by Barbara Wallace
CHAPTER ONE
THE BAR WAS one of those pop-up, themed locations that were trendy at the moment. Holiday Cheer was the name and its existence had temporarily transformed the mezzanine of the Regis Hotel into a garish, yet strangely enticing Christmas wonderland. The walls were made entirely of poinsettia blossoms, while strings of holiday lights crisscrossed the air like tiny multicolored stars.
In the middle of the cheer, at a bar framed by Christmas trees, Susan Collier was having a deep, meaningful conversation with her cocktail glass.
“So what if I don’t have a date? It’s not like I have the plague. Plenty of women go to weddings without a plus-one.”
Her cocktail, the sympathetic ear that it was, didn’t disagree.
Too bad Ginger and Courtney weren’t as sympathetic. The two catty little trolls from marketing enjoyed a good laugh about her while powdering their noses. So good, in fact, they didn’t realize Susan was in the stall listening to every word.
“Is it any wonder?” one of them had said. “She’s got a perpetual stick up her bum. I don’t know why Maria invited her to the wedding in the first place.”
“I should fire them both for insubordination,” Susan muttered. The cocktail offered itself up in mute solidarity. Lifting the glass, she polished off the contents in one swallow.
“You’re drinking those pretty quickly. Sure you don’t want to slow down?” the bartender asked when she signaled for another.
“Didn’t realize there was a speed limit.” She tapped the rim of her empty glass with her index finger. “Keep ’em coming. And, if you’re worried about me toddling off and driving, don’t. I used a car service.” Because that was what women without dates did. They car serviced.
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll miss you upstairs?”
Susan snorted. Did he mean the wedding to which she’d received an obligatory invitation just because her office was next to the bride’s? The one for which she had stuffed herself into shapeware and a vintage dress with the hopes it would make her Kardashianesque rear end look its best? Doubtful.
“Just make the drink,” she told him.
“All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the man replied.
Warning taken. Whatever the warning was.
She didn’t know why she’d bothered attending this wedding in the first place. If Maria Borromeo hadn’t been one of the few people who was moderately friendly toward her, Susan would have canceled when her brother Linus backed out of being her date. No one would have cared then any more than they would care if she spent the entire reception sucking back gin cocktails in the bar.
She knew her reputation. Shrewsan, they called her when they didn’t think she was listening. It was no secret she was the least popular Collier at Collier’s Soap. Her brothers—half brothers, that is—inherited all the positive Collier traits. Things like the Collier charm and lanky athletic good looks. She, on the other hand, didn’t get the Collier anything. Nor did she get any of the good Quinn characteristics either, as her mother used to love pointing out. Except perhaps a passing resemblance to a great-aunt Ruth, the dumpy one.
The bartender returned with another red cocktail with an extra cherry this time. Susan forgave him for his earlier question. He was a good guy, Mr. Bartender. She liked how his red flannel shirt and neat white beard matched the Christmas decor.
“What do you call this thing anyway?” she asked him when he set the drink down. The cocktail list had been full of cute holiday-themed names that she hadn’t bothered to read, zeroing in on the first one that listed gin instead.
“A Christmas Wish,” he replied. “Guaranteed to make your wishes come true.”
Susan barked out a laugh. “You mean if I drink enough of these I’ll meet Prince Charming?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Hardly.” Clearly he wasn’t as good a listener as her cocktail friend. Cinderella Complexes were for the Gingers and Courtneys of the world. She was rich and successful in her own right, and her half brothers weren’t wicked. “I’m not waiting for some man to rush in and rescue me from my miserable existence.”
Although every once in a while...
She stared deep into the contents of the glass where tiny bubbles rose from the bottom. Every once in a while she wished there was someone who really understood her. Her brothers...they loved her, but great as they were, they didn’t really “get” her. They didn’t understand what it was like to be the perpetual square peg in a round hole, always pretending she fit.
How lovely it would be to share her life with someone who saw the truth. With whom she could fit without having to pretend. Who thought her beautiful and special, warts and all.
She was getting maudlin. And the room was spinning. Maybe the bartender was right and she’d had enough. Why else would she be wishing for things that weren’t ever going to happen?
“Hey, mate, do me a favor and get me a glass of soda water, will you?”
A tall, perfectly carved physical specimen of a man approached the bar, his face dripping wet. From the red stain on his shirt collar, Susan guessed he’d been the recipient of a Christmas Wish square in the face.
“Word of advice,” he said to the bartender, his words coated in a Yorkshire accent. “Before you agree to be in a wedding, make sure you haven’t hooked up with anyone on the guest list.”
“Ran into a bitter ex-girlfriend, did you?”
“Two. And they compared notes.” He grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins and began wiping the liquid from his face.
“Must have been some notes,” she muttered.
He looked in her direction for the first time. “You’re not going to lob your drink at me too, are you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I dunno. Female solidarity or something. You’re here for Hank and Maria’s wedding, right? For all I know, they’re your friends too.”
“That would require me to have friends.” Had she said that out loud?
He arched his brow in a mixture of half surprise, half curiosity. Oh, well, too late to take the comment back now. Besides, it was the truth. She didn’t have friends. She had family, she had colleagues and she had acquaintances, but friends? That would involve allowing people closer than arm’s length, an impossible task when you were a square peg. It was hard enough trying to pretend your edges didn’t matter.
“Sounds like I’m not the only one who got burned tonight. Weddings aren’t the fun people make them out to be, are they? Unless you’re the bride and groom, that is, and even then... Thanks, mate.”
The bartender had returned with the soda water along with a white cloth napkin. “No problem. I don’t suppose I can get an autograph when you finish? I’m a huge fan. That stop you made against Germany a few years ago? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks. Definitely a finer moment than this one.”
Ah. Susan recognized him now. This was the infamous Lewis Matolo. Maria mentioned her fiancé knew the former footballer. She’d been in a downright tizzy over his attendance at the wedding. Matolo, or “Champagne Lewis” as the tabloids called him, came with a reputation. Then again, if your nickname involved alcohol, that was probably a given. He’d gotten the moniker after they snapped his picture leaving a London nightclub, shirtless, with a woman under each arm and an open bottle of Cristal in each hand. From what Susan had read, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence.
She watched as he dipped a corner into the glass and began dabbing at a red spot on the front of his shirt. Sadly, he didn’t succeed in doing anything more than turning the spot into a damp pink stain.
“You’re going to need detergent,” Susan told him. “Otherwise, all you’re doing is making it worse.”
He looked up through his long lashes. “Are you sure?”
“I own a soap com
pany. Trust me.” Scented soaps and moisturizers hardly made her an expert. More like she tended to dribble food down her front. But being a soap mogul sounded better.
“You own a... Oh, you’re Maria’s boss. Hank mentioned you.”
Oh, good. That made two of them whose reputations preceded them. “Susan Collier, at your service,” she said, saluting him with her glass.
He nodded, apparently assuming it wasn’t necessary to offer a name in return. “So what’s got you holed up avoiding the good times in the ballroom, Susan Collier? Shouldn’t you be upstairs dancing with your date?”
“I didn’t come with a date.”
“Sorry.”
Not him too. Why was everyone suddenly sorry for her dating status all of a sudden? “For your information, I could get a date if I wanted one. I chose not to. A woman is not defined by her dating record.”
She tried to punctuate her statement with a wave of her arm only to come dangerously close to needing her own damp cloth. To make amends for her clumsiness, she took a healthy sip. These drinks were delicious.
“Again, okay. I only meant sorry for presuming. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” Hands up in appeasement, he backed a few inches away.
From his place a few feet down the bar, the bartender chuckled. “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead, mate.”
“No kidding. Tonight’s definitely not my night,” he said as he strained to look down at his shirt. “You’re right. Made it worse, didn’t I?”
“Told you,” Susan replied. “It’s the grenadine. Stuff’s impossible to get out. Tastes good though.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Damn. Now I’m going to smell like a fruit bowl for the rest of the night.”
“I hate to ask, but what did you do to earn a cocktail to the face in the first place?”
* * *
A better question would have been what didn’t he do? Lewis tossed the napkin on the bar. He’d been drowning in the karma from a decade of bad decisions for the past nine months. “Nothing,” he lied. “One minute we were talking, the next I had a maraschino cherry in my hair.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
She knew he was lying. It was evident from the look she shot him over the rim of her glass.
“You’re leaving something out,” she said. “I can tell by the way you’re not saying anything.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She was swaying on her bar stool, the way someone did when the room was starting to spin. Hopefully the bartender was paying attention. “People don’t toss perfectly good drinks for no reason,” she said. “Especially good drinks. So what did you do?”
It was none of her business, Lewis wanted to say, except the glint in her eye made him bite his tongue. Even drunk, she had an astuteness about her.
What the heck. She’d hear anyway. “I might have asked them for their names.”
“You forgot who they were? Both of them? After you slept with them?”
He didn’t say he was proud of it. In fact, he was horrified. “They were from my playing days,” he replied.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so? They were from his playing days,” she announced to the bartender. “That totally makes it all right.”
“I didn’t say it was right. Just that’s why I forgot them.” He was lucky he remembered his playing days at all.
“I completely understand. It must have been hard keeping all those groupies straight.”
Yes, it was, because there had been a lot of groupies and a lot of alcohol and they were all a giant blur of bad behavior. Lewis kept his mouth shut, however, because it was no excuse. Besides, the woman was drunk and he knew from experience that alcohol and arguing didn’t mix. “Are you always this sarcastic to people you just met?” he asked.
“Meh. Depends on how easy a target.”
“You’re saying I’m easy.”
She eyed him through her lashes. “You tell me, Champagne.”
How he hated that name. If he never heard the nickname again, it wouldn’t be soon enough. The irony of the situation—if that was the right word—was that he didn’t remember the picture being taken.
“I’m beginning to see why you don’t have friends.”
His companion’s lower lip started to tremble.
Terrific. On top of everything, he’d gone and hurt her feelings. Why not stomp on a puppy for an encore? “You’re not going to cry, are you?”
She responded with a sniff. “Don’t be silly. I don’t cry.”
She was doing a darn good impression of tearing up. Lewis handed her one of the cocktail napkins from his pile. “Here, dry your eyes.”
“I told you. I’m not going to cry.”
“Then wipe your nontears with it before they make your mascara run,” he said. “And, I’m sorry. The comment was uncalled for.”
“Yes, it was. It’s also true.”
“I’m sure it’s...”
“I’m in a bar getting drunk by myself and no one from upstairs has noticed I’m missing.”
“I’m sure someone has noticed,” Lewis replied. Granted, she wasn’t the kind of girl he’d look for, but she was hardly forgettable. Her black dress was sexy in a naughty-secretary way—prim but tight enough to show she had curves. She had black curly hair that she’d pulled into a high ponytail—to match the dress he presumed. It worked together to give her a no-nonsense vibe. If there was such a thing as a no-nonsense sex kitten, she was it.
“If it helps, no one’s looking for me either,” he said.
“Of course they aren’t,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “You insulted two women.”
“And here I’d gone five whole minutes without thinking of my stupidity.” Good to know her tears didn’t dull the bite of her tongue.
“Now you know why no one’s looking for me, except my friend here.” She waved her half-empty martini glass, the red liquid sloshing against the sides. “Unless you want your reputation to get worse, you might want to slide down a few stools.”
“Trust me, my reputation can’t get much worse, luv.” A drink in the face was nothing when everyone in the UK thought you were washed up. Maybe not everyone, he corrected, but the people who counted. Like the people at BBC Sport who thought Pete “White Noise” Brockton made a good commentator.
“More likely, you’re going to mess up your reputation sitting with me,” he told her.
“Whatever. Here’s to our rotten reputations. Oh, no!” The liquid had splashed over the rim when she’d waved her drink. Running down the stem, it dripped onto the napkin he’d tossed down earlier. “And she’d been such a good friend.”
Her lip was wobbling again. Reaching into her space, he took the glass from her hand before she could take another sip.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“I think you’ve had enough.” Personified drinks were never a good sign. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender hold up four fingers.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” She went to grab the drink only to pitch forward. Fortunately, her hand grabbed the bar rail, keeping her from falling completely.
Without missing a beat, she continued. “It’s Christmastime. A girl should get as many wishes as she wants.”
“Christmas Wishes,” the bartender supplied when Lewis frowned. “It’s the name of the drink.”
“Well, you’re going to wish you didn’t have this last wish tomorrow morning. Why don’t we switch to water for a little while? Get you hydrated.”
“I don’t need water. I’m fine.”
“Trust me.” Lewis set the drink on the bar as far down as he could reach. If she wanted it, she was going to have to stand up and walk around him. “You’re an expert on soap? I’m an expert on getting drunk. You need water.”
“Fine. I’ll have the water.” The way she huffed and rolled her eyes like a teenager proved his point. Lewis had a feeling she wouldn’t be caught dead making such an expression sober.
“Thank you. Bartender?”
Giving a nod, the bearded man poured two large glasses, minus ice. “Room temperature will go down a little easier,” he said.
Good man. Lewis took the fuller of the two glasses and handed it to Susan. “Here, drink up. Then I’ll call a car to take us home. You’ll have to pick up your car in the morning.”
“Don’t have one,” she said in between swallows. “Took a car service.”
“Even better.”
“Wait a second. You’re taking me home?” She looked up at him through her lashes.
Wow. Her eyes were really pretty. He wasn’t sure if it was the sheen from the tears or the bar lighting but the hazel color had a copper center that looked lit from within. They were almost hypnotic.
“I’m making sure you get home safely,” he told her. While he imagined she could handle herself, Lewis didn’t like the idea of sending her home alone—car service or not. “We’ll share a ride and I’ll have the driver drop you off first.”
“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to her glass. “That’s very nice of you.”
There was no missing the disappointment in her voice. He didn’t stop to think, but after going on about no one liking her, his dropping her off was probably a kick in the teeth. When she sobered up, she’d be really embarrassed.
“Bad form to leave a woman alone when she’s been drinking,” he said. “Or, to take advantage of her.” Not that he would have taken her home, but he might as well take the sting out of his rejection.
It worked. A tiny blush bloomed in her cheeks. “You’re a very decent person,” she said. “Even if you did forget those women’s names.”
Lewis couldn’t remember the last time he was called decent. “Thank you. If you get a chance, spread the word. I’m in need of an image makeover.” A big one. Otherwise, he’d be stuck as “Champagne Lewis” for the rest of his life. Or worse, he’d fade into obscurity.
Her Christmas Pregnancy Surprise Page 18
