Читать книгу Tempted In Texas - HEATHER MACALLISTER, Heather Macallister - Страница 7

“THAT SAPPY LOOK is back on your face.” Gwen Kempner spoke through her teeth in order to maintain her bridesmaid’s smile—fake, but definitely not sappy. It’s not that she wasn’t happy for the bride; it’s that her happiness was grounded in a thorough knowledge of male-female relationships.

Unsuccessful ones, as it happened. Therefore, she felt no mawkish sentimentality when it came to weddings and happily ever afters. Or even happily ever afters without weddings.

Kate, her best friend and fellow bridesmaid, sighed dreamily. “Just look at her, Gwen.”

Gwen dutifully looked toward Chelsea, her other best friend, who had an equally sappy look on her face as she gazed adoringly at Zach, her new husband. Gwen decided she could spot Chelsea a sappy look or two—after all, she was the bride.

“She looks so beautiful,” Kate cooed.

Oh, no. Kate was going over to the dark side. Gwen shot her a sharp look.

“Now, Kate, we’ve talked about this. Brides look that way because they develop a special immunity to reality. They have to in order to justify the hideous cost of a dress they’ll only wear once. It wears off after they pay the ‘heirlooming’ bill from the dry cleaners.”

“But she looks so happy, Gwen. Maybe—”

“Be strong and repeat after me… I do not need a man to be happy.”

“I don’t know—did you check out the best man?”

“Of course I did. Then I imagined making beer runs for the best man and all his ex-jock friends who spend every weekend during football season reliving past glories in front of a big-screen TV he’s squeezed into my living room—and I get over it.”

“You miss the big-screen TV. Admit it.”

Kate was referring to Gwen’s last serious relationship in which she’d had to move out of her apartment in order to break up because her ex refused to move his TV, exercise equipment and stereo. She’d even abandoned her couch, which had sustained severe nacho cheese damage. Since she’d moved out on a Super Bowl Sunday he hadn’t noticed until the next day.

Kate clutched her arm. “Look! She’s going to throw the bouquet!”

“Thanks for the warning.” Gwen edged backward into the crowd of poor, deluded females who surrounded them.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Kate pulled her back to the front.

Gwen stumbled forward at the precise moment Chelsea threw the bouquet. Kate, the traitor, dropped her arm to grab for it, and Gwen fell to her knees.

The bouquet sailed over her head. There was a squeal followed by a very unladylike scuffle.

Gwen picked herself up in time to meet Chelsea’s eyes.

And froze. In her hands, Chelsea held something far more deadly than a mere bridal bouquet.

“Not the skirt!”

Chelsea hefted the black fabric and before Gwen realized she was about to throw, flung it, Frisbee-style, right toward her.

Gwen automatically held up her arms to fend off the skirt and it caught on her hand, then draped itself over her head, clinging as though glued.

“No!”

“Gwen, you’ve caught the skirt, you lucky thing.” Kate’s voice sounded behind her as Gwen snatched the skirt off her head. “And here I was going for the bouquet.”

“Wanna trade?”

“Sure, but we can’t. You know the rules.”

“Rules? There are no rules.”

“Yes, there are. You caught it, you wear it. If you don’t, it’s like breaking a chain letter or something.”

“Kate, we’re talking about a skirt.”

“And not just any skirt.”

“Yes! That’s exactly what it is—just a skirt.”

“If you can refer to a skirt that has been responsible for two women finding the men of their dreams as ‘just a skirt,’ then okay. Me, I’m a believer.”

Gwen groaned. “Not the magical power thing. Torrie just made that up. Come on, Kate.”

An unnatural quiet had descended on the group of single women who’d gathered to try to catch the bouquet. They were avidly soaking up every word.

“Is that it? The skirt Torrie said came from the island? Can I touch it?” one asked.

Someone else must have asked Kate to explain, because she immediately launched into the tale Torrie, their friend from school, had told everyone about how the women of an island spun a fabric made from a special thread. The fabric when given to a young woman of marriageable age, was guaranteed to attract her one true love. The crowd breathed a collective “oooh.”

“Yeah—I read about it in a magazine,” someone said.

What was the matter with them?

“Ladies!” Gwen snapped her fingers. “We’re in the twenty-first century here!”

They ignored her in favor of Kate, who was actually encouraging them. “…and it’s being passed from bride to bride.”

Calculating eyes turned to Gwen. “So go put it on,” someone suggested.

“Yeah. Quit wasting time,” someone else said to agreeing murmurs.

“Use the bride’s dressing room.” Kate had a look in her eyes that Gwen had never seen before. “Don’t make me wait too long for my turn.”

“Stop.”

Everyone looked toward a thirtyish woman. “If that thing’s a man magnet, then you will all understand if I remove my fiancé from the scene?”

“I don’t believe this,” Gwen murmured, but nobody heard her. They were too busy gathering their own significant others and spiriting them away from Gwen’s new irresistibility.

“Come on, Gwen.” Kate was urging her toward the changing room. “I hear the band’s booked for another hour and Chelsea’s cute cousin isn’t married.”

“Kate!” Gwen stared. “Look, I don’t want this thing. You take it.” She wadded up the fabric and tried to fling it toward her friend.

“Ow!” Her hands and arm stung. Startled, she looked down, expecting to see a red rash or something. Nothing showed, but the painful tingle continued.

“What’s the matter?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m allergic to slinky fabric. Either that or a spider or some equally disgusting creature has stung me.”

“Oh, ick!” Kate backed away.

Gwen shook out the skirt. As she did so, the subdued light caught the fabric, giving it a rich luster.

Fingering it, she noted the thick, sumptuous feel. The fabric was quality stuff. She held it up to herself and the length hovered near her knees. Not too short and not dowdily long, either.

She didn’t have so many clothes that she could just fling away a classy, basic, black skirt.

“Maybe I’ll keep it after all,” she said to Kate.

But Kate and the other guests were flowing toward the door of the penthouse, passing by two little girls who held baskets of pastel froth.

Treating the skirt with more respect, Gwen folded it and draped it over her arm. The burning and tingling had completely stopped and the skirt swayed against her arm in a sensuous ripple—almost a caress.

How weird was that?

Weird enough to give her the creeps.

Hurrying to catch up with Kate, Gwen stopped and took a net bag of birdseed to throw at Chelsea and Zach, thinking that people sure threw a lot of stuff at weddings.

Once everyone made it down to the building lobby, Kate gestured for Gwen to come stand right beside the getaway car. Bad move, because they got hit with as much birdseed as Chelsea did.

Chelsea got into the car, dragging her dress in after her. Laughing, she waved goodbye. “Just think—the next time we get together, it’ll be for Gwen’s wedding!”

Gwen tacked on her bridesmaid smile and waved. If that’s what they thought, then the three of them wouldn’t be together again for a long, long time.