The Wedding Date

by Christie Ridgway

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a bath. Trick—”

  “A bath? You’re in the bathtub?” His voice broke in an adolescent crack.

  “Just me and the bubbles.”

  “And a bar of soap?” Now his voice was low and husky.

  Emma fished it out of the foam. “Mmm.”

  “What.. .what are you washing?”

  She held her toes above the water. “My feet.”

  His voice quieted. “They’re small.”

  Emma rubbed her bar across her toes. “Size five.”

  “You have nice legs. Firm.”

  “Step aerobics.” She drew the soap over one shin to her knee. “Sometimes I run on the weekends.”

  She heard him breathing. In and out, in and out. She synced her own breaths to his, and ran the soap up her thigh, treacherously remembering the press of his leg against hers as they danced.

  “Where’s the soap now?” he asked.

  Startled, she jerked the soap from her skin. “Shouldn’t we get back to the subject?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, yes…” He inhaled heavily. “What were we talking about?”

  “You and me. Saturday night.” She flashed back to the scene. His hands holding hers against the door. His mouth on her skin.

  In, out, in, out. His breaths accelerated. “Where’s it now?”

  “My lips—” She caught herself. “Oh! You mean the soap. My arm.” She propped up the phone with her shoulder and washed to her wrist.

  “You have beautiful skin.”

  Lord, Emma thought, how could a voice and four words be so seductive? She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, wide eyes, parted lips. Hard nipples. Warmth, degrees hotter than the bathwater, spread inside her.

  She laughed shakily. “We’re playing with fire,” she reminded them both.

  “Why are you worrying?” He chuckled, sexy and low. “You’ve got water right there. Think about me.”

  Emma did. She thought of him, opposite her in the tub, her hands sliding across his bronzed back. She thought of licking drops of water from his shoulders, she thought of rubbing her aching nipples against the golden hair on his chest.

  She thought she was in big trouble.

  Emma dropped the soap and unplugged the tub.

  “What are you doing now?” he asked.

  She stepped out, watching the bubbles funnel down the drain, the same place her good sense ended up when she was around Trick. “I’m out,” she said briskly.

  “Out?” He sounded like he’d been slapped.

  She wrapped a towel around herself. “I’m dried off and dressed,” she lied, anxious, no, desperate, to get back to business. “About that fair wage…” A whispering came across the line. “What’s that sound?”

  “I’m talking to myself.”

  “About what?”

  “Greenland, Iceland, Alaska. The North Pole. Cold thoughts. Freezing thoughts,” he answered.

  Emma considered pretending she didn’t understand what he meant. But that hardly seemed right, not when her own pulse had yet to slow. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

  Another pause. “I’m congratulating myself because I figured out you don’t mean you’re talking about places with subzero temperatures,” he said.

  “Right. I’m talking about our temperatures. See, we’ll get this back to a business proposition if I pay you for your time on Wednesday and Saturday—”

  “No,” he said.

  “No, you won’t accept payment?”

  “No. I don’t think I should be your escort on Wednesday, or Saturday, or any day.”

  7

  To Trick’s ears, Emma’s silence sounded as loud as an accusation.

  “Our arrangement is getting too—” he rolled his eyes, thinking how distracted he’d been by the thought of her in the bathtub “—complicated. Someone’s going to be hurt.”

  “We can put it back on a professional footing. That’s why I called.”

  Trick sighed. “Emma, think. Professionalize a supposed love relationship? Does that make sense? You of all people should know you can’t treat emotions as business.”

  “But—”

  “I like you, but I just can’t do it,” he said.

  The long silence that followed made him nervous, very nervous. He braced himself for a bout of Emmalogic. He must be careful or he’d surrender to it.

  “Fine,” she said, and hung up.

  After a sleepless night of pillow punching, the next morning Trick toweled off from his shower and tried to avoid his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. Dammit, I won’t feel guilty over backing out!

  Putting a stop to their arrangement had been the right decision. After twenty-four hours away from Emma, breathing in clean Oregon air, he’d realized the danger of the situation.

  Playing at being lovers! She was crazy! She made him crazy!

  She made him think in exclamation points!

  She made him ache.

  And that, of course, was the strongest reason to walk away. Emma’s perfect man would share himself, heart and soul, and Trick could never risk that pain again. He ran his hand over the ugly gash on his right thigh. Never.

  He walked into the adjoining guest room and pulled his usual summer uniform out of his duffel bag—wellused Trickwear shirt and shorts. The kind of clothes that had probably convinced Emma he was a beach bum.

  Unbidden, his first impression of her entered his mind. Floating up the beach steps in a sundress, her loose curls floating around her head. Just right.

  Shoving the image away, he pulled the ratty shirt over his head, then stepped into his equally battered shorts. He ran his hands through his overlong hair. Anyway, Emma should realize the unemployed surfer look wouldn’t impress anyone.

  A chilling thought scratched the surface of his mind. Maybe she knew he wasn’t unemployed. Maybe she knew about Trickwear, the beach house, all his investments. Maybe money was her definition of the perfect man.

  Like Carina all those years ago, maybe Emma’s justright face hid a calculating heart looking for the main chance.

  He sank onto the bed, running his palm down his face. Had Emma used her predicament as a complicated ploy to get close to him? Numb, he stared into space.

  Then a clear voice sounded from the region of his heart. Get a grip, Webster. You found the bottle. You approached Emma.

  Relief and remorse coursed through him. And another dose of guilt. Great heaping coals of guilt.

  He stood and crossed to his duffel, knowing he couldn’t leave things like this with Emma. He wouldn’t leave Emma in the lurch.

  His dad agreed to take him to the airport to catch the first flight out.

  His mom elbowed his dad and whispered loudly, “Our boy’s found himself a girl.”

  Trick didn’t deny it.

  Tuesday was one of the rare overcast days in August. The sun finally burned off the clouds just as Emma sat down to a late lunch. She chose an inside table in a small café three blocks from the beach where she’d first met Trick.

  Rather than eating the multicolored pasta salad on her plate, she methodically separated the spirals, green on the left, red on the right, and good old white macaroni sharing the middle with tomato slices and broccoli florets.

  Men are dogs. Scratching, barking, welsh-on-anengagement and welsh-on-a-deal dogs.

  Using her fork, she stabbed a tomato quarter and watched with pleasure as its guts squirted on the plate. That one’s for you, Michael. She lifted her fork and aimed it at another tomato. You’re next, Trick.

  “Hi, Emma.”

  Her hand froze, and she looked up, making sure she hadn’t imagined Trick’s voice. Nope, there he stood, tall, blond and handsome. The realization that she missed having him around pierced her, as sharply as her fork in the tomato.

  “May I join you?” he asked. Tall, blond, handsome and polite.

  “Ruff, ruff,” she muttered as a warning to he
rself.

  “Is that a yes?” His voice was smooth and sexy.

  Tall, blond, handsome, polite and hard to resist. She nodded cautiously.

  He pulled out the opposite chair, calling his order to the approaching waitress.

  Let him initiate the conversation, Emma thought. I won’t say anything until he does. But he said nothing, merely watching her rearrange her salad again, red spirals on the left, green on the right.

  Her fork squeaked against the plate, and from the corner of her eye she watched his long, tan fingers restlessly massage his right thigh. He’s nervous, she thought. Could he possibly want back into their deal?

  She gritted her teeth against the instant leap of her pulse. No dice. He’d dumped her last night, and in the hours since then, she’d solved her escort problem.

  She spared him a pitying glance. About twenty-four hours from now, he’d develop a virulent case of food poisoning. The doctor would insist on complete bed rest through the weekend.

  The imaginary illness would even give her an excuse to leave tomorrow night’s dinner and the wedding early. She’d claim her poor, sick love couldn’t sleep unless she held his hand.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  “Bad clams.” She knew that answer would drive him crazy, and she smiled wider when she saw his hand on his thigh tighten like a claw.

  He lapsed into silence again. She jumbled her salad and worked on a few sickbed scenes. She imagined herself at his bedside, reading Vogue as he slept. She imagined him waking, pale and weak, calling out for water. With a sorrowful smile and big eyes, she’d repeat back the words he’d said last night. “I like you, but I just can’t do it.”

  “Don’t you want to ask why I’m here?”

  Startled from her daydream, she met his gaze. He looked a little surly, his granite jaw making his mouth appear sexier than ever. Careful, girl. She kept her voice disinterested. “Okay. Why are you here?”

  “For lunch,” he said triumphantly. As if to confirm his reply, the waitress slid a BLT and an iced tea in front of him. Emma could tell he thought his answer-thatwasn’t-an-answer would pique her curiosity.

  She shrugged. “Bon appetit.”

  If his scowl was any indication, she’d made him even grumpier. Suddenly, her appetite returned, and she picked up a forkful of salad. Delicious.

  He chewed through two bites of his sandwich, then broke the silence again. “Ask me why I’m really here.”

  She was enjoying this. She slanted him an indulgent smile. “Why are you really here?”

  “Poseidon sent me.”

  For a moment she drew a blank, then heat rushed up her neck as she remembered that bottle she’d thrown out in the surf—when? Days ago. “How’d you know about that?”

  “I found your note in the bottle.”

  “Oh.” She tried to remember exactly what she’d written. Probably not too damaging, but certainly she’d come off as desperate. She grimaced. “Before we met?”

  He nodded.

  Embarrassed, she huffed a bit and clucked her tongue. “You might have told me. It would have saved me some explaining.”

  His eyes widened, and his eyebrows were raised. “You must be kidding. I don’t understand you with the amount of explanation I do have.”

  She immediately decided to give him a case of bad clams and bad shrimp. “Well, you know the worst thing about me. I littered.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I’ll have to arrest you.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. “Oh, yeah?” What was he up to now?

  “Yeah. And take you into protective custody.”

  “To protect me from what?”

  “Ex-fiances who are jerks. Embarrassing moments in front of friends and co-workers.” He smiled, and ladymelting atoms of energy traveled straight toward her.

  She blotted her lips with her napkin. A poor shield, but the best she could do under the circumstances. “Are you saying you want back in our…arrangement?”

  He nodded and reached over to grasp her hand.

  Wide, hard palm. Her fingertips absorbed his heated strength, and the essence of him, that heat and strength, flashed through her bloodstream.

  Pitty-pat, pitty-pat. The beat of her silly heart made it hard to think straight. “You said it was getting too complicated.”

  He waved half a sandwich in dismissal. “Prewedding jitters.”

  “That’s for brides,” she grumbled.

  “And escorts of the prettiest jilted fiancee of the groom.”

  “I’m the only jilted fiancee of the groom.” She pulled her fingers free from his.

  He smiled slowly. “The only,” he agreed. His forefinger traced half a heart on her cheek.

  Goose bumps skittered down her neck. She opened her mouth, closed it. She wanted to be the only. His only.

  Oh, no.

  Was she nuts? That deep, dark hole called love yawned in front of her, and if she took a step forward, she’d fall in. And she knew for a fact, because Trick had told her in simple words, that he wasn’t the kind of man to jump in after her.

  “No. No way. No dice. No, thank you.” She breathed a sigh of relief that she’d gotten the words out.

  “No?” He looked surprised. Shocked even. Possibly disappointed.

  “I don’t need you anymore.”

  “I’ve been replaced?” Now he sounded definitely disappointed.

  Emma played with her napkin. “Sorta.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He leaned across the table and lifted her chin. “You didn’t call Mac, did you?”

  Bottomless blue eyes. As easy to fall into as that love pit. She licked her bottom lip. “No! I’m giving you food poisoning.”

  He dropped her chin and looked down at his plate, aghast. Only a couple of crumbs remained. “What?”

  She giggled. “Not today. Tomorrow.”

  He inhaled a couple fast, deep breaths. “You’re giving me food poisoning tomorrow?”

  “Yep. When I show up at the dinner alone, I’ll say you’re sick.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Maybe I am,” he muttered.

  “So you see? I don’t need you.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat.

  He turned his palm and captured her fingers once more. Her blood whooshed through her body again, bringing Trick sensations to every pore.

  He stared at their entwined hands. “Emma,” he said thoughtfully. “I hate food poisoning. I get all pale and sweaty, and I have no one to take care of me.” His thumb stroked across her fingers.

  She felt a pang of sympathy, then shook it off. “Come on, now, it’s not real.”

  His gaze met hers. His thumb stroked hypnotically, and he stared into her eyes. “Let me go with you.”

  She wanted, wanted, wanted to say yes.

  The waitress came by with their checks. Emma looked at the two scraps of paper and saw in them salvation. She jerked her hand from his and snatched them both up. “A business expense,” she replied to the protesting Trick.

  “Now,” she said, constructing a sturdy matchstick bridge across that scary emotional pit at her feet. “If you’ll agree to an hourly wage, I’ll agree to an escort.”

  Emma smoothed up black, thigh-high stockings and reviewed her negotiations with Trick at lunch the day before. She couldn’t call herself a hands-down winner—he’d agreed to take payment for his time, but they hadn’t settled on an amount—but she did have a right to this buzz of anticipation.

  Across the bed lay irrefutable evidence. Not only had she the perfect man, but also the perfect little black dress. Above the knee, sleeveless and V-necked, the slinky fabric buttoned down the front with black rosettes of sheer material. The same sheer material that made up the back of the dress from the neck to the line of her bra.

  She slipped into the little black number and into her highest-heeled black pumps. A few turns in front of the mirror to ensure her slip didn’t show, then a reassuring spritz of hair spray. Four d
eep breaths, two brushes of the mascara wand and finally one promise to herself.

  I will remember this relationship with Trick isn’t real.

  The doorbell rang at exactly seven o’clock. Rubbing her palms on a tissue, she walked slowly to the door. Hand on the knob, she peered out the peephole.

  Trick, blond hair shining. White silk shirt, oatmeal linen pants and a dark gold, easy-fitting jacket that complemented his deep tan.

  Emma’s heart sprinted for her toes, her stomach dashed around in circles. This isn’t real, this isn’t real, she reminded herself.

  Lord, no, it’s a fantasy.

  Trick barely recognized the woman who opened the door. She was Emma, but more Emma. More sophisticated, more green-eyed, more lush-mouthed. Blood pounded to his groin as she smiled.

  More bewitching.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  Yes. Now. For anything. For everything. He wanted to push her inside and strip off that tease of a dress. Her nipples would harden in his mouth, her hips would lift, offering herself to the touch of his hands. He nodded. Yes.

  She stepped across the threshold, shut the door, then punched him lightly on the arm. “Then let’s go win us an Oscar, tiger.”

  No.

  He watched Emma sashay down the walkway and his head cleared, maybe for the first time since meeting her. Tonight wouldn’t be an act.

  He wanted Emma. He wanted to pursue what he felt for her despite his past experiences and her past experiences and every screaming bachelor instinct in his body.

  He trailed Emma to his car, noting her rigid spine and determined stride. She let herself into the passenger side before he could open the door for her. Another crystalclear realization struck him.

  Tonight, he wouldn’t need to convince her ex-fiancé or her boss or her co-workers that he felt something for her.

  He needed to convince Emma.

  She chattered as he steered onto the freeway and drove north, filling him in on the people he’d meet at the dinner party in celebration of the wedding. “Everyone who works at our company will be there, with spouses or significant others. Important clients, too.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw she nervously fidgeted with the hem of her dress. “I thought black was the right color, but now I’m not so sure. Oh, Lord, what if they think I’m in mourning for Michael?”