Читать книгу Every Woman's Fantasy - Vicki Lewis Thompson - Страница 7

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you did it again.”

Mark O’Grady glanced across the table littered with peanut shells and a couple of half-empty beer bottles. His very pissed-off best man Sam Cavanaugh, who’d uttered those words of disgust, sat across from him, still dressed in his tux. So was Mark. Going back to his apartment to change had seemed too risky.

Fortunately he and Sam were the only ones of their crowd who patronized this little bar in downtown Houston. Their friends considered it too shabby, which was fine with Sam and Mark, who had designated it their special hidey-hole ever since they’d been old enough to drink legally. And Mark needed a place to hide…again.

He tried to come up with something to say to Sam, but he couldn’t think of a damned thing. He was slime. Somebody should just shoot him.

“Ten minutes before the processional! Ten friggin’ minutes. How could you do that?”

“It was her cell phone,” Mark said.

“What do you mean, her cell phone? I fail to see how anything about a cell phone could cause you to back out of your wedding ten minutes before the ceremony. If Deborah hadn’t smashed her wedding bouquet in your face, I would have done it for her!”

Mark gazed at his long-suffering friend. “You’re right. It was horrible, and I should have figured it out sooner. We’d had some big arguments about how much she used that phone. She took it everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and it’s not like the calls were critical or anything. Most of them sounded like a lot of gossip to me. But I kept thinking it was a small issue. I could deal.”

“It is a small issue. The woman has friends. She likes to talk to them on the phone. If you love somebody, you put up with a few things that aren’t perfect about them.” Sam gave him another disgusted look before taking a swallow of his beer and setting it on the table with a clunk. “God knows you’re a long way from being perfect.”

“You’ve got that right.” Mark turned his beer bottle around and around in his hands. “And I told myself all that. I thought I was fine with her cell phone habit. Then, remember how we were going up to the altar to take our places, and we passed by that room where Deb and her bridesmaids were waiting, and the door was open?”

“Yeah, I most certainly do. Because that’s when you lost it and called the whole thing off.”

“There she was, in her wedding dress, looking gorgeous, and she had that damned cell phone to her ear, jabbering away to somebody. I couldn’t even imagine who she’d find to talk to! Every person she knew was sitting in the church!”

“That is kind of amazing, when you think about it,” Sam conceded. “Maybe she was talking to somebody who was in the church, someone who also had their cell phone turned on.”

“No doubt! And I don’t want any part of that! I saw our whole married life dominated by that thing. The wedding night, the honeymoon, the delivery room when we had a kid, the family vacations, the visits to the folks. I mean, if she had to talk on the phone ten minutes before we were about to say our vows, then nothing was sacred.”

Sam blew out a breath. “Okay, I can see your point. I wouldn’t like that prospect myself, but I sure as hell wish you’d figured all this out sooner.”

“So do I.”

Leaning both arms on the table, Sam trained his no-nonsense look, the one he used to intimidate juries, on Mark. “In case you’ve lost count, this is the fifth time this has happened. None of your friends except yours truly will show up anymore. Even your mother refuses the invitations. Is it possible you don’t want to get married?”

Mark had given that considerable thought himself. He’d been raised by a single mother who’d divorced his father when Mark was two. She’d never remarried, and when he was old enough to ask about that, she’d told him she found marriage too confining and time-consuming.

Because she was all he had, he’d tried to see things her way. But he couldn’t help envying kids like Sam, who had a cozy family with two parents and a bunch of noisy siblings. Finally he’d decided he couldn’t agree with his mother. Although the single life might suit her, he wanted to find a woman to share his life and be the mother of their kids.

He met Sam’s gaze. “I do want to get married. It’s divorce I want to avoid.”

“At this rate you’ll never have to worry about divorce, old buddy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the can. You can sort through your options while I’m gone.”

Mark watched his friend leave. Sam appeared to be in no rush to get married, and yet the guy was extremely eligible. With his dark blond mustache and lean good looks, he was often mistaken for Alan Jackson. Plus he was a successful lawyer and drove a beautifully restored red ’57 Chevy that always drew attention. Yet he’d only been engaged once, and that hadn’t lasted more than two months before they’d both decided they weren’t right for each other.

Obviously Sam wasn’t desperate to create a family for himself because he’d had that growing up. Mark had hungered for that kind of stability ever since he could remember. But he wasn’t any closer to getting it than he had been seven years ago, when he’d proposed to Hannah, his first fiancée. Something had to change, but he didn’t know what.

The waitress came by and he ordered another round. Then he called her back. “Add a shooter to the beer,” he said. “No, wait. Five shooters.” It seemed like a fitting number.

The waitress blinked. “Five? All at once?”

“Yep.” Mark held up his hand, fingers spread. “And you might as well bring five for my buddy, too.” When the waitress continued to stare at him, he added, “We’ll both be taking cabs home, so don’t worry.”

With a nod, the waitress left.

Mark decided if he couldn’t figure out how to fix his sorry situation, he might as well get drunk with Sam. He could bail his Lexus out of the parking garage in the morning.

An extra few hours of parking expense was nothing compared to the bills he had run up with these five canceled weddings. In each case, he’d let his fiancées keep the rings and even go on the honeymoon if they could find somebody else to go along. Three had taken that option, and two had said they’d rather rot in hell. Deb had been one of those.

On top of that, Mark had covered the cost of the reception and other incidentals. He hadn’t wanted his fiancées or their families to suffer financially, considering they’d be suffering emotionally. If he hadn’t brokered his talent for playing the stock market into a lucrative career, he’d really be in the poorhouse. As it was, the weddings had eaten up any financial gains he’d made.

With that depressing thought, he started on the shooters the waitress had brought.

Sam took quite a while returning, and when he finally did, he eyed the shot glasses lined up on the table. “I take it the number is significant?”

Mark had already polished off three of his. “You betcha. Pull up a seat and get started. You’re behind. What took you so long?”

“The waitress stopped me to ask if we were in here for the same reason as the last couple of times. I had to offer her ten bucks to keep her from coming over here and pouring a pitcher of beer on your head.”

“Thanks.” The shooters were starting to kick in, slowly taking the tension out of his body. Ah, this was much better.

Sam sat down and threw a magazine on the table. “I found some interesting reading material in the john,” he said. “I think this might be the answer.”

Mark tossed down the fourth shooter and picked up the magazine. “Texas Men?” He leafed through the ads for eligible bachelors, then glanced over at Sam and grinned. He was getting very relaxed, relaxed enough to find Sam’s gesture hilarious. “Sorry to dis’ppoint you, but I’m stickin’ with girls.”

“You are so dense. No wonder you’re such a mess. I’m suggesting we put you in that magazine.”

“Why?” Mark was beginning to feel really goofy. “So I can rack up more broken engagements? Get in the Guinness Book of World Records?”

“No, the exact opposite. I’m trying to prevent another broken engagement. Here’s what we’ll—”

“Hey. I’ll be a monk. Should’ve thought of that before. Where’s the nearest monastery? I’ll turn myself in.” He picked up the last shooter. “Come on, Sammeeee. Get blitzed with me.”

“Shut up and listen. I’ve thought about this, and the reason you get engaged to the wrong women is that they’re beautiful, and so naturally you have sex with them.”

“Nat-u-ral-ly.” Mark spoke carefully so he wouldn’t slur. “Sex’s good.”

“Except underneath that swinging bachelor exterior of yours, you have old-fashioned ideas. You think because you had sex, you should get married.”

“True-de-doo-doo. And I’m grateful.” He smiled at Sam. “Sooo grateful. Women are wunnerful, Sam. They smell so good, and they feel terrific, and…I love ’em, Sam. I want to marry one of them. I really, really do.”

“You are stewed to the gills, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe that’s just as well. You’re more likely to agree to my plan if you’re pickled. Here it is—we put an ad for you in this magazine, and then we sort through the prospects and find somebody perfectly suited to you. After that you write letters for a long time. A very, very long time. And during that correspondence, you find out if they’re addicted to cell phones, or hate camping, or any of the other stupid reasons you’ve backed out.”

“Not shtupid.”

“Okay, they’re not stupid. But with this woman, you’re getting that all settled way in advance. Every possible glitch that would be a sticking point will be discussed, and analyzed, and dissected, ad nauseum.”

Mark frowned. “Don’t like writin’ letters.”

“I don’t care. I don’t frigging care!” Sam jabbed a finger at him. “This is tough-love time. You are going to write those letters, and you’ll get to know this person before you meet her, before you even think of going to bed with her. Because I know you, and once you do the nasty, you’ll propose. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah.” Mark nodded slowly, so the room wouldn’t start spinning. “I’m gonna have a pen pal.” He paused to think. “And I’m not gettin’ any for a long, lo-o-o-ng time.”