Читать книгу Do You Take This Baby? - Wendy Warren - Страница 8
ОглавлениеOne little mistake. That’s what Gemma Gould had made. One little mistake...that she was going to pay for the rest of her life.
“Beer or Bellini?” she muttered, keeping her head lowered as she manned the bar set up in her parents’ backyard. Today’s coed bridal shower for her youngest sister, Elyse, was turning into her own worst nightmare.
“Let’s go, everyone.” Elyse’s maid of honor stood at the Goulds’ sliding glass door and clapped her hands. “Grab your burgers and your drinks and head to the family room. Elyse’s episode of That’s My Gown! is about to begin.” The announcement made Gemma’s blood curdle in her veins.
Perspiration trickled down her back, hot and damp and sickening. Maybe she could say they were out of peach nectar for the Bellinis and that she had to run to the market. For about three days. Or better yet, she could fake an appendicitis attack—total rupture—and disappear for a week or more.
Nine months ago, Elyse had insisted that Gemma accompany her on a trip to New York to shop for a wedding gown (the selection on the West Coast being far too limited), and they ran into one of Elyse’s college friends who, as it turned out, was working as a producer on the TV show That’s My Gown! The next thing Gemma knew, she was Elyse’s “entourage,” tasked with the responsibility of murmuring “ooh” and “aah” as Elyse modeled an endless parade of gorgeous wedding gowns. Simple.
Only it hadn’t gone so well.
“I’ll have a Bellini, please,” requested the sweet, high voice belonging to one of Elyse’s eleven bridesmaids, “and could you hurry, Gemma? I missed the episode when it aired on TV. I hear it’s a hoot!”
Gemma smiled with her teeth gritted. Yeah, it’s a hoot, all right. Pouring a slushy, Creamsicle-hued drink into a stemmed glass, she passed it over the portable bar. “There you go, Collette.”
“Thanks,” chirped the tiny brunette. “You’re such a good sport to let Elyse show the episode today.” She reached a toned arm across the top of the bar to grasp Gemma’s shoulder meaningfully. “You know, it’s very powerful the way you two have decided to embrace humiliation and turn it into something super fun. You’re an inspiration.”
Gemma gaped at the girl. “Thanks.”
Scooping ice into the blender and pressing Crush while Collette hurried away, Gemma kept her gaze averted from the guests who were streaming toward the family room.
The fact was, until someone mentioned it ten minutes ago, she’d had no idea the episode was going to play on her parents’ fifty-two-inch plasma TV during the bridal shower that she was cohosting.
All of her family and plenty of the other people here had already seen the episode. It had been the talk of the town when it first aired on TV. And in a town as small and, lately, as wedding-obsessed as Thunder Ridge, she and Elyse had become instant celebrities.
Morosely, she watched the blender chop the hapless ice cubes into tiny shards. I know just how you feel. She’d heard all the witty comments about her appearance on the show—that she, always the bridesmaid and never the bride, must have been suffering from PTBS—post-traumatic bridesmaid’s syndrome. Or that, at almost thirty-four, she’d had a “senior moment” on TV. And of course there were the people who felt “just horrible for poor Elyse,” whose big sister had fallen dead asleep (and actually snored) while Elyse was sashaying along the runway in her very favorite gown.
Yep, Gemma had nodded off, snored, probably even drooled a little on a national TV show. The cameraman had caught her catnap—and Elyse’s outrage—on-screen. The show added thought bubbles and sound effects in postproduction, making it appear as if Gemma had fallen into a stupor after a few too many strawberry margaritas at brunch and suggesting that Elyse was a bridezilla, just waiting for her sister to wake up so she could smack her unconscious again.
Good times.
After loudly sobbing out her humiliation, Elyse had decided to face the episode head-on, showing everyone she was rising to the occasion by laughing at it herself. Nonetheless, Gemma had been making amends for ruining Elyse’s fifteen minutes of fame ever since.
“If you’re trying to show that ice who’s boss, I’d say you’ve succeeded.”
The deep, amused voice made every muscle in Gemma’s body go rigid. Oh, no. Noooo. She had known, of course, that Ethan Ladd was on the guest list for this afternoon’s party, but he was in town so rarely that she hadn’t expected him to show up.
Go away. She turned the blender up a notch, and the noise was satisfyingly obnoxious.
“Seriously? You’re going to pretend I’m not here?”
“Not at all. I’m pretending I can’t hear you.” She dropped several more ice cubes down the safety spout in the blender’s lid. The crunch was deafening.
A tanned hand reached over the bar and into her space. Involuntarily, she jumped back as Ethan managed to switch off the blender.
The nerve.
He was taller than her by at least ten inches and outweighed her by...what? Five, maybe six pounds?
Joke. She wasn’t that heavy. But having been pudgy throughout her childhood and teenage years, she’d learned there were people who appreciated her “curves” and others who thought she could drop a few pounds.
Keeping her head lowered, she felt rather than saw Ethan wag his head as he stared down at her. “Genius IQ, and ignoring me is the best you can do?” He clucked his tongue.
“I don’t have a genius IQ. And I’m not ignoring you,” she lied, her voice as tight as her muscles. “I’m concentrating on the job at hand.”
“You always were a perfectionist,” he said dryly. It didn’t sound like a compliment. “I think you’ve lost your customer base for now, though. Except for me. I’ll take a soda. Please,” he added after a beat.
She inclined her head to the left. “They’re in the cooler. Help yourself.”
“I was hoping for some ice.”
“In the cooler.” She still didn’t look at him. Could not look at him. Because looking at Ethan Ladd had always been her downfall. Like kryptonite to Superman, an eyeful of Ethan Ladd could turn Gemma into goo, marshmallow fluff, overcooked linguine—a squishy, messy mound of something that wasn’t remotely useful.
“I’ll help myself,” Ethan said sardonically and moved away from her line of vision.
Gemma grabbed a dish towel and mopped at the water pooling around the blender, her mind racing a mile a minute. When she’d gotten dressed for the evening, she’d felt perfectly confident about her outfit—a sweet 1950s-style red-and-white polka-dot dress with a cinched waist and full skirt. She’d paired the vintage piece with red patent-leather peep-toe pumps and wound a yellow scarf, headband-like, around her dark brown hair. Now she wondered if she should have opted for something more trendy or sedate.
Dang it. Ethan freaking Ladd—on today of all days, when she was already the underdog.
Refusing to glance in his direction, she listened to him root around in the cooler, heard the ice clatter as he withdrew his soda and the click of his no doubt expensive shoes as he walked across her daddy’s stone pavers to where she stood, all her senses on red alert, at the bar.
“’Scuse me, Gem.” Directly behind her, he reached around her frozen-in-place body to grab a glass, his shirt brushing the back of her shoulder. Silky shirt...bare shoulder. Her heart flopped like a defibrillated fish. Then his right arm came around, and he grasped the handle of the blender. “I like my ice crushed.”
Was it her imagination or did he deliberately brush against her a second time?
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked as he shook the frosty shards into his glass, then replaced the blender. Moving to her left, he opened the soda and poured, leaning one hip against her work space.
That’s when Gemma made her fatal mistake: she looked up, and there it was—his gorgeous kisser. Whether you liked Ethan Ladd or not, it was an empirical fact that he was practically an Adonis. The last time she’d seen him had been about a year ago. She’d been standing on the corner of Southwest Broadway and Southwest Salmon in downtown Portland, waiting for the light to change, and Ethan had been on the side of a bus. Or rather, his likeness had been.
Grinning face; thick golden locks styled, no doubt, by someone who charged by the hair; shoulders that bulged with sculpted muscle; abs chiseled from granite; and his Super Bowl ring front and center as he posed with his hand resting along the waistband of what had to be the skimpiest pair of underwear in BoldFit’s lineup of men’s briefs.
“So, your sister seems to be enjoying herself,” he observed.
Gemma’s throat and mouth were so dry, she could barely speak. “Mmm-hmm.”
“How about you? Are you enjoying the spotlight?” Behind the ever-present I’m-thinking-something-very-amusing-right-now smile, Ethan watched her steadily, his dark-rimmed blue eyes thoughtful.
“Not my cup of tea.” She gestured toward the house. “Why don’t you take your soda inside, Ethan? I’m sure Elyse wants you to see the show.” That would give Gemma time to catch her breath, practice her company smile and knock back a pitcher of Bellinis.
“No thanks. I had dinner with Scott and Elyse in Seattle four months ago. Heard all about it. Naps are supposed to be very healthful.”
She was a summa cum laude, had a master’s degree and taught literature at a private college, yet she rose to his bait like a trout to a lure. “I was teaching summer courses. I told Elyse I was too busy to go to New York, but she insisted, and—Why am I explaining this to you?”
“Well, I’m no psychotherapist, but I’d say you have an inflated view of your own importance.”
“That was a rhetorical question! You’re not supposed to answer it.”
“Sorry, Professor.” His grin was challenging. Maddening.
“So—” Gemma worked at affecting a disinterested tone “—should we prepare ourselves for a brief stopover, Ethan, or are you gracing the old hometown with a longer visit?” As a wide receiver for the Seattle Eagles and the proud bearer of a Super Bowl ring, Ethan was one of Thunder Ridge’s favorite sons. He truly was a local celebrity, with fame lasting a lot longer than fifteen minutes. And his ads for BoldFit men’s skivvies had garnered a new generation of teenage girls who were swooning over him.
“I’m Scott’s best man. Have to fulfill my duties.”
“Getting the keg for the bachelor party? Just FYI, Elyse will sever body parts if you hire a stripper.”
He grinned hugely. “I don’t know any strippers.”
“Not even the ones you’ve dated?”
He laughed outright, not the least bit offended. “And how about you?” he asked. “You still live and work in Portland, right? Last time I was in Thunder Ridge, I stopped by to see your parents. They mentioned they don’t see you as much as they’d like.”
The news that he still visited her parents when he was in town did not come as a surprise. Her mother proudly mentioned it each occasion when it happened. Ethan was two years younger than Gemma and the same age as Scott Carmichael, Elyse’s fiancé. He and Scott had met while playing middle school sports. Growing up with an aunt and uncle who’d rescued him from a dysfunctional situation, he’d spent lots of evenings and weekends accompanying Scott to the Gould home. Elyse and Scott were already an item in middle school, and Gemma’s mom had considered Ethan a “trustworthy chaperone.” Ha! She should only have known.
“My parents won’t be happy until every one of us kids moves back into our old rooms—with or without our spouses and children,” Gemma said, intending to dismiss her mother’s complaint, but then she winced. Ethan’s eyes narrowed, and she realized her parents must have told him that her engagement to William Munson, a math professor, had ended almost a year ago. “Anyway,” she said with false brightness, “I come home almost every weekend.”
Oh, hell’s bells. Could you sound more boring?
A burst of hysterical laughter rose in the family room. Her star turn as the worst bridesmaid on the planet must be playing in surround sound.
Looking down so Ethan wouldn’t see the heat that rose furiously to her face, Gemma wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her dress. “Well, I’d better go...check on the dessert.” A lame excuse, for sure, but she needed to escape.
He grabbed her arm before she could leave. “Why do you let them take advantage of you?” The words were soft, but penetrating.
She blinked at his expression. Gemma had seen Ethan on TV when his team went to the Super Bowl. The whole town had watched. Ernest Dale at Ernie’s Electronics had set up three TVs in the store window, all programmed for the game. Gemma couldn’t have missed it if she’d tried; Thunder Ridge had turned into one giant Super Bowl party just for Ethan.
As the wide receiver, he’d caught a number of passes and was playing well, but then three-quarters into the action, he’d missed an outside pass. He took off his helmet and threw it to the ground, the camera following him. Jaw square and tense, brow lowered, eyes penetrating, he looked very much the way he did right now—angry and disgusted.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, because she truly didn’t. Her family wasn’t perfect, of course not, and as the baby, Elyse could appear spoiled at times, but they loved Gemma. She was the eldest daughter, and perhaps the only one in their family tree who was logical, practical and coolheaded in a pinch. “No one is taking advantage of me. I help because I want to.”
“Admirable.” His eyes looked almost iridescent in the afternoon sun slanting across her parents’ backyard. “But who helps you?”
Maybe it was his lowered voice adding intimacy to the question. Or perhaps Gemma was simply tired and vulnerable, but tears pricked her eyes. Oh, no, no. We are not going there. Not with him.
She had thoroughly humiliated herself twice in her life. One of those times was being replayed in the family room for everyone to see. The other incident was long past, but in many ways it had been worse, and Ethan Ladd had been responsible for it. Partly responsible. Mostly responsible.
Oh, what the hell, it had been all his fault. He had ruined her senior year homecoming dance. He had ruined her senior year, period. Gemma had her revenge, but she’d stayed emotionally distant and physically away from him as much as she’d been able to after that miserable night. No way was she going to give in to the weird urge to blubber into his broad chest now.
“Thank you, Ethan,” she said in her best Professor Gould voice, “but I have lots of support. Right now, all I need is to make sure the cheesecake stands at room temperature for twenty minutes before we serve it, so if you’ll excuse me.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah, it is. I brought my own veggie burger. Left it in the kitchen.”
She glanced at his heavily muscled body, evident even beneath the T-shirt and jeans. “Veggie burger?” she said doubtfully, walking toward the patio door that led to her parents’ ample kitchen. “Since when?” In high school, he’d once sat in their kitchen and scarfed down four hot dogs and half a large pepperoni pizza.
“I consider my body a temple.” Mischief undercut his tone. He reached the door, opened it and held it open, his arm high above her head, looking down at her as she passed through. She caught his wink. “Have to make up for all those years of debauchery.”
He was angling for a response. “Careful you don’t change too quickly,” she replied, “you wouldn’t want to send yourself into shock.”
Ethan’s easy laughter rang through the kitchen. Her body responded to the sound, sending shivers over her skin. Darn.
“I was kidding about the veggie burger. I only like them if they have meat and cheese.” He went straight to the refrigerator and peered in. “That’s a lot of cheesecake.” He began to stack the boxes in his arms.
“I’ll do it,” she protested.
Paying no attention, he deposited the cakes on the center island and opened the white cardboard. “Rocky road,” he murmured. Knowing exactly where to look in her mother’s cabinets, he retrieved a plate and fork.
“Stop!” she ordered as he began to work a knife into the dessert. “I told you, those aren’t supposed to be sliced until they’ve sat at room temperature for twenty minutes.”
“A rule clearly intended to be broken. Like so many other rules,” he purred, sliding a slice of the mile-high cheesecake onto the plate.
“I thought you were treating your body like a temple.”
“I am. I’m bringing it an offering.” Ethan seemed to let the bite melt in his mouth. His eyes half closed. “Mmm-mmm.”
Gemma’s knees went weak. How did he do that? How did he make eating look sexy? If she floated the fork through the air the way he was doing, she’d probably drop a chunk on her bosom. No wonder he’d garnered as much celebrity for his sex appeal as he had for playing football. Suddenly, Gemma felt very, very hungry, but not for cheesecake.
Fiddlesticks. Ethan Ladd short-circuited her brain and hampered her logic. It had been different when she had a fiancé. William was intelligent, educated, taught at the same college as her and was pretty much perfect for her. They’d met in the library, for crying out loud. Engaged to William Munson, Gemma had no longer thought about men who were wrong for her. She’d stopped reacting when Ethan’s name came up or when she heard he was in town, working on the McMansion he’d built on four acres that backed up to Long River. She had become neutral.
She needed another fiancé, stat.
“Gemma? Hey, Gemma!”
Ethan’s voice made her jump. “What?”
“I said, are you sure you won’t join me?” He held his fork out to her, his eyes half closed in a way that made him look as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Or was still in it.
Oh, yes, I’ll join you... “No! Absolutely not.” She marched around the counter and closed the box. Reaching into the cabinet beneath the center island, she withdrew a large silver tray she had polished earlier in the week.
In a moment, today’s guests would emerge from the family room, laughing and ribbing her about her appearance on TV. Elyse would be grinning on the outside, but Gemma knew her perfection-seeking sister was crying on the inside, because Gemma had marred her big moment. So she would try to make amends—again—by earning a spot in the bridesmaids hall of fame.
A few months ago, she’d ordered a book about fruit and vegetable carving online and had dedicated more hours to perfecting watermelon roses than she had spent on her master’s thesis.
“I need to prepare the dessert tray,” she told Ethan, waving him toward the other part of the house. “You have a legion of fans out there. Why don’t you bask in the glory of being Thunder Ridge’s favorite son?”
“Well, now, that’s exactly why I don’t want to be in the other room. All that attention tends to make my head swell, and I’m working on humility.”
He gave her such a deliberately innocent expression that Gemma felt a genuine smile tickle her lips. The man was wearing a Bulgari wristwatch and designer jeans. And the home he’d built? It was so massive and completely out of proportion with any other home in the area, it shouted, “Hey, everyone, a really, really rich dude lives here.”
Seeing her smile, Ethan leaned against the kitchen counter and tilted his head. “How about I help you with the dessert? I promise not to eat any more cheesecake. Scout’s honor.”
A wave of déjà vu hit her: once before, he’d offered to spend time with her, to take her to senior homecoming dance, in fact. And that had been a disaster.
Before she could courteously decline his offer, Ethan’s cell phone rang. He used Kenny Chesney’s “The Boys of Fall” as his ringtone.
“Thought I silenced that.” He grimaced. “’Scuse me.” Into the phone, he said, “Ethan here.”
While he listened to the caller, Gemma tortured herself with memories: the thrill of believing that Ethan wanted to take her to homecoming. Yes, he’d been two years younger, but there hadn’t been a senior girl at Thunder Ridge High who wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to date him. And Gemma, she had...well, she’d...
Oh, go on, admit it. We’re all adults here.
With Ethan turned half away from her, she looked at the massive squared shoulders and sighed. Every time he’d come to her house with Scott, she’d fantasized he was there to see her. That the two of them were going to hang out, study together, talk about music and books and movies and sports teams. Not that she was into sports, but with her photographic memory it hadn’t taken all that long to memorize the stats for every player in the NFL, so that if he decided he wanted to get to know her one day, she would be ready with the kind of conversation he was likely to enjoy.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ethan’s tone was sharp and concerned, jerking Gemma back to the moment at hand.
Oookay. She moved about self-consciously, withdrawing a tray of edible flowers with which to decorate the dessert while she pretended not to eavesdrop. Which, of course, she was.
“No, I was not aware. Where is she?” Ethan spoke with his jaw so tight, the words had trouble emerging. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll get ahold of her myself...I see. Yes, do that. I’ll be available by phone.”
There was silence. The heaviest silence Gemma had ever heard. She worked at her corner of the center island, her face turned away from Ethan, wondering if she should speak. She had no idea what the phone call was about, but his distress was obvious, and she felt a strong desire to say something comforting.
When the silence had lasted long enough, Gemma finally turned to catch Ethan staring at the floor.
Suddenly he didn’t look like Ethan, King of Thunder Ridge High, or Ethan the Football Star, or Ethan the Sex Symbol, or Ethan the Boy Who Made Gemma Gould Feel Like an Ugly Duckling Loser in High School. He was, perhaps for the first time in her eyes, just a regular human being. And he looked really, really alone.
“Are you all right?” she ventured. “If you need to talk—”
Her voice seemed to bust him out of his spell. “I have to go.” He didn’t look at her directly. “Tell Elyse and Scott I’ll call them.”
He seemed to hesitate a moment longer, or maybe that was her imagination, then exited through the kitchen door. And that was that.
Returning to her edible flowers, Gemma told herself not to feel compassion for the big boob. He’d just rejected her friendly—no, not friendly, simply humane—overture, and, let’s face it, rejection pretty much summed up her relationship with Ethan Ladd through the years.
She shook her head hard, jiggling some sense into it. She was over thirty, had a great career, good friends. She’d had a fiancé and would surely date again. Someday. Ethan Ladd did not have the power to make her feel valuable, attractive and worthwhile or rejected and unwanted. That was so fifteen years ago.
All she had to do was get through this wedding. Then he would be gone again, her regular life would resume and her heart would stop beating like a hummingbird in flight every time she thought about weddings and true love, or about the first man who had broken her heart.
