by Mimi Strong
As I waved my hands over young Amy's small face, trying to revive her, I was struck by how unfair the whole thing was. I'd certainly never fainted before, because that was something a fun person did.
Dalton ran back to the washroom, then returned and handed me a glass of water. I tossed it on Amy's face. Amy gasped and opened her eyes.
Dalton started to laugh. “That was for her to drink. Peaches, you’re wild!”
Amy wasn't as light as she looked, so I groaned as I eased her down to the floor. “Well, it worked, didn't it?”
“Don't hit me, Boss,” Amy said, pretending to cower, a strand of her blue hair stuck to her wet face.
Dalton reached down and helped Amy to her feet, grinning madly. “Miss, has she been abusing you? Perhaps there's a union you could join.”
Her brown eyes bugging out under her pale blond eyebrows, Amy gawked at Dalton, then me, then Dalton, then me again. “Is this really happening? Is Drake the vampire in our bookstore?”
“Not for long,” he said. “I'm taking Peaches to the wedding. I trust you'll be able to manage without her? We straightened out all the pens in the tin can already, so you should be set.”
Amy gave me a quizzical look. With one hand along the side of her dripping-wet face, she whispered to me, “Do you two know each other?”
“Not really—”
Dalton interrupted. “We're future old friends.”
Amy said to me, “He's very pushy. I've read that in interviews. This is just how he is.” She turned to Dalton and smiled. “I follow you online.”
He pulled an old-fashioned handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the water drops on her face.
“You follow my publicist,” he said, giving her a sly wink.
Amy, who was sixteen, but texted and tweeted like she was thirteen, gasped in horror.
I said, “Ah, the sweet sound of scales falling from a young person's eyes.”
Dalton cocked his head and asked me, “Young person? How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. But I've seen things.”
“Sure you have. But have you done things?”
“A couple things.”
“Good!” He tucked away the handkerchief and offered me his elbow. “I’m only into dating girls who’ve done a couple things.”
“Dating? I thought we were future old friends.”
“This is how we get there,” he said as he led me toward the front door.
I hesitated, looking back at a damp Amy, standing in my favorite comfortable spot behind the counter, near the yellow vintage phone. Behind her stood piles of special order books with customer tags sticking out like multi-colored paper tongues.
I turned my head to the left and looked over all my shelves, packed tight yet organized, far enough apart that one customer could walk past another without bumping butts, yet close enough to encourage friendly conversation. High above, one of the ferns looked like it needed some water, but I didn't dare ask Amy to do that job, as she tended to daze out and flood the shelves when given a watering can.
The bookstore was my whole life, set up just how I liked it. Sometimes in the evening, after we were closed and the lights were dimmed, I found it difficult to leave the space. I'd stay behind and watch the traffic on the rainy street outside, as people walked back and forth, going to Java Jones or DeNirro’s, unaware of me, sitting in the dark.
Dalton pulled open the front door, and the sounds of the world came in. He'd probably get a phone call and make some excuse before we were half-way there, and I'd be going to the wedding alone. I'd had other men make big promises before, and it always started like this: the grand, spontaneous gesture. The excuses kicked in later.
My eyes were wide open.
Dalton turned to me, his beautiful green eyes bright with promise. “Let's have some fun.”
It was exactly what I needed to hear. “Fun,” I agreed, and I walked ahead of him out the door.
“What is it about bridesmaids?” he asked as soon as we were outside.
I laughed. “Maybe it's our association with the bride, all dressed in white and virtuous.”
He held out his arm for me to hold his elbow, like a gentleman. “You, Peaches Monroe, are looking quite virtuous yourself. That pretty dress with all the ruffles. You're so clean and nice, you give me bad thoughts.”
I laughed, harder this time. “Wow. You don't waste any time. You just say whatever you want, don't you?”
He grinned. “I suspect I've met my match in you.”
“Are you always like this? I feel like I've known you for years, but I've been watching you on TV. You don't know me, though, but you seem pretty comfortable.”
“My car's this way,” he said, pulling me to the right. “And who's to say I don't already know you? Maybe we share a common past.”
“I think I'd remember that.”
He stopped walking and turned to look at me. Really look at me. With those gorgeous green eyes, set in that achingly handsome face.
I started to worry he was going to kiss me. Or not kiss me. Either way, I was in big trouble.
He looked down my body, along my fluffy bridesmaid gown, like he was formulating a plan to get it off of me.
Forget the wedding, I thought. Unzip me, bend me over, and make me call you weird names until the sun comes up.
He smiled, as if he was his vampire character, and could read my mind.
CHAPTER 2
The wedding was for my cousin Marita, age thirty-three, and her partner James, who was a whopping four days over twenty. Marita had met him at a bar, where he'd gained entry with fake ID, and they'd started dating casually, “just for fun.” Neither of them had expected marriage, until suddenly it was happening. Marita had a certain glow about her, if you know what I mean.
His family was ultra conservative, and he had seven brothers and sisters, all of them older than him, and none of them married. I knew Marita to be a sensible, wonderful woman, but by the looks on her fiance's parents' faces, she was the she-devil who was about to ruin their youngest son's life and future.
Marita was a Monroe, after all, and our family has a bit of a reputation in Beaverdale, but that’s a complicated story I’ll tell you more about later.
Marita and James wore tight smiles through the brief ceremony at the chapel, but relaxed afterward, in the receiving line. It's all done now, their faces said.
Relief.
There’s a dentist's office to one side of the bookstore, and I know post-root-canal magnitude of relief when I see it.
By contrast, I was nervous and jittery.
To my surprise, Dalton Deangelo sat patiently on his own, in the back row, through the whole ceremony. Nobody fainted, or even recognized him, I suppose because most people in attendance weren’t watchers of vampire soap operas.
Dalton and I had arrived on the late side, which would have been unforgivable if I'd had any actual duties as bridesmaid, but I was simply a spare who'd been added at the last minute to balance out an extra groomsman. I stood in my place, holding my flowers, and making everyone else including the bride look slimmer by comparison for the photos.
Because there'd been no time to introduce Dalton to my family, the awkwardness with my parents was a treat to still look forward to.
The summer weather was hot, and the little chapel grew muggy with all the people inside, so I found Dalton and ducked outside to the front steps as soon as we could.
“That was a beautiful ceremony,” Dalton said. “Everything happened so fast. I don't know if I've ever been to a real wedding before.”
“You only go to fake weddings?”
“Yes.”
I smacked my forehead. “Oh, for the show. That's right. There've been…” I counted in my head. “Four weddings.”
He looked at me as if seeing me without any clothes on.
For the record, I did not hate this feeling.
“You're a fan of the show,” he said.
“Don't let it go to your head, but y
es, I have worshiped you for years.”
He raised his eyebrows, sexy like an immortal TV vampire.
I rubbed my bare arms as a gentle summer breeze puckered the follicles on my arms and reminded me I was but a mere mortal. “I said don't let it go to your head, mister. I can stop watching any time I want.”
“Our ratings say otherwise.” He got an I-ate-the-whole-thing grin.
Our conversation was interrupted by my family walking up.
“What ratings?” asked my father. He squinted to protect his pale blue eyes in the bright sun, his red hair curly and golden. Before we could answer, he was onto a new topic, saying, “What they ought to have on the ceiling in there is a chain of fans. You could set them up in tandem and create a stream of air.”
“You should tell them, Dad.”
He ducked his head back, forming double chins of I-don’t-think-so, as though the idea of telling someone something they ought to know, such as the optimal way to ventilate a building, was preposterous.
My mother, who’s the same shade of blond and the same shape of voluptuous as me, couldn’t take her eyes off my surprise date. She wore a blue dress that matched her eyes, tied with a red belt that matched her red shoes, her toes pointed demurely together as she gazed up at Dalton.
I introduced everyone, and it only took little Kyle all of thirty seconds to say something Kyle-like.
Kyle tilted his head up in that cute way only a seven-year-old can and said, “Are you Peepee's boyfriend?”
Dalton did a double-take. “Peepee? I don't know anyone by that name.”
“Kyle!” I admonished. “Don't call me that, you little turd monkey.”
“I'm a future old friend of Peepee’s,” Dalton said, shaking Kyle's hand.
“You're taller than my dad,” Kyle said. “Can I sit on your shoulders? I want to see everything.”
In response, Dalton knelt down like a trained circus horse and let Kyle climb on top his shoulders.
My mother caught my eye and loudly whispered, “He's so handsome, Peachy.” (Most people call me Peaches, but Mom calls me Peachy, or Petra if she’s annoyed.)
I glanced over at Dalton, running up and down the chapel steps with Kyle squealing on his shoulders.
“Is he?” I said, smirking. “I hadn't noticed, Mom. I'm not shallow like you, marrying Dad for his good looks.”
At this, my father beamed, and I felt a wave of gratitude for all my riches. My family is not perfect, and we have our fights and secrets, but most of us genuinely like each other, and that's just as important as love.
I kept expecting Dalton to disappear the way a too-good dream evaporates upon waking, but he instructed his driver take us over to the dance hall where the rest of the celebration was happening. I got out of the fancy car, which wasn’t quite as long as either of the two limousines in town people rent for special occasions, but it did have a glass separation between us and the driver.
I thought Dalton was stepping out to say goodbye, but he actually nodded toward the door, so we walked up together. Like he really was my date, and not the worst kind of Torture Bite.*
*When someone is eating a delicious dessert, they always try to make you take one bite, out of what? Cruelty? This is the worst of all nibbles, because if it’s good (and it’s always good) then you have to sit and suffer while they eat the rest. The taste is all up inside your mouth, tantalizing you with the torture of pleasure denied.
Dalton Deangelo holding me in his arms had been my tasty bite, and now I wanted more.
We walked into the dance hall and started mingling. He had his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks, and he looked as comfortable as any of the other men in attendance.
He asked me a bunch of questions, about everything from the plastic carnation decorations to the projection screen showing James and Marita’s engagement photos.
“Why are they posing like depressed catalog models in front of a brick wall?” he asked.
“It’s just what people in Beaverdale do.”
“Why are there so many photos? Oh, here they are in a field. Okay, well, I like that one. That’s a good one.”
Marita was lying amongst wildflowers with her head in James’s lap, gazing skyward.
“That is a good one,” I agreed.
“You and she both have a woodsy look. Natural. Like you’d be right at home running naked through the woods.”
“Shut up! You’re making fun of me.”
His handsome dark brown eyebrows rose, so thick and expressive. “Oh, am I?”
We were standing near the bar, he with a light beer and me with a glass of sparkling white wine, plus the giddy sensation one gets at her first family function where she’s legally allowed to drink.
“Don’t tease,” I said.
“You say that now…”
I sipped my wine as he tore my dress off with his gaze. I know you’re supposed to hate your bridesmaid dress and complain bitterly about having to wear it, but I liked mine. The bodice was cut to frame my chest demurely, with just a hint of naughty cleavage—or at least that’s how it started out. The heat of my body had loosened up the fabric on the straps somehow, and now the front was dipping down, anything but demure.
“Stop teasing me,” I said softly, almost whispering.
His eyes locked onto my cleavage. “Speaking of teasing, a guy could drink champagne from there.”
I snorted and tugged the bodice up. “Don’t be silly. It would drain right through.”
“Only one way to find out.” He turned back toward the bar and raised his fingers to call for the bartender. “Bottle of your best champ—”
I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him away from the bar before he created a huge spectacle. A few of Marita’s other bridesmaids were already staring, mostly at Dalton. Correction: they were staring mostly at Dalton’s ass, which was round with muscles and practically cried “grab me” in those tight gray trousers.
The Master of Ceremony tapped a microphone to get everyone’s attention.
One of my uncles, not Mayor Stephen Monroe, but his brother John, was acting as the MC that night. He made a few remarks as we all found our assigned tables, and he introduced the out-of-town guests.
I thought Dalton would be bored senseless by the stories about people he’d never met until that day, but he seemed fascinated.
My stomach grumbled for dinner, my nose having caught the scent of the food in the chafing dishes being set up by the caterers.
Uncle John pulled something out of his pocket and said, “Twelve.”
People all around us booed their disappointment, pretending to be outraged.
Dalton seemed genuinely horrified. He leaned over and asked me, “What's going on?”
The people at Table Twelve got up and made their way over to the buffet, cheering. Dalton and I were sitting at Table Seven, with a bunch of people I barely knew.
I'd been relieved of my auxiliary bridesmaid duties and shuffled to the Misfits Table, full of tipsy spinsters, people who didn't speak English, and one miserable teenaged boy, trying to sneak the adults' punch with the boozy fruit.
“Where are those people going?” Dalton asked.
“To get dinner. We'll go when our number gets called,” I explained.
“Is this a religious thing?”
I laughed and put my hand on his bicep, like we were already lovers, and I just groped his surprisingly hard biceps all the time.
Wow. His arm felt like a really nice meatloaf, well done, and here I was touching it. Maybe it was low blood sugar, but I was feeling more comfortable around him by the minute. The glass of white wine hadn’t hurt, either. I stopped laughing, shocked by how hard and big his arm felt under my fingertips. My goodness. More food comparisons came to mind. Was I more hungry or horny? I couldn’t tell.
“Going up by table number is just what people do,” I said. “I guess at fancy hotel weddings, the waiters bring out the food all at once. But whenever you have a buffet, people go up
in tables. I can't believe you've never been to a wedding. The Monroes are a big family, as you can see, and I've probably been to twenty weddings, mostly cousins.”
He grinned down at my hand, which was still groping his bicep. Oh, you naughty hand, I thought, but I didn't exactly stop the frisking.
“You like what you're grabbing?” he asked.
Emboldened by the wine, I squeezed that harder-than-aged-cheddar bicep and gave him a coy look. “Just bein' friendly,” I said. “That’s how we get to be future old friends.”
“Keep doing that and I'll have to kiss you.”
I yanked my hand back, alarmed by the intensely sexual look in his eyes.
Around us, people started tapping their cutlery on glasses and chanting, “Kiss, kiss!”
Dalton leaned in toward me.
My eyes widened, and I pulled way back. “That chanting is for the bride and groom,” I said. “Another tradition.”
He wiggled his shoulders as if swimming, and moved in, leaning into my space with his clean-smelling cologne, and flashing his eyes at me. Oh, those eyes. I was in danger, oh, yes, I was. Seeing him on my TV screen made my woowoo smile. Smelling him in person made my woowoo jump up and down doing a rain dance.
I leaned back so hard, I fell right out of my chair.
Lucky for me, everyone was busy tapping their glasses and paying attention to lady-cougar Marita and sweet baby James, posing for pictures as they kissed for everyone. I landed right on my ass, which didn’t hurt too bad, on account of the naturally cushiony material there. My woowoo got excited, thinking this was foreplay.
Dalton held out his hand. “Sorry about that,” he said. “You don't actually have to kiss me.”
I got back onto my chair and looked around for the evil wedding photographer, who was obsessed with catching people in “spontaneous” moments just like this. He'd already gotten a few pictures of me stuffing enormous sushi rolls in my mouth.
Dalton's hand landed on my knee.
Hand-on-knee alert!
The hand lingered on my knee, sending delicious heat into my body, including the zesty taco zone.
