Staying Single

by Millie Criswell

  Staying Single

  By

  Millie Criswell

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  "It looks big enough for two. It even might be queen-size."

  Mark's gaze switched between the sofa bed and Francie, as if trying to gauge her reaction.

  Optimism was all well and good, but she didn't think this was the time for it. It was one thing to be stranded in a small apartment overnight, but another thing entirely to have to share an even smaller bed.

  "As much as I'd like to accommodate you, Mark, I don't think it would be a good idea to share this bed." How would she ever keep her hands off him?

  "Tell you what. I promise to be on my best behavior. You can go in the bathroom and change. I'll close my eyes until you're safely under the covers, then I'll hop in. How does that sound?"

  It sounded indecently delicious, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

  "I don't know…"

  "Please? I'm too old and too much of a wuss to sleep on the floor." He reinforced his plea with a persuading grin that she was incapable of resisting.

  She was so in trouble…

  Dear Reader,

  I'm very excited to be writing the launch title for Harlequin Flipside. Harlequin has taken the best of the genre known as "chick lit" and combined it with the enduring appeal of romance. The result is stories with a little edge and attitude, but with the happily-ever-after ending that most readers, including myself, insist on and love.

  I hope you enjoy reading Francie and Mark's story, Staying Single. And I hope you liked meeting the wonderful and wacky Morelli family, whom you'll be seeing more of in Lisa Morelli's story coming in 2004. Lisa definitely marches to the beat of her own drum, and I hope you'll follow along behind her as she tries to unravel the mess her life has become.

  As always, I would love to hear your comments on Staying Single, so please write to me at P.O. Box 41206, Fredericksburg, Virginia 22404 or visit my Web site at www.milliecriswell.com.

  Best always,

  Millie Criswell

  To Stef Ann Holm:

  Thank you for your friendship and support. And for being my dieting buddy!

  ISBN 0-373-44175-4

  STAYING SINGLE

  Copyright © 2003 by Millie Criswell.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Millie Criswell, USA TODAY bestselling author and winner of a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award and a National Readers Choice Award, has published over twenty-three romance novels. She began her writing career when her husband uttered those prophetic words: "Why don't you try writing one of those romances you're always reading?" Knowing that her dream of tap dancing with the Rockettes wasn't likely to materialize—due to a lack of dancing talent—Millie jumped on the idea with both feet, so to speak, and has been charming readers with hilarious stories and sparkling characters ever since. Millie resides in Virginia with her husband and loveable Boston terrier.

  Books by Millie Criswell

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  810—THE WEDDING PLANNER

  863—THE PREGNANT MS. POTTER

  HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS

  508—THE MARRYING MAN

  579—A WESTERN FAMILY CHRISTMAS

  "Christmas Eve"

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to Harlequin Flipside! If you love a dash of wit and cleverness with your romance, then this is the line for you. These stories are for readers who appreciate that, if love makes the world go around, the ride is a lot more fun with a few laughs along the way.

  Leading off the launch, we have USA TODAY bestselüng author Millie Criswell with Staying Single. This heroine is determined to remain single—three almost weddings is enough for one girl, isn't it?— no matter what her marriage-focused mother says. But after meeting a certain photojournalism she just might have second thoughts…

  Rounding out the month is Stephanie Doyle's One True Love? Believing that each person has only one true love, our heroine is in a bit of a dilemma. Turns out that the guy she picked isn't the same guy who's captured her thoughts. This calls for some rearranging…fast!

  Look for two Harlequin Flipside books every month at your favorite bookstore. And check us out online at www.HarlequinFlipside.com. We hope you enjoy this new line of romantic comedy stories.

  See you next month!

  Wanda Ottewell

  Editor

  Mary-Theresa Hussey

  Executive Editor

  1

  It was a bad day for a wedding.

  Francie Morelli gazed down the red-carpeted aisle toward the altar, where her handsome husband-to-be, Matt Carson, all smiles and nervous perspiration in a black Armani tux, awaited her arrival, and knew this with a certainty.

  Though unlike Matt, Francie wasn't nervous, just panicked. The kind of panic you get when you can't catch your breath or feel as though you might throw up.

  Okay, so maybe she was a teensy bit nervous.

  Even though she'd done the wedding thing twice before and knew what to expect. Not that she had ever actually made it all the way to the altar and said her "I dos."

  Not that she would get that far this time, either.

  Swallowing with some difficulty at the dangerous thoughts going through her mind, she tried to ignore the "Run, Francie, run!" mantra currently playing to the tune of "Burn, Baby, Burn" from Disco Inferno, the song so popular in the 70s.

  The choice of music was a bad omen. Burning in hell was a likely possibility if she didn't go through with this wedding, which was probably the lesser of the two evils, because she knew Josephine Morelli's punishment would be far worse. Traveling on her mother's guilt trips was like taking a go-cart tour of hell.

  Through her blush veil—flapping like a leaf in high wind due to her labored breathing—she could see her mother, dressed in a lovely, silk, teal-blue dress, hands locked in prayer and supplication, pleading with the Almighty to let her daughter have the courage to go through with the ceremony this time. The older woman's tear-filled eyes—Francie knew there were tears because her mother liked to make a good showing at public events (funerals were her specialty)—were fixed on the massive gold crucifix hanging above the altar, as if by sheer will alone she could command God to do her bidding, as Josephine had commanded Francie so many times before.

  Fortunately for the world at large, God seemed to have a stronger backbone than Francie.

  A hushed silence surrounded her as those in attendance waited to see if she would actually go through with the ceremony. Aunt Flo was biting her nails to the quick, while Grandma Abrizzi had her rosary beads clacking at top speed. No one could recite the rosary faster than Loretta Abrizzi, who was a definite contender for the Guinness Book of World Records.

  Francie's sixteen-year-old brother, Jack, had taken perverse delight in explaining that several of the male guests, her uncles in particular, had placed bets on the outcome of today's event. The odds were five-to-one that she would never see her wedding night.

  Ha! A lot they knew!

  She'd already had several wedding nights, though she hadn't bothered with the wedding part. She likened it to eating dessert before dinner—the yum without the humdrum.

  Not that Francie had anything in particular against matrimony. It just wasn't right for her. She had no desire to become an extension of a man and to cater to his whims.

  Though Josephine was a strong woman, who came across as an independent sort, the woman lived for her children and husband. And
even though John Morelli was a great guy and a terrific father, he liked things just so—like dinner on the table promptly at five o'clock every evening, his boxers ironed without creases and no interruptions during his weekly poker game with the guys.

  Of course, Francie had a theory about her mother's catering to her family's needs. It was Josephine's way to control, to retain the upper hand with her husband and children, and she did it extremely well. Just as she had turned meddling into an art form.

  Meddling, like marriage, was another one of those M-words that Francie hated: meddling, marriage, menstruation, menopause, milk of magnesia—Josephine's remedy for every childhood ailment—and last but not least, Matt, the last in a long line of M fiancés.

  No. M-words were definitely not good. She'd have to remember that the next time she dated, if there was a next time. At the moment that seemed remote…redundant…and oh, so ridiculous.

  She would not allow her mother to bully her again.

  Period.

  Standing beside Francie, John Morelli clutched his daughter's arm in a death grip, trying to keep her steady and on course. But Francie knew, just as he did, that it wouldn't. She was in collision mode and there was no way to avoid it.

  Still, he had to try. His wife would expect no less. And John, like most of the Morellis, wasn't going to buck Josephine's wedding obsession. Not if he wanted a moment's peace.

  Josephine was in no way, shape or form a passive-aggressive personality. The outspoken woman just came out and told you exactly what she thought and what she expected you to do about it. There was never a moment's doubt where you stood with the overbearing woman, lovingly nicknamed "The Terminator" by her three children.

  It wasn't that the Morelli kids didn't love their mother; they did. It was just that Josephine was not an easy woman to deal with. Forget about living with her!

  Francie's toes began to tingle—a surefire indication that flight was imminent. She wiggled them, hoping and praying that the urge to flee would pass. If not, the white satin shoes she wore would, like Dorothy's ruby slippers, whisk her away from the solemn occasion to her favorite place of refuge: Manny's Little Italy Deli. There she knew the owner, former high school classmate, Manny Delisio, would be waiting for her with a pastrami on rye and a large diet Coke.

  Okay, so stress made her hungry!

  Her roommate, Leo Bergmann, suitably armed with a packed suitcase and a train ticket to an as-yet-unknown destination, would also be there to offer moral support and a stern lecture. He was almost as good as Josephine when it came to offering opinions and advice that no one wanted, only he did it with a bit more finesse.

  Francie and Leo had agreed that if it looked as though she was going to bolt, Leo would leave the ceremony early, head down to Manny's and proceed with the travel arrangements he'd previously put into motion.

  The last time Francie had run, Leo had chosen New York City as her escape destination. A great choice, in her opinion, for she'd been able to lose herself among the throngs of people, become invisible, and get her head back on straight before returning to face the music—translation: Josephine's ranting about what an ungrateful daughter she had.

  Unfortunately the time before that—the first time, when Francie had fled the arms of the unfortunate Marty Ragusa, "Philadelphia's only undertaker with panache," as he called himself on those stupid TV commercials he appeared in—Leo had picked Pittsburgh. It hadn't been far enough away from Philadelphia or her mother, who had tracked her down like a bloodhound with a nose bent on revenge.

  Josephine's anger had given new meaning to the term "pissed off." Though Francie wasn't entirely certain that her mother hadn't been more upset about losing her discount on funerals and burial plots than losing Marty for a son-in-law.

  Patting his daughter's hand reassuringly, John leaned over and smiled lovingly. The scent of Old Spice washed over Francie, conjuring up many good childhood memories, including her dad pushing her on the backyard swing or helping with division and multiplication problems.

  "Don't be nervous, cam mia. Soon this will be over and you'll be married and settled down. It's the right thing to do, you'll see. And it will make your mother very happy. You know how she's waited for this day."

  The second coming paled by comparison!

  Francie adored her father and wanted to agree with him; she wanted that more than anything. But words of reassurance stuck in her throat like oversize peanuts and all she could offer up was a gaseous smile and a deer-in-the-headlights look.

  Behind her, red-haired Joyce Rialto, her best friend since first grade, muttered, "Uh-oh," and then began cursing obscenities beneath her breath.

  Joyce knew Francie a little too well, unfortunately.

  "I'm sorry, Pop, but I don't think I can go through with this. I'm just not ready to get married. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready."

  John's eyes widened momentarily, then he looked down the long aisle to where his wife was sitting in the first pew, the smile on her face suddenly melting as she noticed his resigned, worried expression.

  "Your car's out back. I gassed it up, just in case, and left some money in the glove box."

  Joyce wasn't the only one who knew her well.

  Warmed by the gesture, Francie kissed her father's cheek. "I love you, Pop. Thanks! I hope Ma doesn't give you too bad a time of it."

  John glanced quickly at his wife again and groaned inwardly, noting that her frown had deepened and she was staring daggers at him. "Don't kiss me again! Your mother will think I'm in on this, and then there'll be hell to pay. Now go, if you're going. I'll handle your mother. I've been doing it for thirty-five years, haven't I?"

  Francie knew her father spoke with more bravado than he felt. It wasn't that her dad was a coward; it was just that…well, he was married to Josephine.

  "Yes, and you're still relatively sane. I love you!"

  Despite his warning, she kissed him again, then turned and, with an apologetic smile at Joyce, her younger sister, Lisa, who was grinning widely at her, and the other two bridesmaids, who merely groaned before waving and wishing her good luck, hightailed it out of the church and into the warm September sunshine.

  Mark Fielding was late.

  He should have been at St. Mary's Catholic Church twenty-five minutes ago for his stepbrother's wedding to perform his duties as best man. Matt was counting on him.

  But his flight from the Philippines, where he'd been on assignment as a photo-journalist with the Associated Press for the past six months, had been delayed, and the traffic on Interstate 95 from the airport into the city had been horrific. And to complicate matters, his cell phone wasn't working. Mark cursed his stupidity in not remembering to recharge the battery, though lack of sleep had played a significant role in rendering him temporarily stupid.

  Spotting the brick church up ahead, he looked for a place large enough to park his SUV and shook his head at the impossibility of the situation. As he did, the heavy walnut doors to the church flew open and a woman dressed in full bridal regalia, veil blowing back to reveal dark hair and a very pretty face, ran out and down the steps.

  This had to be his new sister-in-law.

  What was her name? Frances? Fiona? Florence?

  Applying the brake, he reached out to grab the camera on the seat next to him, rolled down the window and began snapping photos, while he recited all the F names he knew.

  For the life of him, Mark couldn't remember her name. He'd never met his little brother's fiancée and hadn't been enamored of the idea that Matt was getting married so quickly after meeting the woman just three short months ago.

  Hell, he knew dogs who'd had longer courtships!

  And what was that saying? Marry in haste…

  "Shit! I'm too late. I missed the wedding. They're already married."

  A thousand apologies raced through his mind until the realization hit him that his brother hadn't followed his bride out of the church, nor had any of the relatives, including his dad and stepmother. They
should have been waiting on the church steps to greet the happy couple with rice or birdseed or whatever the hell it was that folks used these days to pelt happy couples all in the name of good luck.

  Setting the camera aside, he double-parked his green Ford Explorer and watched his brother's new bride lift her wedding dress off the ground, displaying a pair of rather nice legs, then disappear around the side of the church, looking over her shoulder a few times as if to make sure no one was following.

  Why was the bride so anxious to leave?

  And where the hell was his brother?

  Suddenly, Mark got a really bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the dry turkey sandwich he'd eaten on the plane a few hours before. He made it a point to always heed his gut instincts; they'd never steered him wrong in the past.

  And Mark knew his brother to be the sensitive sort, who wore his heart on his sleeve and romanticized every little thing about his relationships. Hadn't he warned Matt that wearing rose-colored glasses would get him into trouble one day?

  Marry in haste… repent at leisure.

  He'd been the romantic once, before he'd woken up to the fact that women of today weren't interested in commitment or long-term relationships, and that they didn't know their own minds.

  It was slam, bam, thank you, mister!

  Mark's recent relationships had left him unfulfilled. The sex had been great. But sex without commitment was just…well, sex.

  He wanted more than that. He wanted what his parents had—love, trust, someone to share a life with.

  But all he'd gotten so far was a swift kick in the butt and feeble explanations of the "I'm not ready to commit yet" sort. Mark was all kinds of a fool to even think he'd meet anyone interested in making a life with him.