by Cindi Madsen
He cupped my elbow, and butterflies swarmed my tummy. “So now that you’ve seen the place, you ready to get out of here and have some real fun?”
Oh, I could think of a lot of ways to answer that question, and most of them were contrary to my goal to keep Brendan’s and my relationship firmly on the friends side of the line.
…
I lined up my club with the golf ball, my heels sinking into the ground. “You picked this sport on purpose, didn’t you? You knew it was your only shot at beating me.”
“Less talking, more swinging,” Brendan so helpfully said. Apparently his family had been friends with the owner of the course back in the day, so the guy let Brendan play, even when they were closed. With the sun all but gone, there was a 90 percent chance we’d lose every ball we hit. Especially mine—I always hit off to the right.
I swung, following through like Dad had taught me. I lost sight of the ball over the trees, but it was, of course, off to the far right.
Brendan stepped up next to me and propped his golf ball on a tee. He’d lost the coat and tie in the truck, and the top buttons were undone by the time we arrived at the first hole. By the second, he’d lost the cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. Not that I was paying super-close attention to every spare inch of visible skin or anything.
He lined up, readjusted his grip on the golf club, and then swung, the movement swift and fluid, as if his body already knew exactly what to do. I watched as his ball soared up the middle of the fairway, bouncing in the green grass not far from the hole.
Yeah, I was definitely losing this game, and it’d barely started. “How about a late-night soccer game instead?”
“Your shoes are better suited for golf,” Brendan said, giving the studded heels a pointed look.
“Hey, no one told me we were going to be playing sports, or I would’ve brought other shoes to slip into.”
“I thought you were always prepared. Is this like a Code Tangerine situation?”
At his mocking grin, I gave him a quick shove and hurried into the driver’s side of the cart before he could. My golf game might suck, but I could drive a golf cart like no one’s business. For a while we played, hitting the balls we could find, and managing to even put a few in the holes. By the time we were on the eighth green, though, it was pitch black and I couldn’t find my ball.
I sat down just short of the hole and lay back in the grass. “I give up.”
Brendan plopped onto the ground next to me. “Probably for the best. I was afraid you were going to bean me in the head with that last ball. Then you’d have to piggyback me to the cart.”
“I’d drag you by a leg, so don’t get any ideas.”
He laughed and lay down, so close his arm was resting against mine. Part of me wanted to roll over to look at him, and the other, more scared part remained staring at the stars overhead. As a general rule, I wasn’t much for surprises. Probably since the ones I got were like guess what, the flowers aren’t here yet. Or surprise! That one iffy uncle is drunk and making passes at the bridesmaids.
But the kind of spontaneous freedom of playing night golf with Brendan was a good surprise. In fact, every time we hung out, everything was so natural that plans seemed unnecessary. I knew we’d end up having fun, no matter what we did. “I’m glad you came back here, and that you looked me up.”
“Me too,” Brendan said, his fingers brushing my forearm. “Part of me thought it was silly to track you down in hopes we’d still connect like we did all those years ago. But I had to know how you turned out.”
I finally twisted my face toward his, the blades of grass tickling my cheek. The moonlight lit up his profile, yet softened his features, reminding me of the boy he used to be. “I thought about you a lot over the years,” I said. “I sometimes wished we would’ve kept in better touch, but I was sure you’d probably forgotten all about me.”
“You don’t forget the first girl who punches you.”
I laughed. “Never gonna live that one down, am I?”
“Afraid not.”
I stared into his dark brown eyes, the corners crinkled in amusement, and gratitude and happiness warmed my chest. “Seriously, Brendan, I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done the past month. I needed a distraction from my life and a place to live, and I don’t know how I would’ve managed without your help.”
“Happy to help. Though I’m sure you would’ve thought of something.”
“Probably. But it wouldn’t have been near as fun.”
Most of the time I was so focused on my bubble of weddings and events that I forgot to take the time to slow down and appreciate something as simple as the feel of grass on my skin and a star-filled sky overhead. The heat from the day was soaked into the ground still, and the damp earth scent filled the air.
Instead of getting antsy about everything I needed to do over the next few days, I simply closed my eyes and relaxed, enjoying that for a moment at least, life was perfect.
The next thing I knew, someone was gently nudging me. “D.J.?” Brendan’s hand moved to my cheek, and I realized my other one was resting on his shoulder. And that my leg was curled over one of his.
When had I fallen asleep? And even more important, when had I moved onto him? I quickly shot up, my cheeks burning. “Sorry. Guess I was more tired than I thought.”
Brendan hopped to his feet and extended a hand to me. “Home?”
I liked the sound of that. “Home.”
Chapter Eighteen
GET READY TO WED by Dakota Halifax
Orange as a Wedding Color
Have you ever looked at your pale reflection in the mirror and decided that you’d look better with an orange face and streams of orangey-brown streaks down your arms and chest? I didn’t think so. Yet I’ve seen it happen with bride after bride. You try on your wedding dress, think you’re not as tan as you want to be, and decide to get some last-minute color. And more often than not, it goes horribly wrong.
So what do you do when your skin suddenly matches the neon orange of the infamous sign welcoming people to “Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada”? Exfoliate. Try a sugar body scrub on a washcloth. After bathing, rub baking soda in circular motions onto your damp skin. Once you’ve dried off, put lemon juice on a cotton ball and go to town. This might take a couple bottles of lemon juice and a bag of cotton balls. Lemon juice is also drying, so be sure to apply some lotion afterward. Dry, flaky skin or orangey color? You decide.
Now if you’re set on getting a tan, here are some tips for preventing the color that nature never intended: Exfoliate before you apply self-tanner. The mist or foam application works best. Take several weeks to build up your tan, a light layer at a time. The instant you see spots, take a break. Count on your honest friends—you know the ones who claim to be brutally honest so they can be mean without apologizing? Yeah, them. They’ll tell you if you’re getting too tan or weird-colored. If you go the spray booth method, make sure to rub for your life the instant the spray stops. No amount of dancing around inside the booth seems to prevent streaks. I’ve seen rivers of dark colors on legs and arms from this method, not to mention the disastrous effect it has on your face. You don’t want anyone wondering if you’re dirty or if that’s supposed to be tan. I’d even go so far as to suggest not tanning the face at all. A light bronzer will give you that same glow without the more permanent, sometimes scary, side effects.
…
A lot of tears had been shed in the Ready to Wed office since I’d opened. Brides, mothers of the brides, grandmothers, friends. Even the occasional tear from me at seeing a beautiful love story unfold—not going to go into the ones I shed my first day back after my wedding didn’t happen, because that was depressing and beside the point—and then there were the brides. Yes, I know I mentioned them first, but they got two mentions because they did the majority of the crying. Take a typical situation and the emotions involved, mix in a wedding, and the emotions and drama tripled at the least. I wasn’t sure the
exact science behind it, just that it was, without a doubt, true.
Add every little thing that could and would inevitably go wrong, like hair, dress, whitening teeth, and the godforsaken self-tanner, and it was amazing any bride was ever not crying.
There was no doubt Helen was upset, the telltale sobs reaching me before her features came into focus. The instant she stepped up to my desk, though, the reason behind the tears was obvious. She was orange, and some parts of her were more orange than others. Over the years, I’d gotten good at masking my reactions. Nothing made things worse than a gasp with a muttered expletive. It was a good way to take a Code Tangerine—literally in this instance—to Code Super Fuchsia, with no chance of Canary or Low-Key Lime for the rest of the day.
Helen was about to get married for the second time. The first had been a shotgun one that ended three years later. Between the emotional toll of the divorce and being a single mom, it had taken her a few years to get back into the dating scene, and even longer to find the right guy. She kept telling me that this time she wanted to do it right. Apparently not right enough to pay attention to my packet that included self-tanner woes.
Don’t any of my brides actually read the packet or my column? That was neither here nor there, though, so I said what I always said. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix it.” I led her to the bathroom and pulled the kit I kept for this very reason out of the drawer.
Noticing the puddle on the floor, I squatted down. I opened the cabinet and was greeted with more water, the wood on the bottom of the vanity nice and soggy. “Shit.”
“Does that mean you can’t fix it?” Helen shrieked.
Double shit. “Of course we can fix it. My sink’s got a leak, that’s all.” Honestly, it’d probably be a quicker fix than her skin. A tightening here or there, once I found out where the pipes were loose. Helen would need to be scrubbing her skin like mad for two days to make her face streak-free for her wedding.
After applying baking soda and lemon juice to a washcloth, I showed her how to make circular motions to start taking off the color. “The good news is, it’s also a great acne fighter, so your skin should be crystal clear on your big day.”
Once she saw the color coming off on the washrag, her mood mellowed, somewhere between Canary and Cobalt. I gave her instructions to continue with the treatment, wrote down a list of good foundations and bronzers to help counteract any leftover color, and finalized a few last items for her wedding. Multitasking at its finest.
As soon as she left, I cleaned up my to-do list, got out my toolbox, and went to fix my leak. Living in an old house meant everything needed fixing at one time or another, and Dad had taught me basic home repairs, insisting it was important to learn to be self-sufficient. But as soon as I got under the sink, water seeping into my shirt in the ickiest way, I realized my problem was bigger than I’d originally thought. The water was coming from a cracked hose, so not something I could simply tighten.
I turned off the water and attempted to get the hose off. The problem was the pipe was where I needed to be, and from this angle, my arms weren’t quite long enough to get the strength to really turn it. I tried to prop binders under me to make it work, but they only made the angle worse. I tried swearing and beating the spot where the hose was screwed in with the wrench, but it was sadly ineffective as well.
My bank account was still looking sad enough that I hated to call a plumber, and more than that, it was a problem I really should be able to fix myself.
I heard Brendan’s voice in my head. It’s okay to have help now and then, you know. Then I remembered that he was off work today.
But I don’t want him to have to spend his day off fixing my sink.
I thought about the other night at the golf course, and how much I was starting to crave being around him. Living together, you’d think I’d be getting sick of him or need space, but the opposite was true.
I whacked at the stubborn bolt one more time, then gave up and called Brendan.
…
“It’s rusted on,” Brendan said. The faux marble sink obscured his top half, and his jean-clad legs stuck out of the vanity. I’d never thought legs could be so sexy, but there was definitely something sexy about his. The way his thighs filled out the denim, how the material was perfectly distressed in all the right places. “Every time I turn the nut, the bolt turns, too.”
Was it wrong that his words sounded dirty in the best possible way?
Get a hold of yourself, Dakota. He’s fixing your sink, and you’re looking at him like some kind of sex object.
My cheeks heated, and I cleared my throat, telling myself to be a professional. “Should I just call a plumber then? It’s not a big deal if you can’t fix it.”
“Hell no! I’ve got this.”
“Now who’s refusing to ask for help?”
He scooted out, ducking his head to keep from hitting it. “You actually called me with a problem, which I know is big for you, and I’ll be damned if I don’t fix it.”
“So I have to ask for help, but you don’t?”
“Exactly.” He flashed me a crooked smile. “Actually, I’m gonna ask you for help—see, not a hypocrite. I need you to hold the bolt in place while I twist the nut.”
I should’ve known that handyman Brendan would be even hotter than usual Brendan. He hadn’t shaved today either, so the stubble was back, and I wanted to run my fingers across it, even though I knew that was pushing the friends boundary on multiple levels.
I knelt down. “Okay, tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
He stared at me for a beat, long enough my pulse quickened. “Uh, I’m gonna lie back, and then you lean over me.”
Now how was I supposed to not be thinking dirty things? It was like the universe was setting me up. Brendan handed me the pliers, his fingers curling over mine for a moment, and a thrill shot through my stomach. This was getting out of control. Gripping the wrench, he maneuvered himself under the sink again.
I leaned over him, trying to keep my body hovering above his, but there was no room for that. Finally, I just gave in and dropped on top of him, our bodies pressed together in a way that was sure to give away how fast my heart was now hammering.
Brendan shifted and his hips bumped against mine. My breasts were pressed against his firm chest, and every shift sent an addictive shiver of electricity through me. Heat built between us—or maybe it was just me. But I was definitely feeling the heat. Judging from the slight twitch of his eyebrows and the shallow exhale he let out, he wasn’t totally unaffected.
His gaze slowly lifted as he raised the wrench and secured it on the nut. Forcing my focus on to the bolt, I gripped it with the pliers. Brendan’s muscles flexed under me as he twisted the wrench, and I bit my lip, working to tamp down the swirl of desire twisting through my core.
The nut finally broke free, sending a shower of rust down on us. I ducked my head to keep from getting it in my eyes. I heard the wrench hit the bottom of the cabinet as Brendan dropped it.
When I lifted my head off Brendan’s chest, my eyes met his. He stared right back at me, his brown eyes darker than usual, and I swore it was more than the lack of light. His hand moved to my back, his fingers spreading there and pressing me closer.
And that’s when I felt the thing. Not the thing. But the spark of hope in my heart. What I used to feel during weddings and when I used to look at Grant and think about being with him forever. What I hadn’t felt since Jamaica. What I was starting to think I’d never feel again.
The longer I stared at Brendan, looking at me like he liked what he saw and would do anything for me, the more tingles erupted, zipping across my skin in hot pulses that made it hard to fully catch my breath. Or care that I couldn’t.
Brendan lifted the hand not pressing into my back, cupped my cheek, and whispered, “D.J.?”
My hand slid up his chest to his jaw. I indulged in what I’d wanted to do all day—for weeks, really—brushing my fingers over his whiskers and settling the
m on his lips.
Brendan made a low noise in the back of his throat, and I was definitely feeling all the things now.
“Dakota? Are you here?”
I jerked up at the sound of Grant’s voice, banging my head on the top of the cabinet. Rubbing the spot I hit, I slithered out of my precarious position. Of course that meant basically running myself down the entire length of Brendan’s body, and all my nerve endings were still firing at full speed. My face was too hot—bright red for sure—and my shirt had come up, exposing my stomach. I quickly tugged everything into place as I stood.
“There you are,” Grant said, appearing in the doorway of my office bathroom. His gaze moved to Brendan, who was pushing himself out from under the sink. I didn’t dare take too long of a look at him, because I wasn’t sure if what had just happened was an in-the-moment-type thing for him, or if he’d been experiencing attraction from the beginning, too.
“H-hey, Grant. This is Brendan. He was helping me fix my sink. Brendan, Grant.”
“Her fiancé,” Grant added with a cross of his arms.
“Ex-fiancé,” I said, then felt a stab of guilt when he shot me a look, even though it was true. He couldn’t go around calling himself my fiancé still. I’d agreed to talking and attempting to spend some time together, but I wasn’t even calling him my boyfriend yet.
“I was her first fiancé,” Brendan said with a smirk, adding a whole new layer of awkward to the conversation.
An angry muscle flecked at Grant’s jaw, and I searched for a subject change to try to diffuse the situation. Words weren’t coming, but I did notice the time on the clock over his head—I couldn’t believe it’d gotten so late. “That’s right. We’re taking your son to the park today.”
“You forgot?” His tone was both incredulous and accusatory. I supposed the incredulousness was deserved at least—I never forgot appointments thanks to my color codes and alerts, and usually I didn’t even need them. My cell sat on my desk, out of hearing distance of the alerts I’d no doubt missed.
