by Mimi Strong
Dalton pulled away, quickly looking down, as if embarrassed.
I looked at his hand on my knee and found my own hand on top of his, squeezing his thick fingers. I loosened my grip, and at the same time, he flipped his hand to be palm up, holding my hand tenderly.
His voice husky, he leaned in toward me and said, “Thanks for letting me tag along with you today.”
“Thanks for running into my bookstore. Why were you running, anyway?”
He winced. “Stupid reporters.”
“Was it just the usual Hollywood stuff, or did you do something scandalous?”
“You mean like crash someone's wedding?”
“I guess you don't have to tell me.” I squeezed his hand and reached over with my free hand to take a sip from my second glass of wine. “I am a woman, though. And we're curious. Why don't you just tell me what's happening, so I don't have to sneak off to the ladies' room and scan through the gossip sources on my phone?”
He looked away, gazing at the newlyweds while displaying a breathtaking profile. Strong jawline, thick dark hair. That chin dimple was probably insured for a million bucks. Ugh. Even his ears were the cutest things ever, with all his cartilage folds being a thousand times more handsome than the ears of regular folks.
Where was that evil photographer? Why was he not getting more evidence of my once-in-a-lifetime handsome actor date?
I took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh—audible by accident.
Dalton turned to me with an intense look, the kind I'd seen him do on TV about a thousand times, right before he delivers a bombshell of a line.
Those gorgeous lips of his began to move. “Let's just be two souls tonight. Two souls who are made of stardust, and found their way back to each other, the way they were destined to.”
Gulp. “And?”
“Let's wait for our table number to be called, go stand in line for roast beef, and never let each other go.” He squeezed my fingers.
The way he was looking at me. The effect he was having on my whole body, from my swollen ladylumps to my actual freakin’ heart. Two souls made of stardust? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I reached for my wine and tossed it back.
Nodding, I said, “Tonight, we are two souls.”
To my relief, our table was called next.
Dalton jumped up and threw his hands in the air. “Table Seven gets lucky!”
The non-English-speaking gentleman at our table gave him a high five.
I turned and looked for my mother at a nearby table, and she gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. She had her suitcase-sized purse open and was showing Aunt Gracie some pages torn from a magazine. Was she redecorating again? This did not bode well for Dad’s beloved recliner.
Dalton grabbed my hand, and we got in line for the buffet.
“This is just like crafty,” he said. “Craft services. That's the on-set catering. Here's a tip, in case you're ever working on a production: make friends with whoever's in charge of craft services. They'll give you advance notice when they're putting out the jelly beans, so you can get to them before the grips.”
“Grips?”
“Yes. They're the biggest guys on a production, and they ransack the table like Vikings.”
I handed Dalton a plate and started filling mine with salad, keenly aware that all the women at the buffet were staring at Dalton and all the men were giving him the manly version of side-eye.
Well, of course they were staring. The man was magnificent, like a racehorse, and as he loaded up his plate, I fantasized about brushing his hair. His hair wasn't very long, but it was thick and slightly wavy. The last guy I'd dated had been a balding cop with a shaved head, and I used to have these strange dreams about him suddenly sprouting long, bushy hair. I'm ashamed of how shallow that makes me sound, but it is what it is, and I like me some thick hair to grab onto. To run my fingers through. To…
He was staring at me. Oh crap. He knew I was fantasizing about his hair. I gave him a big smile, even as I guiltily wondered what the curly bushes around his hot dog stand felt like.
“Those bread rolls look so good,” he moaned. “Oh, they're killing me. Seriously, just… Peaches, could you get between me and those rolls before I do something I regret?”
He reached for the rolls in slow motion.
“You’re allergic to bread?”
Eyes wide, he said, “Slap my hand away. Do it!”
I wasn't sure what was going on, and had the suspicion he was making fun of me, but I slapped his hand anyway.
He sighed and moved down the buffet table, seemingly more relieved as we left the piles of fresh rolls and butter packets behind.
“Low-carb is tough,” he said.
“Tell me about it. That's why I was up on that stool today, putting tape over the vent. We share a cooling system with the other units in the building, and I swear the bakery shoves cupcakes right into the cold air return.”
Dalton laughed. “That's what you were doing?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, I was just standing on a stool, hoping some drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a man would come in and catch me in his arms.”
He stopped laughing and smiled. “Hunk of a man?”
“That's your last compliment of the evening. I shouldn't have even…” I shook my head.
We were at the end of the line, and he tugged my elbow, steering me over to a quiet corner, away from everyone but the waitstaff.
We were both holding our plates of steaming food, but he backed me into a corner, took my free hand, and placed it on his abdomen. I felt hard bumps under my fingertips.
I breathed out a sigh. “Is that real?”
He gazed down at me, shuffling forward so that his legs were mixed with mine, one of his gorgeous, probably-muscular-as-hell legs between my own soft, plump limbs. Our lower bodies touched as my hand slid up along his gray dress shirt, over the bumps and ridges of muscle. I could feel his deep, calm breaths.
CHAPTER 3
“Your body's amazing,” I said.
“So's yours. I'm having a difficult time restraining myself, because I want to touch you all over. I want to grab your legs and bite them.”
My eyebrows shot up and my breath caught in my throat. “Bite them?”
He flashed his teeth and tapped them together. “Gently. Just love bites.”
I kept moving my hand up, thinking that what I was feeling couldn't get any better, but then I reached his chest. He flexed under my hand, and he was hard there, too, and now I was having very bold thoughts about visiting his hot dog stand.
I whispered, “I want to bite you right here.”
He whispered back, “I'd like that. You can nibble me anywhere, any time. I work out all those hours a week for a reason, you know.”
My fingers ran over his nipples, hard as buttons. “For the camera.”
“For nibbles.”
Oh, nibbles. So many nibbles. Our lower bodies nudged closer together, and I could feel the heat of his leg between mine. A shiver shot up my body—a shiver unlike anything I'd felt in a very long time. Forget playful words. It was the kind of shiver that gets one in trouble.
I pulled back and ducked under his arm to get out of the corner, careful not to drop my plate of food.
“Mmm, this food smells good,” I said to the distant relatives who were staring at us while pretending to not be staring.
Dalton detoured back into the buffet line and came away grinning, two fresh dinner rolls on his plate. “To hell with low-carbs. Tonight's about fun,” he said.
~
My parents came by our table with Kyle after everyone finished dinner, saying they were heading home before the Little Monster got into the spiked punch.
Kyle was having way too much fun, chocolate icing all over his face, and asked for another shoulder-ride from Dalton.
Dalton complied, and within minutes, he was the Human Bouncy Castle of the reception, with everyone's kids and babies all over him. As I watched him entertain
all the little tykes, I got that overexcited-ovaries-in-squealing-mode feeling you can only get from seeing a strong, handsome man being kind to icing-crusted children.
Calm down, I silently commanded my ovaries. He's not ours for keeps; he's just on loan from his universe tonight, taking a little holiday in Normal Life World.
I took my purse from the table and visited the washroom, figuring it was about time, based on how much liquid I'd consumed. When I'm in my control-top gear, my muffin-top smoothes out nicely, but it's difficult to tell when my bladder is full, versus merely squashed into my spleen.
When I came out of the stall, Marita was in the ample-sized ladies' room, reclining on a wicker settee in a puddle of bridal lace, fanning herself. Marita looked like a smaller version of my mother, with her round face and sturdy frame. She and I had the same neutral, light hair, but while I streaked and lightened mine to a sunny blond, she colored hers red, and the cherry hue suited her no-nonsense personality. Marita had been my favorite babysitter growing up, and she used to dress me up in her clothes until I turned fourteen and got bigger than her, from shoe to hat and everything in between.
She used to read me bedtime stories, and get annoyed when I pointed out that she’d missed a word. One night, she said that if I was so good at reading, I ought to read her book, to her, instead of the other way around. And thus began my introduction to mushy romance novels, and a lifelong love of reading. She wouldn’t let me see the folded-over pages until I was twelve. Like I said, she was the greatest babysitter, right?
“I should be doing that,” I said, taking the fan from her hand. “I haven't been much of a bridesmaid to you.”
“You have good reason,” Marita said, pushing her red hair off her sweaty brow. “Your date is gorgeous! One of my friends asked to get the name of the big city escort agency you used.”
My jaw dropped and my face-fanning faltered.
“Oh, Petra Monroe, it's a joke!” she said. “Nobody actually thinks he’s a prostitute.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the mirror, which was the worst thing I could have done, because the way I was leaned forward and the way the bridesmaid dress pulled across my hips, my butt looked exactly like a big, juicy peach.
“He's just a friend,” I said.
“Is that code for gay? He'll make somebody a great catch. And he's so great with the kids.”
“He's clearly not gay. In fact, he's been hitting on me.” I shrugged. “We might end up as more than friends, perhaps.”
“Really? Are you going to sleep with him?” Her grin got wide and salacious. “Tonight? Every guy dreams about bagging a bridesmaid.”
My mouth opened, but then I remembered. Eyes wide open!
No, I couldn't pour my heart out to Marita about the thoughts I'd been having about nibbling Dalton’s carbohydrate-free body. She had a big mouth, and she'd tell everyone, and soon I'd be the cousin who was having a hand-in-panties job from a gay escort.
“He's just a friend.” I eyed her stomach. “How's the second trimester treating you?”
She glanced from side to side, her face turning red. “I don't know what you mean.” She batted her blond eyelashes and smoothed down the waistline of her white gown. “I've been stress-eating.”
“Marita, you told me last month.”
She looked even more embarrassed, her eyes down. “I'm so sorry, I forgot about that. You've been nothing but supportive. I don't like lying, but James wanted to wait for the announcement until after the wedding, so his parents wouldn't be embarrassed today.”
I knelt down next to her and held her hand as tears welled up in her eyes.
“Secrets are tough,” I said. “Everything will be worth it in the end. You're doing the best you can, and everyone supports your decision, including me.”
Her voice thick, she squeezed my hand and said, “Auxiliary bridesmaid duties accomplished. Thank you for being here with me.”
“Anything for my favorite babysitter.”
“Don't say that! You make me feel old, now that you're so grown up.”
The door to the washroom opened, and a pile of peach-colored fabric piled in with three bridesmaids.
I gave Marita a hug. “Here's the rest of your entourage. Now kick off your shoes and dance the night away.”
The other girls took over, and I excused myself to go back to my date. Marita's friends were all friendly enough, and they made me feel welcome in the group, but the band had started and I wanted to dance.
I headed for the clump of kids and found Dalton at the center. He shook off the last ankle-hugger and accompanied me to the dance floor.
He put his arms around me, and every light around us sparkled.
I guess I shouldn't have been amazed that he was an incredible dancer.
When the song changed to a waltz, he put his hand on the perfect spot on my waist, and I dare say he was a better lead than the dance instructor I'd crushed on a few years earlier.
He gazed at me, and I lifted my chin with pride as I stared into those gorgeous green eyes. The man had a perfect face, with no flaws. Even his nostrils were perfectly symmetrical.
“Is there something in my nose?” he asked.
“Sorry, I was staring. For the record, your nostrils are clear, and there's nothing in your teeth. Your lips look perfectly moisturized, and except for a streak of icing in your hair, you're camera ready.”
“Icing in my hair? I blame your little brother.”
I laughed, a little too loud, my chest squeezing.
He murmured, “You're a beautiful dancer. Notice how we move together as one? That doesn't happen by accident. I'm telling you, the stardust we came from has been reunited before, perhaps in previous lives.”
“I took a few dance lessons. My roommate, Shayla, is always signing me up for things.”
The song ended, and people were talking to the DJ, so there was a gap with no music at all. The lights dimmed down even more, and Dalton started to sway to his own music.
He grabbed me around the waist with both hands, pulled me to him, and leaned down to kiss me again.
I flushed at the naughtiness, embarrassed to be having what felt like sex, right on the dance floor in front of people.
Another song started, and people started to dance around us. Locked in his embrace, we only swayed in one spot as we kissed, and everyone moved around us like water past two stones in a creek.
The kiss traveled down from my lips, looping around my whole body, until I was glowing, alight from within.
I thought about stones in a creek, then I thought about stardust, then I thought about absolutely nothing.
~
Three things I dread:
1. Customers trying to return books because they didn't like the ending.
2. A long-overdue root canal on my lower-right premolar.
3. The last song of the evening, when everything's going so well, and you don't want the spell to break.
We've already visited the topic of me not being the fun, adventurous type. But have I mentioned how stupid I am? This girl. Petra “Peaches” Monroe.
I'm stupid in the way that only a girl with a Mensa-level IQ can be. Ask me to calculate the volume of a three-foot-tall barrel with a one-foot radius, and I'll tell you. Those questions about two trains traveling at different speeds? Love 'em. They're like Sudoku to me. I can spell anything, and I do the crossword in pen.
Yet when it comes to guys and dating, I'm a Capital-D Dum-dum.
Even though Dalton Deangelo was holding me tenderly as the last song of my cousin's wedding played, and even though he kept sneaking kisses, I didn't think he was actually interested in me. My best guess was that he was researching a role.
When he leaned down to whisper in my ear, the shadow of his end-of-day beard rasping lightly against my cheek, I stopped breathing in shock.
“What?” I hadn't understood a word he'd said.
He murmured, “Do you want to take me home?”
His words tickl
ed in my ear and sent a tingling message straight to somewhere—and I don't mean my pancreas.
“Wow, you really go all-out when you're researching a role.”
He pulled me closer, with a firm hand on my back, and led me into a turn on the mostly-empty dance floor. “You're cute, Peaches. I hope your cousin isn't mad at you for stealing focus.”
“You're drunk, Mr. Dalton Deangelo.”
He responded by stopping still in the middle of the dance floor and putting his hands on either side of my mouth. Squishing my lips with his hands on my cheeks, he moved my mouth in time as he said in falsetto, “Yes, you're quite drunk, Mr. Deangelo. You'd better come home with me.”
I swatted his hands away. He laughed and caught me in an embrace, tighter than when we were dancing. I could feel the bumpy parts of his chest and abs right through our clothes. Whenever Shayla and I saw a hot shirtless guy, we'd giggle and say, “Ew, he's so bumpy!” Now that I was pressed up against a wall of these bumps, there was absolutely nothing funny about it.
“Yes, come home with me,” I said. My heart was going pitter-patter, and I knew I was being stupid, but it felt different this time, because I knew I was being stupid and I didn't care. Maybe it was all those hours I'd watched him on TV, but I felt like I could trust Dalton. He said I was cute. I believed him.
He led me off the dance floor, I grabbed my purse, and we ducked outside to his fancy car. The driver was napping, but snapped to attention after Dalton tapped on the window.
We got in the back seat and I gave the driver my address on Lurch Street. He didn’t seem to believe me that was the actual street name, but I gave him directions and assured him I knew where I lived.
Dalton waited until the privacy glass was up, then said, “If you change your mind before we get to your place, just say the word. I'll drop you off and leave you be.”
“Are you playing hard to get?”
He grinned, deepening the sexy million-dollar dimple in the middle of his chin. “Is it working?”
Oh, that chin. I wanted to smack it with the back of a spoon and eat it like crème brulee.
