by C. M. Lally
“You keep saying that, but we’re sitting here negotiating decorations of all things,” she quips. Even Aran is surprised at her remark and does a quick gasp of her breath.
“Kyle and I mean for this to be as trouble-free and painless as possible,” Aran pleads. “We both come from humble beginnings and want to live our lives that way, despite our careers and bank accounts. This theme is to remind us of that as we start our lives together as one. It should be easy.” She looks back and forth between us, making sure we both understand her words. I nod in her direction and see Isabella tuck her head down in a slight nod, acquiescing.
“I want nothing more than to make it easy for you, Aran,” I state, “but I don’t like wedding planners and their mightier-than-thou attitudes. I hope it’s the day that you’ve dreamed of, and I’ll do my best to work with her to make that happen.”
I scoot out from the booth and walk back to the storeroom to finish inventory. I can feel both of them staring at my quick departure, but only one of them is causing a burning heat to race down my backside. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not yet. I like it that she’s mad. Serves her right for bringing her shitty attitude into my bar the other night. But that same burning heat has curved around to my dick, and now I’m hard as a rock. Damn honeysuckle perfume.
I come back out from the storeroom an hour later and they’re both still here. They’re measuring things, and the snobby bitch is writing furiously in her notebook. I’ve passed them a few times, and I can see what appears to be sketches of the bar inside her notebook too. She’s drawn the back porch addition beautifully, but she’s added in some details that I can’t quite make out. This might end ugly for her.
They disappeared outside for a while; probably scouting out places for that massive tent Aran was talking about. When is this wedding? I can’t believe I didn’t ask. I bet it’s at the height of my summer season and I’m going to lose money on closing it down for the night. Not that I care about losing money. I’ve got way more than I know what to do with, but my regulars don’t like change. I know some of them would not be opposed to crashing a wedding just for a drink or two.
They cross back through the bar, heading over to the booth we were all sitting in. Aran takes a seat and starts collecting her wedding portfolio pictures, but snobby bitch grabs her purse, fishes something out of it—a red checkered envelope, and marches towards me. Her heels are clicking on the wooden floor, and it sounds like she’s mad the way they are digging deep into the wood. Without saying a word, she slaps what looks to be a wedding invitation onto the bar in front of me, and stalks off through the front doors.
“Adios, snobby bitch,” I say out loud as the doors swing closed behind her. I grab my beer, because, yes, she’s got me day drinking, and head over to sit with Aran as she packs her stuff up to leave.
I scoot in and sit where she was seated. The essence of her perfume permeates the area and is torturing me. That fucking smell is going to be the death of me.
We both sit in silence for a short while. Aran finishes packing up her things and sits quietly drinking her water. “You gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?” she asks. “I know I’m not family, but I’ve been around you long enough to know something isn’t right between you two.” Holy shit. I’m surprised she doesn’t know. I thought Isabella would have told her about the other night. It’s not my style to gossip, but I can change the subject— probably better than anyone around here.
“Did you know I used to date your mother in Jr. High School?” I ask her. Her eyes go wide with shock, so I take that as a no.
“You didn’t? Really?” she asks in return. Intrigued by the notion, she shuffles around in her seat, settling in to hear the story. I’m not sure I’ll give her the whole thing, but maybe just the good parts.
“I did, but then again, we were young and “dating” was subjective,” I say, laughing at some of the memories that flood my brain of her mama. “You look just like her. I was a grease monkey at the time, hanging out in my neighbor’s garage, and learning everything I could about fixing racing cars. That’s what I wanted to do— race cars, but that scared your mother.”
“I thought it was her and my dad, always and forever until death parted them,” she sighs, with a little bit of melancholy in her voice.
“Oh, it was. Trust me,” I confide. “My neighbor...the one with the garage...that was your grandfather. He tried to teach us both about cars, but your dad didn’t care. He spent most of his time talking to Melanie when she stopped over. And where Melanie was, her best friend Olivia would soon follow. We were four peas in a pod back then.”
“Mom used to tell me stories about her and Olivia growing up in Knightsen, but they always involved my dad. She never mentioned you; sorry about that,” she apologizes easily. “She would always stop the stories abruptly though, and get sad, never telling me why. Do you know why?”
She looks at me with tears welling up in her eyes at the thought of her mom being sad, and it fucking moves me to a shuddering breath. My chest tightens with emotion, and I can’t breathe. A hard lump forms in my throat, and damn it, I suddenly can’t talk. Minutes go by as flashes of the car wreck pass through my memory.
“It’s alright,” I breathe through the dark feelings I still harbor over her death. “Olivia died in our early 20s. I’m sure it was hard for your mama to deal with being so young.” I take a long draw from my beer, needing the coolness to ease the tightness in my throat. One solitary tear rushes to the corner of my eye and spills down my cheek.
Aran reaches over and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. “How did she die?” she asks.
I swallow hard, not sure if I can answer. I look up at her, and the tears that formed earlier for her mom have broken free and quietly roll down her face in rivulets. She swipes at them, before digging through her purse for some tissues.
“She died in a car wreck,” I blurt out as fast as I can or the words may not form. “A drunk driver ran a light and t-boned her side of the car. She died at the scene before the emergency crews could get her to the hospital.”
“I’m so sorry for asking you to re-live those memories,” she whispers softly. “So, you wanted to be a race car driver?” I look up into her eyes at the sudden shift in conversation, and she smiles sincerely at me. She’s had enough sadness in her life these past few years that I roll with it. It seems I’m not the only one who can change topics quickly.
“I did,” I reply. “I was damn good at it too. As you know, the long country roads around here just begged me to put the pedal to the metal and test the engine. I was really good at the curvy turns thanks to Knightsen’s municipal road planning. We both laugh at that. She obviously knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Did you ever win any titles?” she asks. “You know, get to drink the milk and dump a whole jug of it over you and your crew.” She’s just like her mama with her curiosity and has inherited that special way of making you feel good. That’s what I remember most about Melanie.
“Nah, but I had a few sponsors,” I say proudly. “I’ll have to show you pictures sometime. I was rising in the ranks, fast. Every time you turned on a race, I was the new kid they were watching out for; comparing me to Ricky Rudd, Darrell Waltrip, Rusty Wallace, Mark Martin and the one to beat— Dale Earnhardt, Sr...I was certainly in good company.”
“So what happened?” she asks excitedly. “Did you blow your engine or your money? It’s usually one or the other.”
I shake my head at her guesses, trying to push the sad ending to the story back as far as I can. I’ll end it here on a good note for her. “No, but that’s a longer story for another time,” I explain. “You need to get home to those babies. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you to Sacramento.”
Her face falls in disappointment. “I promise. I’ll tell you the long version of what happened someday,” I say. She gathers her purse and portfolio, scooting out of the booth. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, when is the wedding?�
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“Alright, if you promise to tell me another time,” she teases and shakes her finger at me. “I’m holding you to it, or I’ll withhold Kings playoff tickets from you. The wedding is on July 1st in the early afternoon. So you have seven weeks to prepare and play nice with my wedding planner.”
She winks and laughs, as she pushes through the doors to leave.
Chapter 6 – Isabella
Three weeks have flown by with two weddings down and the other is tonight. I grab my best Burgundy suit and walk it out, hanging it in my car. I throw my bag into the trunk with all of my accessories, toiletries and any other emergency thing I can think a new bride and her planner might need.
I get a second chance to make a first impression tonight with Frank Rex. He’s all I’ve been able to think about. I invited him to the Banks’ wedding tonight up in Walnut Grove. It’s got a rustic California Ranch theme that seems to be the craze this year. This bride has really good taste and vision for what she wants. It’s all come together very smoothly, so hopefully, Frank’s fears for his bar will be laid to rest and he’ll give me full reign for Aran’s wedding.
It’s 7:00 am, and I’ve got to get on the road. It’s a ninety-minute drive out to the ranch from San Francisco without traffic. I should get there right about the time the florist and other vendors arrive for setup. My tent installers were out there late last night getting set up. They sent photos, and it’s simply gorgeous. I love tents at weddings.
I’m making great time driving in absolutely zero traffic once I get out of the city. It’s foggy in San Francisco, but that’s burnt away out here in the country. The sun is shining and the farmers are already out and about completing their chores. I can smell fresh cut grass and fertilizer. I check the time on the car clock, just about the time I see the first road sign for the Knightsen exit.
I wonder if he’s up and working already. He seems like a work-a-holic, but I guess that’s better than being an alcoholic in his line of business. He didn’t appear to drink heavily. He was actually quite fit looking when I saw him outside the booth or sitting at the bar. There isn’t a paunch gut overhanging his waist, or a double-chin drooping down.
Yes, even I’ll admit he’s handsome for his age. He’s definitely one of those broody, mysterious men if you think that’s sexy, and good lord almighty I do. I wonder how old he is. He’s got to be close to my age, possibly in his forties. I wonder if he’s married?
Oh shit. I look up and see that I got off at the Knightsen exit and I didn’t mean to. The Beer and Brood Tavern is right in front of me, damn that man. He’s got me all flustered. Is he married? Why do I even care? He hates me...he said it himself...”with their high and mighty attitude”. I snarl my lips repeating his words.
I’ve never met a wedding planner with that attitude. We are the most congenial people you’ll ever meet in having to deal with such a monumental day and corralling hordes of people to bend to your will to make the wedding a success. Usually, we drive people crazy with our perfectionism and high attention to detail. It can be nerve-wracking at times, especially with brides that are of the same nature. We are customer-service oriented. High and mighty?
He must be married and dealt with a bad wedding planner to have that philosophy towards them. I’m going to have to change his mind. That’s all. There’s a tap, tap, tap on my car window and I jump and scream, scared from my thoughts of him.
I turn and see it’s him. His face is flushed red and his shirt is soaked in sweat. He must have been jogging and stopped in for breakfast because now he’s holding a cup of coffee and a rolled-up bag from a local bakery. I roll down the window and flash him an overzealous smile. “Good morning, Frank,” I say in a high-pitched, unfamiliar voice. Damn, too sugary sweet on the good morning, Bella. Tone it down a little.
“Are you lost, wedding planner?” he asks with a tiny bit of attitude.
“You know my name is Isabella. Isabella Asante,” I say. “Please call me Isabella, or Bella if you’re more comfortable with nicknames.”
“No, that’s okay,” he replies, “I already have a name that I call you.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask. “What would that be?”
“Oh no!” he laughs. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. You’re going to have to figure it out.”
“Would I like this name you have given me?” I ask, raising my eyebrow in question. He smiles and shuffles his feet, taking a sip of his coffee. His body language tells me no because he looks nervous attempting to dodge my question.
“Some people don’t mind it. Some women are even proud of it and call themselves that name all the time, straight out. So, it just depends,” he remarks slyly.
He seems like he’s teasing me, but who knows. I can’t read him.
“Did you need something this early in the morning?” he asks, unrolling the bakery bag and releasing the scent of sugar. Glazed sugar to be perfectly descriptive. Damn, I love glazed donuts, but I don’t indulge because of their fat content. He pops a donut hole into his mouth and chews, mouth closed at least. He’s not that much of an uncivilized beast. I watch every movement of his jawline as he pushes the sweet, doughy goodness around in his mouth before swallowing.
Fuck. I don’t really have a readily available excuse as to why I pulled up to his bar at 8:15 am on a Saturday morning. Shit, shit, and triple shit. My eyes watch him dig another donut hole out of the bag, and he pops it in following the previous one, smiling smugly as he waits for my answer.
“Those really aren’t a healthy choice for breakfast at your age?” I advise, in case he is unaware of the concept of health maintenance. Although, from my vantage point, it doesn’t matter. He looks phenomenal but I don’t need to tell him that.
“Not that I have to explain myself to you, but I just finished jogging fifteen miles and thought I would enjoy my walk home,” he replies, popping another bit of round deliciousness into his mouth. He’s got a little bit of glaze hanging from his mustache, and just as I notice it, the tip of his tongue comes out and swipes it up. “And you haven’t answered my question. Why are you here so early?”
Damn it. That was gloriously erotic watching his tongue dart out and escape back in quickly. I squirm in my seat because now my panties are damp, and I still don’t have an answer for why I’m here.
“I had a second thought about the tents for Aran’s wedding since putting up the ones for my client tonight, and I wanted to see if it would work visually, but I don’t think it’s going too,” I let the words rush out, hoping I sound more in a hurry than blatantly lying.
“Oh, I see,” he grumbles under his breath. “I thought you might have missed me. It has been a few weeks.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice coming out deep and angry, incredulous even. His face looks up to mine from his bakery bag. “Why would I miss someone that hates me, which, by the way... I find really hard to believe because I’m a pleasant person?”
“You’re about as pleasant as the re-setting of a broken bone,” he mumbles.
“I heard that,” I snarl, removing my seatbelt and getting out of the car. We are face to face, practically nose to nose since he didn’t back up when I opened my car door. “And stop mumbling. Speak with clarity if that’s how you truly feel. Be a man who stands behind his words. Men who mumble are weak and afraid. Are you afraid of me, Frank?”
“I could never be afraid of you,” he says, looking me directly in the eyes. His face is solemn, without a hint of emotion on it. His forehead wrinkles slightly, but his stance is strong and commanding. He towers above me, but I don’t feel small near him. We went from teasing to angry in less than ten seconds flat.
I glance at the clock on my dashboard. “I’m late,” I advise him, placing my hand on the door handle to pull it open. His warm hand covers mine, while the other grabs my waist. His chest presses me back against the passenger window of my car. His hand on my waist glides up and sweeps the side of my breast, before wrapping around my throat. He leans in and presses
his lips to mine.
I can taste the glaze of the donut on his lips, as his beard scrapes the sensitive skin on my cheek. He takes the kiss deeper as I get lost in tasting the sugar on his tongue. Our tongues mingle and entwine softly; he gently sucks on mine, pulling it into his mouth more fully. His thumb caresses my cheek as his other hand moves up to squeeze my hip more firmly. I can feel his hard-on against my belly and my knees buckle. He grips my hip harder, holding me upright.
My arms snake up to hold him to me, clinging for more of his kiss. He’s a strong man. I can feel the corded muscles of his shoulders as he continues to nip at my lips. His forehead presses into mine, before burying his face deep in my hair, nuzzling my neck. He sighs, and his warm breath flutters the hair on my neck, warming me. His chest expands in a deep inhale, “Honeysuckle,” he breathes, before pulling away and walking across the parking lot. He never looks back at me.
I lean against my car dazed and slightly confused. This man is a walking, talking contradiction. He hates me, he likes me, and he wants me— all at once. Beware the many moods of Frank Rex.
He walks to the far corner of the lot and enters a gate before disappearing within. Is that where he lives? I should march over there and demand some answers, but I’m running really late now. And besides, I will get my answers tonight. That is, of course, if he’s still coming to the wedding. Shit, smacking myself on the forehead, I could have asked him that.
I peel out of the parking lot determined to thoroughly think about what the hell just happened and figure out if I can get it to happen again, but first, I have a wedding to get to.
Unfortunately, my mind won’t let him go. He’s the first man that’s ever made me feel weak and wanton at the same time. My mind is buzzing on the business level of how to please him for Aran’s wedding to be the best it can be, and on the personal level with how to please him by being the best woman I can be. The question is: Can I do both at the same time?