The Wedding Date

by Christie Ridgway

  I should tell her now.

  “You look like you could use a nap,” Emma said. With one hand, she popped the top of a diet cola can and took a swig. “Go ahead. I have the soda and the traffic reports to keep me awake.”

  I should tell her now.

  She reached behind her to the back seat and produced a pillow. “Get comfortable,” she urged, tossing the pillow in his lap. “I want you rested up for the big night—I mean day.” Her smile teased and promised.

  Trick’s libido jumped to attention and he made a quick decision. I’ll wait a few more minutes.

  Yes. He’d wait until they were a hundred miles or so away. Then when he told her, she’d be less inclined to drive back and dump him in his driveway.

  “I think I will get some sleep.” He doubled the pillow and put it against the window, then rested his head on it. He inhaled deeply. The pillow smelled of Emma, and his skin absorbed the fragrance, his body taking it into his very heart and beyond.

  His pulse pounded. His mouth went dry. And Emma entered his soul.

  Oh, God.

  Whether the plea was a prayer or panic, he couldn’t say. Without moving his head, he barely opened his eyes and glanced at her. In long shorts and a baggy T-shirt, her curly hair tucked behind her ear, she didn’t appear any different than she had five minutes ago.

  He closed his eyes, counted slowly to one hundred, then opened them again. Yep, she looked the same, yet he felt irrevocably changed.

  His insides shifted, altered, opened to accept the truth. He kept his head against that pillow, once more closed his eyes and tried to come to grips with the hard facts.

  I swore I’d never love again, yet I’m falling in love with Emma. Emma, who treasures emotional intimacy above all else. Emma who knows nothing about me.

  Oh, God.

  Neither miles nor minutes provided an easy solution.

  Finally opening his eyes, he sat up and assessed their location. West L.A. “You want me to drive?” Maybe with his hands occupied, he could figure out what he should do next. What he wanted to do next.

  She slid a glance at him, then bit her lip. “That’s okay. I want something to hold on to.” She took a quick breath. “I have something to confess.”

  “About what?” Instinct told him he wouldn’t like this conversation.

  Her tongue came out and licked her bottom lip. “About me. About Michael. About love.”

  Oh, hell. She’s still in love with Michael. Cold, like a frozen knife, pierced Trick’s heart. “I’m sorry, honey, but it’s a little late to stop the wedding.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why would I want to stop the wedding?”

  “About you, about Michael, about love?” he reminded her.

  She sighed. “Well, I do love Michael.”

  Twist, went that icy knife.

  “You made me realize that.”

  Twist, twist. “I’m so glad I could be of help.”

  Perhaps she caught his sarcasm, because she darted him a look, a wrinkle between her brows. “When Michael broke off our engagement, I thought I hated him. I told myself I didn’t believe in love. That the perfect man couldn’t be found. Then…”

  Her long pause drove him nuts, though he felt certain he didn’t want to hear her next words. “Then?”

  “Then I met you.”

  His voice sounded gruff to his own ears. “And you realized you loved Michael.”

  “Right. I mean, how could I be engaged to a man one day and hate him the next?”

  “Some might say that cheating on you with another woman could cause that.”

  Her fingers whisked away that comment. “What I’m talking about is beyond all that.”

  “You don’t care that he cheated on you?” A tide of indignation rose within him.

  “Well, I did three months ago, but since I’ve met you, it’s become irrelevant.”

  His head felt a little woozy. “You met me, which caused you to no longer care that the man you love cheated on you and broke your engagement?”

  She grimaced. “To be honest, the broken engagement still stings a little. If we hadn’t been that far along, the cheating and the breakup wouldn’t have been nearly so devastating. Three months of pity from everybody has not been pleasant.”

  “But you’re now willing to forgive Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know you love him.”

  She beamed him an I-knew-you’d-understand smile. “Yes.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “You seem pretty cheerful for a woman driving to this man’s wedding.”

  “Hey, I’m glad he’s happy. And I made three strings of tin cans that I’ll attach to the getaway car to pay him back for that pity stuff.” She laughed.

  Trick cleared his throat. “Emma, this isn’t adding up to me. The man you’re in love with is marrying someone else, and you’re laughing on the way to his wedding.”

  He saw her knuckles whiten as they gripped the steering wheel. Aha, he thought, it’s finally sinking in. He braced himself for an emotional outburst.

  She looked quickly at him, a little smile on her lips. “You’re marrying someone else?” Her gaze quickly switched forward again.

  Stunned, Trick tried replaying their entire conversation in his head. He got stuck at the first exchange. “What are you saying, Emma?” he asked slowly.

  “Three things, really.”

  He waited expectantly.

  “One, I never really gave up on believing in love.”

  He inhaled a long breath. “And?”

  “And two, I realize what I felt for Michael, have always felt for Michael, is deep friendship. I think we both mistook our caring for each other as something romantic.” She paused. “I love him, but I’ve never been in love with him.”

  “And three?” He stared at the light blush that washed over her cheeks.

  “Uh, after meeting you, I realized items one and two.” She held the wheel in that white-knuckled grip again.

  “That’s three?” His muscles trembled with tension.

  “Well, uh, not entirely. You see, I really hadn’t planned on spilling all this right now….”

  Trick placed his hand on her leg. “Tell me.” His heart pounded in his ears.

  She looked at his fingers, then placed her cold ones on top. “I’m in love with you,” she whispered.

  His head spun, his heart nearly broke out of his chest. Euphoria traveled like a seltzer’s fizz through his bloodstream. He turned his hand to capture hers. Palm to palm, he stared at their joined fingers. “Emma,” he said. “Emma.”

  “Have I scared you away?”

  The anxious note in her voice didn’t escape him. “No.” He felt a silly grin break over his face. “Not at all.”

  “I was really worried about that, you see.” Words started rushing out of her mouth. “But I kept thinking that today was our second-to-last day together, and you know me, I just couldn’t stop myself from telling you. I mean, what if I’d never said anything and kept this enormous feeling all bottled up inside? Pretty soon I just know I’d burst, and then—”

  His kiss on her fingers halted the flow. This enormous feeling. She had that right. “Emma.” He opened his mouth to share his own emotions, then stopped short.

  Leave it to Emma to be the first to declare love. This was a conversation for moonlight and champagne, not road signs and asphalt. And I still have to tell her who I am.

  “I know, I know, I’m just rattling on.” She laughed. “Just a little nervous, I guess.”

  He squeezed her fingers and sighed. “Emma…” He paused, trying to force out the words that would expose his deception.

  She withdrew her fingers and giggled nervously. “You don’t have to say anything now. We’ll talk later, when I’m not driving sixty miles an hour and my heart’s not going ninety.”

  “Sure.” He slowly, silently let out the air trapped in his lungs. Coward that he was, he wanted to put off the moment of truth, the moment that might
end this wild euphoria.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. He’d have to tell her before they got to the hotel. Calmly, quietly, reasonably. And maybe she’d take it that way.

  After that he’d tell her he was in love with her.

  After that he’d have all night to prove it to her.

  Anticipation joined the euphoric fizz in his bloodstream, leaving him in a sensual and emotional fog. The only tangibles that existed were the smooth skin of Emma’s fingers linked with his and her lush mouth, which he wanted to capture next.

  They rode in semisilence for another ninety minutes. She told him why Michael and Pauline were marrying in Santa Barbara—the chapel, Church of All Saints, or was it All Souls, or maybe All Sailors, on Paseo Pacifica or Paseo del Mar, or something like that—was the same church Pauline’s parents had married in.

  Emma reassured Trick the directions were with the invitation, or that they’d follow another guest to the wedding. Everyone attending had reservations in the same hotel where the reception would take place.

  A horrible premonition flashed in Trick’s head. When their car reached the hotel, Emma’s boss, Ron, would open Trick’s door, ready to pitch an ad campaign. He groaned.

  “What’s the matter?” Emma asked.

  Disaster lay a few short miles down the road. He couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Emma, I’ve been, uh, keeping a little something about myself from you. Uh, about who I am.” He didn’t relax his grip on her fingers.

  “I know you have. I’ve been wondering when you were going to tell me.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, sirree. A little thing like a man’s true identity isn’t peanuts, you know.”

  The laugh in her voice totally confused him. “I know.” With his free hand, Trick tilted the airconditioning vent so that the cold air hit him more fully.

  Cautiously, he approached the conversation. “What exactly have you wanted to know about me?”

  “From the day we met I’ve wanted to know what that T stands for.”

  “The T.”

  “Uh-huh. As in T. Richard Webster.” She sent him a quick, amused look. “Out with it. What’s it stand for?”

  Trick shook his head. Only Emma, he thought with a smile. Only she could uncover the other weakness he’d tried to hide his entire life. He pursed his lips. “Cross your heart and hope to die you’ll never tell anyone else?”

  The delight on her face cut him to the quick. When he told her everything, would that brightness disappear?

  “Cross my heart and hope to die. Now tell me!”

  “Thelonious.”

  “What?”

  “Thelonious. After Thelonious Sphere Monk, a much admired jazz pianist and composer. Much admired by my mother, anyway.”

  Emma’s eyes rounded. “That’s truly horrible,” she said seriously. “What could our parents be thinking of?”

  Trick picked up on the clue. “Our parents? Don’t tell me Emma isn’t your real name?”

  A return of that cute blush. “Oh, it’s Emma, all right. Emma Thorpe. With my mother’s maiden name in the middle.”

  “And what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Dorp,” she said quickly. “It’s Dutch or something.”

  Trick took a breath. “Emma Dorp Thorpe?” He tried keeping his lips together.

  Her look turned mean. “Hey, I didn’t laugh, Thelonious Richard Webster.” And then she did.

  And then he did.

  And they kept laughing together, until Trick thought maybe his identity wasn’t such a big deal after all. I mean, she knows about Thelonious, for God’s sake. And he decided to wait and tell her at the first quiet moment in their hotel room.

  This is the woman who’s in love with me. Trick slipped his arm around Emma’s shoulders and walked her across the thankfully deserted parking lot toward the hotel lobby, his right hand casually massaging the knotted muscles in his thigh.

  This is the woman I’m in love with. He nuzzled the top of her head and anticipated all the other places he wanted to nuzzle. As soon as they got to their room, he promised himself. Right after he told her everything.

  “Hey, Thelonious,” Emma murmured as they entered the lobby. “Look who’s here.”

  Hell. The lobby was dotted with people he’d met at the dinner Wednesday night. Two people, the magic ad guy and the female VP, stood around the concierge desk. The others he recognized probably knew about Trickwear by now. Thank God he didn’t see Ron.

  Trick tensed for the journey from door to check-in desk as if he’d be passing through a gauntlet. “Good to see you again!” Trick relaxed a little at the first innocuous hail from a plump woman he didn’t remember meeting.

  Now the ad guy. “How was your drive—hey, what’s your hurry?” Just a precaution, Trick thought in response, and nudged Emma forward with his palm on the small of her back.

  One more voice. “Trick! I hear the surf’s up.” The hairs stood on Trick’s arm and he bared a grin at the smiling stranger, then sped toward a waiting clerk. He refused to let a stray comment dim the happy light in Emma’s eyes and dash his chance to explain everything.

  Finally, their key cards and overnighters in hand, they entered the elevator. The doors closed and Trick breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Well, Ms. Emma Dorp Thorpe, alone at last.” He dropped his bag and cupped her cheek. Her mouth tasted sweet and hot. She tasted of love. He vowed he’d make her understand his little deception.

  The elevator dinged at their floor and they disentangled their tongues. In a daze, Trick led her down the hall. He couldn’t say if it was the shortest or longest walk of his life.

  “Damn.” His hands were shaking, making it hard to fit the key card into the door.

  Emma laughed softly. “Let me try.” She fumbled, too.

  “Well, hello there!” From down the hall came the greeting Trick dreaded.

  At the sound of that unwelcome but familiar voice, Trick froze. Ron. For half a second, he tried ignoring him.

  Emma jabbed Trick in the ribs. “Here’s your chance,” she hissed. She turned around. “Good afternoon, Ron! How’s the father of the bride?”

  Hearty laugh. “Just dandy, Emma. No jitters here. And how was your trip, Trick?”

  Trick pasted on a smile. “Dandy, dandy, dandy.” He turned back to the door. The card slid in, but he didn’t hear the necessary click. Hurry.

  “So, Emma, did you and Trick have any interesting discussions on the way up?” More hearty chuckles.

  Damn. Hurry. He pulled out the card, inserted it again.

  Emma’s answering laugh sounded a little puzzled. “We talked about all sorts of things.”

  “Business?” Trick could hear the raised eyebrows in Ron’s voice.

  “Ooh,” Emma said, as if finally understanding.

  Oh, hell, Trick thought. She’s thinking about that job I let her think Ron might have for me.

  The door clicked, the knob turned. Trick tossed their overnight bags in. “Emma.” He put his hand on her arm. “Let’s go in. We need to talk.”

  “Don’t you want to speak with Ron—”

  “Not right now. Right now I want to get in our room.”

  “Don’t you worry, Emma, I already gave him my best pitch,” Ron said, and smiled hugely.

  Trick thought he could smooth over Ron’s comment if he got Emma inside this moment. She only looked slightly startled that the company president would be pitching a job to a prospective employee.

  Trick stood fully in the room and pulled Emma over the threshold.

  “Wait,” Ron said quietly. The man’s face became serious. “Let me speak to you for a minute, Emma.”

  The door to their room swung shut, but didn’t latch. From the half inch of space around the jamb, Trick heard Ron’s voice. “Emma. You’re not doing this for the company, are you?”

  “For the company?” she echoed. “Doing what for the company?”

  “Going out with Trick. You’re
not just trying to get his account, are you?”

  “His account.” Puzzlement ran through Emma’s voice.

  “The Trickwear account. Not that I’d mind taking it on.” Ron’s voice raised with enthusiasm. “That new man we hired could easily handle a beachwear-sportswear company like Trick’s.”

  Trick’s stomach had taken up residence in his feet, and his heart floundered somewhere around his navel. He closed his eyes, straining to hear Emma’s reply.

  “Trickwear,” she said faintly. “A company like Trick’s.”

  “You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Ron said heartily. “First a man like Michael, then a man like Trick, who retires from his own company at thirty-two. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t with him to get his account for us.”

  Emma’s reply reached Trick loud and clear. “I don’t know why I’m with him.”

  Ron laughed, apparently oblivious to the edge in Emma’s voice. “I’m certain Trick will help you figure that out. I have to meet Marcia in the lobby. See you soon.” His tuneless whistle faded away.

  The door opened to show Emma, her face pale. She paced toward Trick, kicking the door shut behind her. “Who are you?” she asked.

  Emma watched Trick sit on the king-size bed, then rake his fingers through his hair. “I’m what Ron said, and everything you already know. Thelonious Richard Webster.”

  Thelonious rhymes with felonious. A hot wave of anger gathered power inside her. She narrowed her eyes. “Retired from a beachwear-sportswear business?”

  He nodded. “Trickwear.”

  She pursed her lips. “Should I know it?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Swimsuits, shorts, shirts, wet suits. The logo is a surfboard.”

  Emma thought back to her days on the beach. “The surfboard is yellow and red, with a bite out of it? People all over the sand wear that stuff.”

  “Yeah.”

  She took a breath, trying to control her emotions. “How come you don’t wear your own product?”

  “I do. Nearly all the time. But I like mine without the logo.” He looked down at his linked fingers.