You May Kiss the Bridesmaid

by Camilla Isley

  “Sure, dear,” I say, eagerly getting up.

  I pretend to consider the empty spaces in the front and then the one free spot left in the back. Ahem. As if there was a question. I seize the opportunity and, with a few quick strides, I’m standing next to Summer, politely coughing.

  She stares daggers at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say with excruciating politeness. “I had to move seats. Would you mind if I sat here?”

  “Sure,” Summer hisses without moving.

  The bus jerks forward and I sway, my hips thrusting dangerously close to her face. Summer’s horrified gaze lands on my general crotch area, and then her eyes rise to meet mine in a swirl of blue fire while her cheeks color.

  I shrug apologetically. “Should I climb over, or are you going to scoot?”

  Summer snatches her bag. “I’ll scoot,” she says, sliding over to the window seat.

  That’s when I notice her shoes. She’s dressed remarkably low key in a white T and jeans, but the shoes are espadrille-like sandals with a high wedge and a lace-up tie in a floral print that she’s wrapped around her ankles and secured in place with two pretty bows. Oh, gosh. Those bows are killing me. They’re such a tease. I want to see her with nothing on but the damn shoes.

  She looks up and catches me staring at her feet. We both stare at them for a second, and I hope she’s remembering when her feet were captive in my hands to do with them as I pleased…

  Summer sighs and stares out the window… the same cute blush still adorning her cheeks. I’d pay a million in cash to know what she’s thinking right now.

  Eight

  Summer

  An entire week of this is going to kill me. Archie is just staring at my feet, for heaven’s sake, and I’m breaking out in a heat rash.

  And what’s with the lumberjack look? Has he decided to play out every single bad-boy fantasy I’ve ever had? Yesterday, in the lobby, with his leather jacket and all-black get-up, he was a tough biker. This morning at yoga, he was Mr. Sporty Mc SweatPanty. And now this. What next?

  A snapshot of his ripped abs pops in my head, and I’m ashamed to say the next guise I want to see him is au naturel. Last night, we were in the dark and I didn’t get to admire his body in all its glory. At least, not with my eyes; my hands did a wonderful job—and, oh gosh, I must stop obsessing about it.

  “What are you thinking about?” Archie whispers close to my ear, making me jump in my seat.

  I turn to him, seething. “It’s none of your business.”

  A half-smile tugs at his lips. “Oh, I think it is. You’re blushing.”

  “I said none of this during the day,” I hiss. “And that includes flirting.”

  “All right,” Archie says. “I’ll just sit here and be a good boy.”

  I roll my eyes. Even the way he said “good boy” implied the opposite. I forcibly move my gaze away from his mouth and pointedly stare out the window. He’s rattling me. But I have to confess, having him by my side is a nice, comforting barrier between me and the rest of the world. We’re seated in geeky-land at the back of the bus, surrounded by a group of Logan’s colleagues, who all appear very scholarly, except maybe for the tall guy with the Italian accent. But up front, I recognized a bunch of other people besides Susan and Daria. And today I’ll have to face them all. No bathroom stalls to hide in. Getting on the bus first and stowing away among the professors only delayed the inevitable.

  Unfortunately, the journey to the winery is short, no more than twenty minutes, and when the bus stops I can’t suppress a worried sigh from escaping my lips.

  Archie doesn’t miss a thing. “Nervous?” he asks.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m here. And if it all gets too much we can always grab a cab back to the hotel and finish our conversation from last night.”

  I surprise myself by saying, “Can’t we do it right now?”

  His eyes darken at the suggestion, but he shakes his head. “Sorry, that’d look a teensy bit suspicious, and I’m on strict instructions to keep undercover.” He casually drops a hand on my forearm. “But if push comes to shove, we can feign a headache halfway through the visit.”

  “Both of us? Wouldn’t it be even more suspicious?”

  “Nah.” Archie shrugs and gets up. We’re the last ones left on the bus. “By that point, everybody will have been properly wined and they won’t care anymore. Come on.” He offers me a hand. “Let’s do this.”

  He pulls me up and precedes me out.

  When we get off the bus, everyone else is already assembled outside the winery. We’re waiting in a paved open space with a circular fountain in the middle. The reception is to the left, and in front of us, a sloped-ceiling, squat building with a round arch in its center leads to the vineyards. A tall, square tower on the left makes the entrance asymmetrical. Beyond the arch, green grass and endless rows of vines extend past the horizon.

  We’re a big group, thirty people, maybe more, mostly on the younger side. Winter has arranged for the parents and other middle-aged relatives to take part in the same visit, but later in the day. Small mercy, meaning at least I can avoid Lana’s mother a little longer. My best friend might’ve forgiven me, but her mom is a different story.

  And even Lana… We’re still not one hundred percent comfortable around each other—mostly because I’m still too ashamed of what I did. She’s hanging out at the front with the rest of my old group of friends, while I’m loitering way at the back, hiding behind all the professors who form a pretty smart human barrier. With this many people, maybe I can keep a buffer between me and Susan, Daria, and Martha and Hector, a couple who were another regular in our gang. But what if I can’t?

  The initial signs of a panic attack—sweaty palms and accelerated heartbeat—threaten to make me hyperventilate, when Tucker comes out of the welcome center and gives me the best news of the day.

  “All right, everyone,” he calls. “Please gather around. There’s too many of us to go in at once; we have to split into two smaller groups. Blue bracelets go first, while the orange bracelets have to wait fifteen minutes. Please come up front to receive a bracelet.”

  Archie turns toward me. “I’ll go get ours,” he offers, and my knees wobble a little with relief. “Anyone we want to avoid?”

  “Yeah,” I say, pointing at Susan and Daria. “The woman in the coral dress with the brown bob, and her friend with the shoulder-length balayage.”

  Archie cute-frowns. “Am I supposed to know what a balayage is?”

  “Ah, no. It means lighter hair tips and dark roots, she’s the one in the white pants. They’ll be in the same group as Lana. You’ve met her, right?”

  Archie nods. “Gotcha.”

  While Archie is gone, the Italian guy oh-so-casually walks up beside me, saying, “Fine day, uh?” He jerks his chin up to the sunny sky.

  The weather, really? Is this how he’s going to start a conversation?

  “Yeah, very nice,” I respond, equally dully.

  He moves on to the next obvious topic. “You’re the bride’s sister, right?”

  “Yep.”

  I’m saved from his next boring conversational tidbit by Archie’s return. He comes our way, walking rather aggressively and staring the Italian guy down. I swear, if he were a peacock he’d have his tail all rounded out in a show of male dominance.

  “Hey, Gio,” he says. “The bracelets are being handed out up front; we’re in the orange group. Logan is in the blue with his wife-to-be.”

  Italian Guy takes the hint and makes himself scarce, saying, “I’ll go get mine.”

  I turn on Archie and glare at him. “What are you doing?”

  His chest de-puffs, and he shrugs innocently. “Nothing.”

  “The next time you do nothing, try to be less caveman about it. I told you no one can find out about us. And your little scene was completely unnecessary, anyway, your friend is the worst flirt ever.”


  “Really?” Archie scrunches his face, surprised. “Must be the Californian air, because in Rome, he used to make conquests left and right every time we went out.”

  “He spoke about the weather,” I hiss.

  “Ouch.” Archie makes a mock-pained expression and then says, “Hold out your wrist.”

  I do, and he takes my arm in a gentle grip, his eyes burning with such passion he might be putting a wedding band on my ring finger. Of course, in Archie-land a ring would only mean: I promise to sex you up good, from now till the end of the week. Nothing remotely romantic.

  Still, my pulse speeds up. And when he looks down at my wrist, I follow his gaze and have to work hard not to shiver while he fastens the orange bracelet around it. My skin burns where his fingers graze it, and why does this feel so much like foreplay? Can this man turn everything into a dirty thought, from foot massages to yoga classes to simple tour bracelets?

  We can’t be doing this in public. So, the moment the bracelet is secured, I snatch my hand away, croaking a coarse “Thanks.”

  His gaze still consuming, Archie purrs back a “You’re welcome.”

  And his voice is alluring enough to send another shiver down my spine.

  Thank goodness Tucker cuts into our covert seduction game, yelling, “All right, group one, those with a blue bracelet, please follow your guide inside.”

  Half the people trail a tall, blonde lady with a pixie cut under the arch. When they’re gone, I do a quick scan of the remaining individuals, sighing in relief when I don’t recognize anyone except for Italian Guy and Tucker, who joins our duo, saying, “Now I understand why teachers back in high school hated to bring us kids on field trips.”

  Archie pats him on the shoulder. “You’re doing a brilliant job, man!”

  Before Tucker can reply, a tall, lean woman with light-brown skin, a crown of black curls, and striking blue-green eyes joins us, asking, “How smashed are we going to get?”

  Tucker shrugs. “I don’t know, how smashed can you get with four glasses of wine?”

  The woman smiles. “On an empty stomach? Pretty damn smashed.”

  Then she looks up at Archie, taking in his ice-blue eyes, chiseled face, and devil-may-care grin and… Is she blushing?

  She extends her hand. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. I’m Penelope Jones.”

  And, okay, I’ll admit that if I had feathers, now I’d be puffing them out while making scary, possessive squawking noises to intimidate a rival.

  Archie shakes her hand with a non-committal, “Archibald Hill.”

  Then the woman turns to me, her smile equally bright. “Penelope, but everyone calls me Penny.”

  I take her hand, relaxing several notches. “Summer Knowles.”

  “You’re the bride’s sister,” Penny says. “And sorry, everybody must make the same dull observation to you.”

  Despite my ridiculous jealousy of a moment ago, I like this girl. “Yeah, I am, and, yes, everyone does, but it’s okay.”

  Penny returns her attention to Tucker. “How long before they bring out the booze?”

  “The tour is supposed to last seventy-five minutes, so I guess at least half an hour to forty-five minutes will be taken up by the winery and cellar visit.”

  Penny grimaces. “What a bore.”

  Tucker bristles. “If you just wanted to drink wine, you could’ve gone to a bar.”

  Penny bristles right back. “No, I couldn’t have. Since you couldn’t spare five minutes to talk earlier, I had to chase you here.”

  “Next time ask nicely,” Tucker says, and walks away toward a tall, portly man with white hair. Our tour guide, I presume.

  The man claps his hands to attract everyone’s attention, and instructs us to follow him through the arch into the winery.

  Penny skips ahead. Holding a little back, I lean into Archie and ask, “What’s their deal? They like each other?”

  He shrugs. “Oh, definitely. I bet they’re going to bang before the week is over.”

  I roll my eyes. “Romantic much, are we?”

  Archie grabs my hand and pulls me forward. “Come on, let’s go enjoy the tour.”

  But I yank my hand free, hissing, “No overt touching.”

  Archie throws me a devilish side-stare that promises retaliation. “If those are the rules.”

  ***

  Sweet torture is what he dishes out to me as a result, made of casual touches, brushes of skin on skin, and whispered words when no one’s watching. By the end of the first half of the tour, I’m so turned on I’d gladly skip the wine tasting and go straight back to the hotel. But, of course, we can’t.

  The degustation room at least is air-conditioned; this way I won’t have to fan myself. The decor is similar to what I imagine a European monastery would look like. The ceiling is a vault of stone. Three of the four walls are made of the same material, while the front one is glass. In its middle, a door—also glass—opens on a square courtyard.

  The only furniture in the room is a rectangular wooden table that takes up the entire length of the space, chairs, a wine refrigerator, and a cabinet for glasses.

  On the table, fifteen stations, each equipped with four empty glasses, have already been prepared. I grab a chair to sit down, hoping the wine will distract Archie long enough to end my torment.

  Vain hope.

  Archie immediately takes the seat next to me, pressing the side of his leg against mine.

  And the torture starts anew.

  Add wine into the mix, and by the time we’re back on the bus and pulling into the hotel’s parking lot, I unashamedly whisper in his ear, “Your room, fifteen minutes.”

  He smiles, making a pretend-offended face. “I thought we weren’t doing that during the day.”

  I throw him a look that could kill. “Order some food; we can eat afterward.”

  As the bus stops, I wait for everyone to disembark and hopefully disperse before I exit myself. With a complicit nod, I shoo Archie away and follow him into the lobby two minutes later. Head low, eyes on the ground, I’m making a run for the elevators when my sister calls me.

  I lift my gaze and search for her in the hall. She’s with Logan near the reception area. I walk to them, plastering a smile on my face that I hope doesn’t read: let’s make this quick, I want to go have sex with the best man.

  “Hey, you,” my sister says. “I barely saw you all morning.”

  I lift my wrist, showing the orange bracelet. “Different groups.”

  “Did you enjoy the tour?”

  I shift weight from one foot to the other. “Uh? Oh, yeah, great.”

  “Which was your favorite?”

  “My favorite what?”

  My sister blinks. “Wine?”

  “Uh…” I honestly can’t remember a single name or thing that was said about the vintages we tasted. So, I go with the only answer left to me, since we tried three reds and a white. “The white one, so refreshing.”

  Winter frowns. “Really?” She knows I prefer reds.

  “Well, yes, for morning drinking on an empty stomach.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Sweat pools underneath my armpits. Gosh, what’s with the third degree? “Yeah, yeah, just a little lightheaded, you know what? I’m going to go take a nap. See you later.”

  And before Winter can rope me into having lunch together or something, I turn on my heel and flee to the elevators.

  I freshen up in my room and then move up one floor to Archie’s room.

  Luckily, I don’t run into anyone, neither in the elevator nor in the hall. I knock on his door and he opens it, still wearing the jeans and flannel shirt, all lumberjack hot. “You’re late,” he says.

  Pushing him inside, I reply, “Then let’s make up for lost time right away.”

  Nine

  Summer

  A few hours later, I reluctantly get out of Archie’s bed to rush back to
my room, shower again, and make myself presentable for dinner with my parents.

  Logistics-wise, my family has kept it simple and booked a table at the hotel. Not at the resort’s fine dining restaurant, but at the pool-side grill. Tonight has turned out chillier than yesterday, so when I reach the grill, the hostess leads me to an indoor table overlooking the outdoor pool. Beyond the pool, hills covered in tidy rows of vines stretch to infinity. The view at sunset is breathtaking.

  Both my parents and Winter and Logan are already seated at our table, so I’m the last one to join.

  I check my watch: 7:32 pm. Last, but not late.

  With a preparatory sigh, I pull back the only empty wooden chair and sit between Winter and my dad.

  “Hey, everyone,” I say breezily.

  The men at the table hum a non-committal greeting while my mom x-rays me for a little longer than I’m comfortable with.

  “Hi, honey, you look good,” she says, as if surprised.

  “Yeah,” Winter joins. “You’re practically glowing. What’s happened to you?”

  So, I’m all sexed up, and it shows. Feeling more like a daredevil than usual, I reply with a half-truth. “I spent the afternoon in bed.” I stretch my arms and back like a still-sleepy cat. “I really needed it.”

  “Oh, well,” my mother continues, “I haven’t seen you look this healthy since before the…” She lets the unfinished phrase hang in the air, positively crushing my good mood.

  “Gosh, Mom, you resisted all of, what, five seconds before you had to mention the big scandal?”

  “I was only trying to pay you a compliment.”

  “Yeah, pity you ruined it with that little backhanded segue.”

  I steal a side glance at Winter and notice my sister is approaching eye-rolling territory really fast. Right. This is her week, her wedding, and no matter how annoying Mom is being, I owe it to my twin to keep the tension at a minimum. So, I cut off Mom before she can come up with the next retort—she’s puffing with self-righteousness and indignation—I don’t care to hear. Sorry, Mom, but that will have to wait. With any luck, forever.

  Turning to my dad, I ask, “Did you guys enjoy the visit to the vineyard today? Amazing how fast they recovered after the huge fire of last year, uh?”