The Wedding War

by Talley, Liz

  All those dumb inspirational posters had sold them a load of crap. Except the “hang in there” one with the kitten. That one was totally worth the $5.99 she’d spent at Spencer’s.

  When Tennyson had come home for fall break after having spent all summer and fall in Manhattan, everything had been fine. She, Kit, and Melanie fell into what they’d always been, with Kit doting on her and Melanie being their third wheel. But when she’d come home for Christmas, she’d known something was wrong. Her boyfriend and her best friend looked guilty. Correction: Melanie looked guilty. Finally, drunk on Zima at a New Year’s Eve party, Melanie had admitted that she and Kit had (gasp!) kissed after the fall party. She was sorry. Tears ensued. Tennyson may have slapped her best friend, and in turn, Melanie had begged Tennyson to forgive her and promised it would never happen again. Kit seemed to be unaware that Tennyson knew he’d made a mistake with Melanie. His kisses were just as sweet, but Tennyson knew deep down things were changing, and she was afraid.

  When she was in Manhattan, her old life was far away, but when she was home, she wasn’t ready to let Kit go. She did everything she could to bind Kit to her, even going all the way with him, something he’d been begging her for since they’d started dating in high school. It had been beautiful, just what she’d imagined even though she’d promised she wouldn’t have sex until she was married. She’d signed that pledge and worn the purity ring her daddy had given her when she’d turned sixteen. Of course, she’d upheld that vow until that night . . . unless oral counted. The lines were blurry on if going down on one another was really sex.

  But after they’d done the deed, Kit broke up with her. Oh, he did it in a gentle, “it’s not you, it’s me” manner. Essentially, he felt they didn’t need to wait on each other and needed the freedom to pursue their own lives. Yeah. He was sorry, but it was time they move on. Tennyson hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, but it had. And, like, he couldn’t have done that before they’d spent the entire break together having sex that violated her purity vow?

  When she went back to NYC after the holidays, she made a new vow to herself—she was done with old things. Kit had been right about one thing—time to move on. She started accepting party invites, tried some things she shouldn’t, and ended up in bed with a few guys she should have never slept with. She tried like hell to forget who she’d been and find a new Tennyson, one who was modern, sophisticated, and never going back to Shreveport.

  Yet now here she was, looking at Melanie, accepting that her only child would be marrying her ex–best friend’s daughter. Thirty years ago both women would have been ecstatic to know their offspring would marry. Today, not so much.

  “I know it’s not funny or ideal, but our two kids are in love, Melly,” she said, finally responding to Melanie’s statement.

  “Don’t call me Melly. You don’t get to call me that anymore. After what you did to me—to my family—you don’t get to act like we’re friends. We’re not. And never will be.” Melanie dropped the cigarette and ground it out with her sensible kitten heel. Then she stooped, picked up the butt, and shoved it under a potted plant.

  Tennyson bit her lip because, again, that was so Melanie. Of course she hid anything bad she did. That was her way. Always toeing the line. Always the status quo. Never going after what she really wanted.

  Except that one time. When she went after Kit. And got him.

  “Fine.” Tennyson took a drag, not really liking the way the tar burned her lungs but not willing to smoke less than what Melanie had. “I will call you Melanie, or would you rather me call you Mrs. Layton?”

  The look Melanie shot her was withering. “I don’t care. Just clean up your dog’s mess.”

  Then the woman who she’d thought would always be her bestie spun on her heel and went back to her friends and family, leaving Tennyson to finish her smoke and somehow clean up dog shit without a scoop, shovel, or paper towel. Such was the story of her life.

  An hour later when Tennyson pulled away from the Laytons’ perfectly tasteful house, she desperately needed a drink. She’d endured the remainder of the party, talking to Coco, who was about as interesting a person as Tennyson had ever met. Coco had been a Rockette back in the day and married an investment banker who’d come home to manage his family’s estate. She spoke three languages and owned a Picasso. She also hinted that she was into swinging, which was admirable for a septuagenarian. No one else approached Tennyson, but she received a lot of guarded looks. Especially from Anne Brevard, Melanie’s mother. The tiny Japanese woman had watched her all night, her gaze obsidian chips of sheer hate.

  Well, ol’ Annie had good cause, she supposed.

  Tennyson had never liked Melanie’s mother—she was cold, critical, and used her money to buy advantage for her daughters, but what Tennyson had done to her and to Mel’s family had been wrong. Still, it wasn’t like Anne hadn’t deserved what she’d gotten. She had. But it shouldn’t have been done out of revenge or spite.

  When she pulled into her driveway, she was surprised to find a Toyota 4Runner sitting in the drive. Perhaps one of Emma’s or Andrew’s friends? The kids would probably be home much later. She overheard them planning to go out and have drinks after the party.

  She passed the darkened car, weaving her cute red Mercedes coupe into the garage, immediately closing the garage door before she climbed out of her locked car. Living in the city had made her cautious. Not to mention the raccoon break-in from a month ago had revived the doubt of living in a house alone. Prada popped her head out of Tennyson’s bag as if to say we’re here? The little dog gave a yippy yawn and pawed the side of the bag.

  “Okay, out you come,” she said, lifting the puppy once the garage door settled against the slab and climbing out. When she entered the house, she deactivated the alarm and set Prada on the floor, hoping the dog wouldn’t do her business before she had a chance to take her outside.

  Just as she set her purse on the counter, the doorbell rang.

  She shouldn’t be as nervous as she felt. Perhaps it was because the whole night had been unsettling. When she’d dressed to kill earlier, she’d been determined to take the high road, play the charming mother of the groom, and work the room as only she could do when her mind was right. And things had been good until she saw Kit with Charlotte, and her “cheating” antennae rose a few inches. Then once she’d shown her boobs to the room and watched the cake crash to the floor, she’d gone into survival mode.

  Clacking to the door, she peeped through the hole, very aware that if a murderer were on the other side, he’d shoot through the door and kill her. Common ploy in action films. Use the peephole advantage.

  But on the other side of the door stood Officer Rhett.

  Tennyson fluffed her hair and opened the door. “Officer Rhett.”

  “Hi, Mrs. . . . uh. Or is it Miss?” he asked, his face so serious. She wondered how a man could always look so grave. And then she remembered the one time he’d smiled. It was almost orgasmic. And now Officer Yummy stood on her front porch, wearing his uniform very well.

  “It’s Tennyson, remember?” she said, opening the door wider. Prada toddled toward them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  He looked discomfited. “I’m off duty.”

  She looked out at his car. “So I see.”

  “I thought I would check on you. I told you I would. Remember?”

  Something sweet bloomed inside her as she realized his “I’ll check on you” was the same ploy she’d used when she called him about the “dangerous” black bag the pool guy had left behind. Hot Cop had wanted to see her.

  “Oh, well, that’s awfully nice of you. Would you like to come in? I just got home. Maybe you could check for rabid raccoons?” She smiled to show she was joking. She’d been keeping her windows firmly locked.

  “I don’t have . . . I mean, I was just stopping by . . .” He seemed unsure how to play the fact he’d come by. She liked his uncertainty. It was endearing. And somehow hotter.

>   “Since you’re off duty, how about a drink? A beer?”

  He narrowed his eyes as if he were considering what that would mean. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I know it’s not necessary, dutiful public servant. Still, you’ve been so patient with me. Surely, I owe you something,” she said, stepping back, knowing full well her words were suggestive and liking the way that made her feel.

  “I guess a drink wouldn’t hurt,” he said, stepping inside.

  She tried not to huff him because that might scare him. Instead she let her gaze wander over the body brushing against her own. Joseph was a big guy, all muscle, but not absurdly so. Just in the way that made women wonder what his uniform shirt hid from view. Okay, and maybe the pants, too. His hair was too short. She bet it curled a little when it was longer, making him look softer, more approachable. That was probably why he kept it short. His pretty eyes were wary and his jaw somewhat scruffy. Uniform shirt tucked tight into pants that could have been tighter. Lord, he’d make a fine-ass motorcycle cop. She’d keep that fantasy in her head because it was a good one.

  “So beer? I also have vodka and can whip up a mean vodka tonic,” she said, sauntering toward the kitchen.

  She felt his eyes on her and allowed her hips to sway a bit more than natural. She was very glad she’d worn the Marchesa Notte dress that fit her perfectly now that she had lost a few extra pounds.

  “A bottled water would be fine. What happened to your dress?” he asked when she reached the kitchen and opened the fridge. She grabbed a Perrier, wishing he’d gone for something stronger. The man could use a little loosening up. The man could use a lot of loosening up. And maybe she was just the woman to do it.

  “Oh, well, a bit of a catastrophe at my son’s engagement party,” she said, glancing down to make sure the safety pin was keeping everything in place. Her almost DD breasts were doing a great job of holding the dress up by themselves. She felt Officer Rhett’s eyes on her girls, too.

  He jerked his gaze to hers when she looked at him.

  “You have a son who’s old enough to get married?” he asked.

  “I had him when I was twelve, so . . . ,” she joked.

  His forehead crinkled almost adorably.

  She handed him the Perrier, and he looked at it like she’d just handed him a tampon. “I’m joking. He’s twenty-three. I had him when I was young, but not twelve. You don’t like Perrier?”

  “Never had it.”

  “I have tap water. Totally paid the bill this month.”

  Officer Rhett smiled, and she felt it in her girl parts. Jesus, the man had some power in that smile. It turned him into a total panty-dropper. He opened his sparkling water, and Tennyson busied herself pouring a vodka on the rocks. Who needed tonic? Extra calories.

  “I’m fine, and I’m just saying that you look much too young to have a child getting married,” he said, raising the bottle and taking a long draft.

  His throat muscles working to swallow were even sexy. Damn, she’d never found a guy drinking mineral water so hot. Of course, she wasn’t sure she’d ever been with a guy who requested water when she offered booze. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Officer Rhett.”

  “You can call me Joseph,” he said, setting the bottle on the marble and looking at her with amusement.

  “Not Joe?”

  He shook his head. “That’s what my mom called me.”

  No further explanation.

  “Okay, then, Joseph, would you mind stepping onto the patio? I need to let Prada out to do her business before I put her in her kennel for the night.” She indicated with a nod of her head the double French doors.

  He walked to the door, unlatched it, and slid it open. Tennyson scooped up Prada, who was sitting at her feet staring up adoringly, and went out into the night. Summer had arrived, bringing a hefty dose of humidity that made her hair curl. She hadn’t missed the frizziness that Louisiana brought to her hairstyles, that was for damned sure. But she liked the soft nights with the still darkness and quiet streets. So peaceful.

  “Getting warm,” he commented as she clacked over to the grass and set Prada down. The full moon cast an oyster glow over the oasis of the backyard. The landscape design firm had already begun work, bringing in large potted plants and pulling out scraggly azaleas and replacing them with lush knockout roses. A partially built retaining wall leveled the yard into neat sections that with the addition of slate steps would make all areas accessible during the shower she would throw for Emma and Andrew at the end of June. She had three weeks to get everything done. Three weeks to make Melanie’s party look like chump change.

  Somehow that was comforting.

  She needed to beat Melanie at this wedding thing.

  “It is getting warm. I forgot how quickly the heat’s turned on in Louisiana,” she responded to Joseph.

  He stood framed against the pot lights of her patio. His face was shrouded in the darkness, but his hunky form was starkly outlined. “Where did you live before moving here?”

  “I’m actually from here. Grew up about a mile that way in Broadmoor. Had a nice view of all the big houses in South Highlands.”

  “Really.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah, I sort of lost my accent. When I graduated high school, I moved to NYC and never really looked back. I still have a place in Manhattan. Another in Winter Park, Colorado. I’ve lived in Paris for a year, Rio for six months, and a small island off the coast of Maine. Now I’m back here. Go figure.”

  Joseph shoved his free hand into his pocket, sipped his beverage, and eyed her. “Why?”

  “Why Shreveport?” Loaded question. “My son just moved here. His fiancée, soon to be wife, is attending medical school. She’s from here, and Andrew has always romanticized the South. He used to spend a few weeks every summer here with my parents, climbing trees, catching crawdads, and generally running hog wild. He longed for this place, weirdly enough. Honestly, I believe Emma being from Shreveport was half the initial attraction to her. He latched on.”

  “Huh.”

  Joseph wasn’t much for conversation. He reminded her of her father—a man of few words. She waited while Prada waddled back and looked up expectantly. The damned dog wanted to be carried around like a princess. Tennyson sighed and stooped down, picking up the pup. When she did, a strap popped loose. “Crap.”

  “What?”

  “My dress is . . .” She tugged the spaghetti strap, ripping it from the dress. It could damned well be a strapless dress now. The other strap hung uselessly. She left it for later, afraid the ripping sound on the other side had done irreparable damage. “There.”

  “Are you tearing your clothes off? Do I need to remind you I have an obligation to protect the public from indecency?” he asked, his voice holding humor.

  She turned around. “Are you making a joke, Officer Rhett?”

  He shrugged. “I have a sense of humor.”

  “Where do you hide it? That uniform looks tight,” she said, adding a flirt to her voice because why the hell not? She hadn’t been with a man in so long she’d forgotten how they tasted, felt beneath her fingers, or did weird things like leave the toilet seat up. No, she wouldn’t mind taking a spin on Joseph Rhett at all.

  She walked past him and noted his cheeks looked slightly flushed, but his eyes looked hungry.

  Good.

  She waited at the door, and as he stepped through, he said, “I didn’t say I need protection, did I?”

  He dropped his eyes to where the dress strap hung loose. Then the good officer reached out and gave it a tug before slipping back into the house. She closed the door, her body suddenly warm, her breathing slightly off-kilter.

  Joseph Rhett was definitely a pro at playing the seduction game. Thing was, Tennyson loved playing that game. Even more so, she loved winning that game. Because in this particular game there really wouldn’t be a loser. Not if she could actually get that man where she wanted him.

  Under her. />
  She clacked off, and with a quick kiss near the bow on Prada’s head, she shoved her pup into the fancy kennel in the laundry room. She’d considered letting the pup sleep with her, but then had a nightmare in which she rolled over on the dog and killed it. So kennel for Prada. She switched on the noise-canceling machine sitting on the granite counter and closed the door.

  Joseph stood behind her, and she bumped into him. He reached out to steady her, causing little darts of pleasure to shimmy up her spine. She almost leaned back into him. Instead, she bent slightly as if she were listening for the little dog’s whimpers and intentionally brushed her ass against his fly.

  She felt his shock before straightening and walking back into the kitchen. “Can I get you something else, Officer . . . I mean, Joseph?”

  By his expression she knew she was playing with fire, and it felt good to feel like the old Tennyson, the one who knew how to control her world and make decisions that were, if not smart, hers alone. But that wasn’t true. The decisions made were hers. Perhaps her discontent was more about feeling like she was floating with no true anchor. She’d come back to Shreveport and had done nothing more but move in and watch Netflix for days. Of course, the wedding would occupy a lot of her time over the summer, but what next?

  Joseph set his nearly empty bottle on the counter and moved toward her.

  Anticipation hummed in her belly.

  Please. Please. Please.

  He drew close enough for her to see his pores, for her to smell the piney, masculine, yummy scent that was his alone, for her to hear his breathing, which was a little uneven. Leaning toward her, very close, he said, “Better not. I have to drive home. Maybe next time.”

  Joseph moved past her toward the front door. Momentary disappointment blanketed her, but then he turned and gave her a half smile that was so sexy, she almost squeezed her legs together. His gaze moved down, taking her in. “If you need me, you have my number.”

  She glanced involuntarily at the cute corkboard mounted above the built-in desk in the kitchen. Officer Joseph Rhett’s card was pinned right in the center. “I do have your number, Joseph.”