With a Stetson and a Smile & The Bridesmaid’s Bet

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  And somewhere in the past few days she’d gone to—

  “Hey! This looks familiar.”

  Francesca peered over his shoulder. “Oh, yuck,” she said. “My sixth-grade school picture.” Braces, goofy hair in what some backward beautician had called a “pixie” cut. Francesca also sported a caged expression and one of Carlo’s too-big shirts. “Poor Pop. He always tried to get me into dresses for picture day but I was slippier than an eel.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brett said, lifting one hip off his chair to slide his billfold from his back pocket. “Guess what I have.”

  He shuffled through a wad of the stuff that gathered in wallets: receipts, credit and business cards. “Hah!” he finally exclaimed, and tossed something to the tabletop.

  That exact same sixth-grade photo of her. Except this one had a “Love, Francesca” written across the bottom and “To My Main Squeeze, Brett,” across the top. The i in main was dotted with a heart.

  He sent her a triumphant look. “That was my going-away-to-college present.”

  Francesca sat down in the chair beside Brett’s, half embarrassed, half pleased that he’d kept it all these years. “My sincere apologies.”

  He frowned slightly as he tried to shove the remainder of the stuff back into his wallet. “I thought we weren’t going to apolog—”

  The stack got away from him and scattered over the table. Gas cards. ATM receipts. A studio shot of Brett’s golden-haired Patricia landed inches from the photo capturing Francesca’s preteen pain.

  Her heart stopped beating.

  “I thought I’d taken this out,” he said quickly, reaching for Patricia’s picture.

  Francesca beat him to it. She cradled the photo in her hand, her heart restarting sluggishly as she registered the woman’s smooth blond hair, toothpaste smile, the lace collar of her dress and perfectly manicured nails. “She was lovely.”

  “Yes,” Brett said quietly.

  Francesca gulped. “She was everything I always wanted to be, but didn’t know how.”

  “I didn’t even know you knew her.”

  Francesca shook her head. “I didn’t, not really. But your senior year I went to the homecoming game with Pop and the brothers. I was just at the right age to be dazzled by the Homecoming Queen.”

  “Ah. But I would never have taken you for a Homecoming Queen wanna-be.”

  She didn’t look at him. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. There’s nothing I ever wanted to be more than a queen. Or a princess, even.”

  “You were the queen of the Milano household, that’s for sure.”

  She threw him a disgusted look. “No. I wanted to be real royalty. Well, high school royalty. I wanted a crown and a corsage and at least once I wanted to ride in a limo with…”

  “A prince?”

  That would do. “Right.” Not any old prince, though. She’d wanted Prince Brett.

  “Francesca,” he breathed her name softly, as if he didn’t know what else to say.

  She met his eyes. “Pretty silly, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Just surprising.”

  She shrugged too. “Well, it was so surprising that not a bit of it ever happened. No crowns, no limos, not even one measly date to the prom.” She slid Patricia’s picture back toward Brett.

  Instead of reinserting it into his wallet, he absentmindedly shoved it in his back pocket. “I don’t believe you didn’t go to the prom.”

  “Nobody asked me. To help them tune up their car, yes. But to a dance? To a place I’d be required to wear a dress?” She shook her head. “I don’t think it ever occurred to any boy I knew.”

  He smiled, reaching out to lightly touch her tropical print skirt. “Their loss.”

  She ducked their head. “I’m more suited to jeans,” she mumbled.

  There was a moment of silence, then Brett spoke. “Maybe,” he said, chucking her under the chin. “But I like you just the way you are.”

  After a stunned moment, Francesca’s temper ignited. He’d actually chucked her under the chin! She looked up, staring at the now-avuncular and slightly superior expression on his face. If she’d been twelve she would have landed him a facer to match Carlo’s for the stupid gesture.

  And then she absorbed what he’d said. I like you just the way you are.

  Her temper flared higher. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Punching sounded awfully good again.

  Because “liking” wasn’t the feeling she wanted from Brett, particularly not in that placating, almost-condescending way. Yes, as a testament from the man who had just an hour ago brought you closer to ecstasy than at any moment in your entire life, it was a mouthful of mere ashes.

  6

  BRETT TURNED into the apartment parking lot, burned out and ticked off after three fourteen-hour days on a case that had blown up in their faces when a witness recanted his testimony. He was not in a good mood and it turned even lousier when the first mug he should see once he exited his car was the one owned by the guy who had given him a face plant four days before.

  Carlo.

  Brett let out a sigh, then dropped his briefcase to the pavement. “If this is round two, let me just say that I’ve had a bad day and I’d be honored to take it out on your nose.”

  Carlo stepped into the circle of the security light illuminating the 10:00 p.m. darkness and shoved one big hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “Naw. I’m here to apologize.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’ve been a little edgy lately.”

  Brett bent to retrieve his briefcase. “Well, if we’re offering up apologies, I guess I should—”

  “Don’t.” Carlo shook his head. “Franny read me the riot act. She said the uh, situation was all her fault and made me promise not to let you apologize, either. She was adamant about that.”

  That sounded like Francesca. The adamant-about-apologies part. But the kiss being all her fault? Well, maybe that one had been, but God knew that Brett was responsible for all the rest. All the rest that had severely impacted his ability to sleep the last few nights.

  But he would stay away from her. What had started out as a white-knight impulse had escalated into a white-hot lust that he had no business feeling for Francesca. She deserved candy and flowers and forever, and he was incapable of promising that.

  Brett looked over at Carlo. “You up for a beer?” This was the Milano he could afford to spend time with. From now on, Francesca was off-limits.

  Carlo relaxed, as if the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. “You just caught me leaving. I’m meeting Joe and Tony at the tavern for some beers and pool. Wanna come?”

  Brett opened his mouth to answer. But then a car zoomed—too fast—into the parking lot and halted with a squeal of brakes. From a couple of cars away, Brett could see Francesca in the passenger seat, laughing at something the hot-rodder said.

  Brett felt the beginnings of a burn in his gut. “Who’s that?” he asked Carlo.

  “Franny.”

  Brett rolled his eyes in the other man’s direction. “I mean, who is that with her?”

  Carlo shrugged. “I don’t know. You coming with me, or what?”

  Francesca was still laughing. She reached over the back of the seat and pulled something into her arms—it looked like clothes. Then she disappeared down into her seat. He couldn’t even form in his head what she might be doing now, but that beginning of an ulcer started gnawing at his belly again.

  Annoyed, he stared at Carlo. “It’s okay for her to be with some stranger, but you throw a punch at me?”

  “There’s no kissing involved.”

  Well, B.S. Because as Brett watched she leaned over and bussed the guy on the cheek before jumping out of the car. Then, with her finger hooked over the hanger of some plastic-encased garment, she leaned into the car. Her cute little tush piked into the air, she chattered at the guy a mile a minute, probably charming him, making him smile, making him laugh, making him willing to do anything to win her that bet s
he’d made with Carlo.

  That bet.

  He nearly groaned out loud. There was still the problem of that bet. With Brett bowing out of her life, she’d be looking to fill the void and find a man.

  “Brett?” Carlo sent him a puzzled look, as if he’d been calling his name several times.

  With a final cheerful wave of her hand, Francesca dismissed her Daytona driver wanna-be. She disappeared in the direction of her apartment without even acknowledging her brother or Brett.

  “Brett?” Carlo again. “Are you coming out for a drink or not?”

  “Not,” he said absently, following in Francesca’s wake.

  FRANCESCA FUMBLED with her keys. Darn Brett. Just catching a glimpse of him after four days could set her hands trembling. From where he had been standing in the parking lot with Carlo, she couldn’t tell whether he was coming or going, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Get in the apartment in case he happened by!

  She didn’t want to see him. He’d shown up with plenty of regularity in her dreams the past few nights, and she was hoping that time apart from him would bring about The Cure.

  The Cure. That’s what Elise claimed Francesca needed. Not that she’d gone into great detail about what had happened between Brett and her, but just a few choice words and Elise had seemed to grasp the picture. And The Cure had been her solution.

  Ah. The key finally fit in the lock just as she glimpsed Brett coming in her direction. She slipped inside the door and slammed it shut behind her. Nothing could have stopped her from peering out the peephole, though. And yep, there he was.

  Blue-eyed, Scandinavian-beautiful Brett, all clean cheekbones and broad shoulders. Her heart started skipping around again and she forced herself away and toward the kitchen. Toward The Cure.

  She carefully hung her third and thankfully last bridesmaid’s dress from the top of the pantry door. She’d have started The Cure this moment, but Elise swore it required a full evening, and Francesca was worn out after a final fitting of the dress and a night out with the other women of the wedding party.

  Rubbing her palms against her jeans, she turned to contemplate the kitchen table and The Cure ingredients. The phone rang and Francesca absently picked it up.

  “Who was that?” said the caller.

  “Brett?” The sound of his voice sent a betraying set of chills down her spine. Francesca frowned at the phone. “How’d you get my number?”

  “You’re in the phone book.”

  “Oh.” Sheesh, of course. Hearing his voice again made her silly. “That’s right.”

  “No, that’s wrong.” Brett didn’t sound like he had a good hold on his patience. “It’s not even listed as ‘F. Milano.’ It says plain, old ‘Francesca.”’

  “That’s me. Plain old Francesca.”

  He made a noise suspiciously like a snort.

  “I gotta go, Brett.” Francesca swung back in the direction of her Cure ingredients. When you needed to get a man off your mind, Elise had the answer. First you had to get him out of your sight and then you had to take The Cure. Francesca was pretty sure phone calls from said man were not part of the prescription.

  “Just answer my question first.”

  From the table she retrieved Elise’s handwritten list. It had taken Francesca three stops and thirty dollars to fulfill the requirements, but if it worked, it was more than worth the cost.

  “Who was that man?” Brett asked again, his voice surly.

  Herbal face mask, check. Peach-pit exfoliating body cream, check. “What man?”

  “The one who drove you home.”

  Hot-avocado oil hair treatment, this banana-scented stuff you put on the cuticles of your fingers and toes.

  Francesca figured she knew how this Cure thing worked. It got men out of your life, all right. By turning you into a woman only a fruit-bat would love.

  “You’re not talking to me, Francesca.”

  Because I’m trying to forget about you. “A friend. He was a friend.” From under the table she retrieved a little tube of cherry salve that was supposed to take years off your lips.

  She’d settle for the removal of the memory of a few kisses.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” Brett asked.

  Francesca’s shoulders slumped, and she collapsed into the chair beside the table. Not this again. “I’m busy,” she said.

  “With what?”

  “I have plans.” Plans to take The Cure and rid you from my heart—no not heart—mind.

  “Plans with your ‘friend’?”

  Francesca felt her temper kindle. “To what purpose is this phone call?”

  Now it was his turn to not answer.

  “Are you checking up on me out of brotherly concern?” she said, exasperated. “Because if you are, I have more than my share of that overrated stuff.”

  Through the phone she heard him swallow. “I feel…differently from a brother.”

  Francesca’s heart dropped to her stomach. She took a deep breath, hoping to lift it back into position. “Wh—” It took a moment to catch her breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Hell, Francesca, I had you half-naked in my arms the other night. Surely you’ve got to know that wasn’t brotherly.”

  Francesca flung out a hand and knocked over the bottle of face mask. “Of course, of course.” She squeezed shut her eyes, not wanting to remember how easily he brought the passion out in her.

  He groaned softly, as if he was picturing the same thing. “It just seems…dangerous, Francesca.”

  Her mouth was dry. “Dangerous, how?”

  “You—” He broke off.

  “What?”

  “It’s so hot, so fast.” He cleared his throat. “Just forget I said that.”

  She wouldn’t forget it as long as she lived. Because it told her something. It told her that Mr. Scandinavian Blue-Eyed Calm wasn’t as in control as he’d seemed the other night.

  Francesca’s heart had flown back up to its rightful place and now was flapping around in her chest like a butterfly gone suddenly free. She gripped the edge of the table. “Why don’t you come over, Brett?”

  “What?”

  “Right now. Come over and be with me.” She wanted to see him. She knew, just knew he wanted to see her.

  Silence stretched out across the line.

  “Please,” she cajoled, not caring a whit about her pride or any female don’t-ask-first games that she’d heard her friends advise each other about all her life.

  She’d been raised by men. “What do you say, Brett?” Straightforward, direct men, who’d taught her that those who don’t ask, don’t get. Even so, she held her breath, willing him to agree.

  “I say no.”

  “No?” Embarrassment burned hot patches on her cheeks and the back of her neck. “You’re rejecting me?” she whispered.

  “No! Not rejecting you, Francesca, but—”

  He was still talking as she hung up.

  The phone rang again. She didn’t answer. It rang some more. She wouldn’t answer.

  She was too busy lining up the bottles and potions of The Cure. Elise had promised it would work. Francesca wasn’t so sure.

  Maybe it was her Italian blood, but Francesca thought the whole process needed something.

  She got out a cookbook. Her mother had baked chocolate chip cookies. And Francesca made cannolli that everybody swore kicked butt.

  IN THE MORNING Elise brought over brownies. With the psychic connection that signified a true best friend, Elise just showed up at Francesca’s door with a plate of the fudgy walnut squares her mother was famous for.

  “She’s sabotaging me!” Elise shrieked. Apparently their psychic link was on the blink because Francesca hadn’t a clue what Elise was talking about, and Elise didn’t seem to realize that Francesca was deep in the dumps herself.

  Francesca led the way to the kitchen and automatically filled the teakettle. “Who and why?” she asked.

  “The woman who m
ade these tempting things, that’s who! My mother who is paying for a wedding dress that isn’t going to fit me after I down these brownies!”

  Francesca patted her best friend on the shoulder and took the brownies away from her. “Don’t eat them.”

  “Bridal jitters are worse than a bad case of PMS!” Elise said, grabbing back the plate. “I need this food.”

  “You don’t,” she said, pulling the plate away.

  Elise wrestled the brownies back again. “Franny, you know sometimes we just gotta have the worst thing for us.”

  Francesca opened her mouth to respond, but her doorbell rang.

  Afraid to leave Elise alone too long, Francesca ran to answer it. On her doorstep stood a delivery girl holding a vase containing a huge spray of pink wildflowers surrounding one perfect pink rose. Francesca blinked. “These can’t be for me.”

  Elise came up behind her. “Of course they can, you ninny. Your name is on the delivery sheet. Now sign for them.”

  Stunned, Francesca obeyed, then shut the door and carried the flowers into the kitchen. The kettle was whistling, so she set the flowers down on the table and began to make tea.

  Elise stared at her. “What are you doing? Don’t you want to open the card?”

  The card. Of course. Flowers came with a card and you opened it and it told you who they were from. It was just that she’d had little experience receiving flowers.

  No experience, to be precise.

  She wiped her hands on a dish towel and found the tiny card, perched on a plastic fork thing nestled amidst the arrangement. The tiny wildflowers trembled on their stalks as she tried to gently work the card free.

  “Oh, come on!” Elise snatched the card out of the flowers and handed it over to Francesca. “Let’s see what it says.”

  The little envelope was sealed. Even though she’d given up biting her nails, Francesca couldn’t get enough of a grip to open the flap. She bit her lip, looking for the best place to begin.

  “Oh, my God!” Apparently those jitters really had hold of Elise. She took the envelope from Francesca and instantly ripped it open and pulled out the card. “Here.”