouth, to whisper in her ear that he loved her for all time and was never going to let her go.