“I’m not even deciding the tux myself?” I ask in irritation.
“You boys need to match, so I’m setting up the tailor, and you’ll show up for the fitting. All right? Now, I’ve got a mountain of accounting to do, and I’m sure you have clients to talk to.”
“I recognize a brush-off when I hear one.” I pick up folders from the reception desk, pretending I know what’s in them or whether they’re even for me.
Our receptionist, Sandra, a woman in her fifties with kindness in her smile but enough steel to put up with us, gives me a sympathetic glance as my mother bustles toward her office.
“Weddings are hell,” she says with authority. “I didn’t even like my own. But remember, it’s not the wedding ceremony that’s important. It’s what the ceremony represents, your marriage to Calandra.”
I huff out a breath. “That’s what I keep trying to say.”
“Don’t fight it. Grit your teeth and bear it. On the other side of the wedding, you’ll have Calandra, and she’ll have you. In the end, it really doesn’t matter if the tuxes don’t match or the flowers wilt or the cake falls.”
I tap the top of the reception desk with the folders. “You’re a wise woman, Sandra.”
“I know. Those are Austin’s sales data.”
“Oh.” I lay the folders down. “I think I’ll go into my office now and stop making a fool of myself.”
“Always best. It will be over before you know it.”
“Ha.” I say. This has already been the longest month of my life.
More time passes, and I barely see Calandra. Once in a while, we have a break from constant demands to approve the color of the napkins—which changes week to week—or to audition yet another band or taste yet another kind of cake. In these frantic moments, Calandra and I steal away to my house, making love furiously before we’re interrupted by more texts and phone calls. Where are you guys? You need to look at this.
When I’m not crushed with wedding plans, I work on the house I’ve bought us, a Mission Revival home in a historic district. I spend a lot of time up to my ears in drywall plaster and plumber’s putty, picking out cabinets and fixtures, deciding on paint color while Calandra tries on dress after dress, and the bridesmaids text me pictures.
Calandra looks beautiful in all of them. I say so. Abby’s text comes back—You’re no help at all! Followed by a laughing-until-crying emoji.
What the hell do I know about wedding gowns? Like I say, I barely notice the dress. I see Calandra’s smiling, flushed face, her mussed hair, and the sneakers she flashes while grinning at the camera.
I love her so much.
I’ll see her on the honeymoon, I tell myself. Except even our honeymoon is hijacked. Plans are being made for me to take Calandra to a tropical getaway on a Caribbean island I’d never heard of, in a huge resort, where people will wait on us hand and foot, and Calandra can spend days at the spa.
Nice of them, but it isn’t the kind of place Calandra and I like—no one believes that, by the way. They think we’re being polite.
Calandra and I are more outdoorsy, liking overnight hikes to out-of-the-way places in the countryside. We’ve seen beautiful slot canyons and hiked through parts of the Grand Canyon most people never go. We like to do stuff, not sit still and be pampered. I try to explain this to Brooke and Abby, but they stare at me like I’m crazy and don’t understand what Calandra wants at all.
Things come to a head when Calandra calls me at midnight on a Friday late in March, just as I’m settling into bed for some peace and quiet.
“Ryan.” Her voice is hard, as though she’s gritting her teeth to keep from crying. “Get me out of here. Please.” I hear her mom and cousins behind her, and know she’s been trapped at the family house.
I take two seconds to figure out what to do. I’m all about the grand gesture, and I know one is called for right now.
“Sure thing, baby. Sneak out and meet me in front. I’ll be right there.”
I make a few phone calls, and I’m gone.
Chapter Four
Calandra
Hey, Calandra, where’re you going?” Mandy calls to me as I surreptitiously exit the living room.
“Thirsty,” I say, turning my steps to the kitchen. I can leave through the back door there and circle around the house to meet Ryan.
“Me too. I’ll join you.”
To my consternation, she follows me. I do like my cousins, who are fun and spontaneous, but if Mandy sees Ryan show up, he’ll be dragged inside and subjected to more interrogation and teasing about the wedding, me, our wedding night, you name it. We’ll never get out of here.
I open the refrigerator and take out a bottle of white wine. I’ll pour Mandy a glass and send her off, lingering as though deciding what I want.
Mandy ignores the glass. “It’s a little late for wine. I know—let’s make margaritas.”
I try not to groan. Mandy and her sister have been coming and going from our house in the last month, so she’s learned where everything is in the kitchen. She slides out the blender and opens the liquor cabinet to bring out tequila. I’m instructed to find limes and salt.
I produce half a dozen limes from my mom’s well-stocked produce drawer and thump a salt grater on the counter.
“You get started,” I say. “I need to visit the lady’s.”
The oldest trick in the book. Mandy nods as she starts dumping ice into the blender, and I hurry through the crowded living room and down the hall to the bedroom wing. I turn on the light in the bathroom then glance over my shoulder.
No one is watching, so I close the bathroom door without going in and tiptoe past it to my parents’ bedroom. Thankfully, it’s empty—Mom and Dad still going strong with the guests—and I quietly unlock their patio door.
“Calandra?” Mom’s voice drifts down the hall. “Honey, you need to come see this. Calandra?”
I swallow my breath and try not to cough. I can either slither out to the patio and make a run for it, or hurry back down the hall and bang open the bathroom door like I’ve just finished my business.
“She’s taking a pee break,” Brooke says, laughter in her voice. “Has to with all this wine flowing.”
“I’m making margaritas,” Mandy yells from the kitchen. The blender whirs.
Under cover of the blender’s sound, I slide open the glass door in my parents’ bedroom, and put a foot on the patio. I get tangled up in the vertical blinds, which dance around with a muffled jangle, slapping me on the butt.
“Calandra?” My mother’s call comes again. “You all right in there?”
Laughter from my friends. More blender whirring. I manage to step over the threshold without tripping, close the door as quietly as possible, and zip toward the dark edge of the patio.
The living room patio door rushes open. “It’s so nice out,” Candy’s voice sings. “We should look at the stars.”
“Not if we’re having margaritas.” Abby’s laughter drifts to me as she steps outside. “They’ll all look like double stars.”
She chuckles, turns her head, and sees me.
We share a long glance, Abby standing under the soft porch lights, poised and pretty, as always. I’m half crouched in the flower bed at the end of the patio, like a wild rabbit trying to keep its distance.
Abby has been my best friend for years. Though she moved across town right before high school, we kept in touch, going to each other’s school dances and having sleepovers, and continued to be close. Abby knows me better than anyone.
She gazes at me a moment, then we hear the sound of a pickup purring to a stop on the other side of the back gate.
Abby opens her mouth to call out. Then she shuts it, makes a shooing motion, and turns back to the living room. “It’s a little breezy,” she says loudly. “Let’s stay inside.”
I let out a long breath of relief. I owe you one, my best friend.
I rise from my hiding place and hurry through the gate, opening and closing it very
carefully so it doesn’t squeak.
Ryan’s pickup waits in front of the house next door. I’m wilting in relief as I run toward it, glad I wore my sturdy sneakers.
Before Ryan can get out to assist me, I wrench open the passenger door and dive in, as though I’m fleeing the scene of a crime.
“Go, go, go!” I yell.
Ryan laughs his fine, rumbling laugh and pulls from the curb slowly so he won’t draw attention.
Not until we’ve turned to a busier street do I ease myself out of the ball I’ve curled into and look around. We’re on Camelback, heading in the direction of my apartment.
“I can’t go home,” I protest. “They’ll search for me at my place. They’ll be texting any minute now.”
“We’re only going there so you can pick up what you need. Then we’re outta here.”
“We are?” I gaze at Ryan in bewilderment, and then I’m caught by the sight of his strong jaw, dark hair that never lays straight, his arms in a short-sleeved shirt, muscles bunching as he rests his hands lightly on the wheel. I swallow and pull my mind back to the present situation. “Where are we going?”
“On a pre-honeymoon,” Ryan says. “I’d already set up a getaway for us if things got bad, and it sounds like they’re bad. This weekend is going to be all about the two of us, no texting from our families, no phone calls.”
Immediately, my phone buzzes. It’s Mandy, wondering where I am and if I’m okay.
“You did?” I stare at Ryan in admiration. I knew I loved him for a reason.
“Yep. Our wedding isn’t ours, and our honeymoon won’t be ours, but if you take all that away, there’s still us. The most important component of this equation.”
I rub my arms to keep from launching myself at him and hugging him hard. “You sweetheart, you.”
Ryan flashes me the smile that makes me melt every time. “I’m king of the grand gesture, love. And this is my grand gesture. Calandra Stevenson, this weekend is for you.”
I laugh, relaxing for the first time in a long while. “I’m not even going to ask where you’re taking me. I’m gonna sit back, relax, and enjoy my trip.”
Ryan has done this before—swept me away to a weekend of fun, adventure, and great times in bed. He takes me somewhere with incredible wild beauty or to a quiet house on the ocean, or if we stay in a city, a room with a view and a do-not-disturb sign.
I tingle in anticipation.
“Was it that bad?” he asks as we drive through the dark to my apartment. I live fifteen minutes from my mom and dad’s house, and tonight, that’s way too close.
“I can’t remember who brought up our wedding vows,” I tell him. “All the sudden, a marriage counselor is going to help us write them so we say the right words to cement a healthy relationship.” I drop my head into my hands. “I thought it was a drunk suggestion, a joke, but then Brooke is noting a reminder on Abby’s tablet to research marriage counselors. This is after they changed the wedding cake for the tenth time. Now it’s five tiers carved to look like a mountain with the bride and groom climbing it.”
Ryan’s laughter fills the pickup’s cab. “Your friends are nuts.”
“That suggestion came from your mom. She’s there tonight.”
His amusement dies. “Is she?” The truck speeds up. “Time to get out of town.”
At my apartment, I grab a soft overnight bag from the closet and start throwing things in—underwear, toothbrush, socks, jeans, shorts, and I change into a pair of hiking boots. Everything I’d need for a camping trip. I ponder a moment then add a nice dress and sandals. Ryan might be taking me to a hotel. I don’t want to ruin his surprise, but it’s hard to pack for the unknown.
He’s not raiding the refrigerator for water or snacks, which might mean we’re flying somewhere. I add small bottles of shampoo and travel toothpaste.
As we depart, the door next to mine on the landing opens and my neighbor, Elaine, steps out. She’s about twenty years older than me, divorced with a grown daughter, and works a lot.
“Where are you two rushing off to in the middle of the night?” she asks. “Eloping?” She grins, her tired face lighting.
“Not yet,” Ryan says. “Just some R&R. Do us a favor—if anyone comes looking, we’re fine, and we’ll see them later.”
Elaine eyes us up and down then winks at me. “Gotcha.”
“Appreciate it,” I say breathlessly.
“Take care, now. You want to make it to your wedding.”
“Oh, we’ll be there,” Ryan vows. “Good night.”
“Good night you two. I never saw you.” Elaine retreats inside and locks the door. We hear her soft laughter.
Ryan leads the way down the outside stairs, a floodlight glowing yellow in the darkness, to where he’s left his truck parked in my designated space. In a few minutes, we’re on the road. I’m correct that we’ll be taking a plane, because Ryan pulls into an offsite parking lot on Forty-Fourth Street and hails a courtesy shuttle to take us to the main airport.
The airport is surprisingly quiet as we walk through the wide concourse to security. There’s only a small line, and we’re soon through. I follow Ryan to the gate and see the name of our destination. Reno.
“Reno?” I say as we take a seat to wait for the plane. “A sudden desire to play blackjack? If so, Las Vegas is closer.”
Ryan contrives to look mysterious. “I never said Reno was our final stop.”
“Hmm. Intriguing.”
I truly am curious. Ryan doesn’t gamble and he’s not into the twenty-four hour party lifestyle, so I doubt we’ll be whooping it up in Reno. He’ll sometimes go with his brothers to Vegas and have fun at the shows, but he retreats to his room and calls me or sleeps while Zach and Austin hit the bars. Austin grumbles that Ryan’s too sensible and dependable, but Ryan’s just understated. I always have a fine time with him.
The plane arrives and we board. Ryan has booked us first-class seats, the sweetheart. We sip champagne while the rest of the plane loads and have another once we’re in the air. Or, I do, but Ryan sticks with water. This signals to me he plans to drive once we land.
An hour and a half after we take off, we’re landing at the small airport in Reno. We don’t need to wait for luggage as we carried on what little we brought with us. Ryan takes me to the rental car counter, and here we run into our first snag.
“I reserved an SUV,” Ryan says to the rental car clerk when the man shoves a contract for a compact sedan over the counter to Ryan.
The clerk types on his computer and shakes his head. “All the SUVs are out. None coming in until Monday. We can’t always guarantee you’ll get a specific vehicle.”
Ryan’s annoyed, but he signs the contract. “Doesn’t matter. It’s wheels to get from A to B.”
The car turns out to be very small. The description, sedan, is optimistic, but compact is on the nose. But we don’t have much stuff, so we shove our bags into the trunk and squeeze ourselves into the front seats.
“Now will you tell me where we’re going?” I ask brightly.
Dawn is breaking. It’s cold, but bracing, a relief after the 90-degree March heatwave that had hit Phoenix.
Ryan grins at me as he starts the car. “Tahoe, baby.”
“Oh.” I give a little hop of pleasure. Lake Tahoe and surrounding mountains and woods are beautiful. I know Ryan must have booked us into some gorgeous mountain retreat, not a giant hotel and casino.
He drives onto the I-80 and heads out of Reno to Truckee, where he turns south to the California side of the lake. The sun rises, brushing the mountains with pinks, oranges, and purples. It’s so beautiful that tears prick my eyes. Ryan always knows exactly what I need.
Ryan had texted our families when we landed to say we were fine but leave us alone, and then we turned off the ringers and put the phones in the bags when we got into the car. Now there was blessed silence and the immensity of the land and the looming Sierras.
We drive up into the mountains, the lake fall
ing away on our left, the sun rising over it. There’s snow here at six-thousand plus feet in March. The road is clear, but there’s plenty on the ground.
“It’s a small resort,” Ryan explains. “We have a little cabin right at the foot of several trails. If there’s enough snow we can snowshoe, and if not, we can hike. And then have a nice dinner in a restaurant. Just you and me.”
He winks at me, and my body heats. It’s been a while since we’ve been truly alone, no hurried lovemaking in the dark between texts from our families.
A wave of cold hits me, and I shiver. “I didn’t bring a coat. Is this thing working?” I toggle the heat, but only a tiny trickle of warm air emerges.
“There’s a gear shop near the resort. We’ll stop there and buy jackets and things.” Ryan shrugs. “It’ll be a little colder than we’re used to, but we’ll get a fire going in the cabin and snuggle up.”
I shiver again, but in delight. “Sounds like bliss.”
The road winds up and down hills, revealing spectacular views before plunging once more into deep woods. We pass entrances to large resorts, which are open year-round—for skiing in the winter, lake sports in the summer, and pure beauty in all seasons.
The sports supply store in a small town has barely opened for the day when we stop to buy jackets and sweatshirts more appropriate to the climate. When you live in hot country, you get slack about owning coats and heavy clothes.
“Too slushy for snowshoeing,” the guy at the counter informs us. He’s a big, beefy older man with massively muscled arms. “Too slushy for much hiking either.” He shrugs large shoulders. “A couple months from now, hiking will be great.”
“This is kind of a last-minute, emergency getaway.” Ryan grins. “We’ll just enjoy the scenery.”
“Supposed to have some snow today,” the man says as he rings up our purchases. “If it’s powdery enough, might be good for a last run on the slopes or snowshoeing the back country.”
He sounds dubious, but I hadn’t rushed here so I could snowshoe. I’ve come to be with Ryan, to enjoy time alone, away from the wedding frenzy.
Give Me One Night (McLaughlin Brothers Book 4) Page 3