Kiss a Bridesmaid (Always a Bridesmaid Book 3)

by Courtney Hunt

  “I am not,” Erin shook her head. “I’m just saying, Abigail is single. Shortie’s single.”

  “I’m single, not desperate,” Shortie shook his head, pushing the thought of the sunlight dancing on Abby’s hair away, “and not looking, either.”

  “That’s what they all say until they get roped in,” Matthew teased.

  "She's pretty," Erin said. "Or she could be."

  “No Erin,” Shortie shook his head.

  “Why not? You’re always complaining about the women you meet.”

  “I don’t have time for one thing. And I have rules.”

  “Rules?” Erin’s bluebell eyes widened. “What rules?”

  “He only dates supermodels,” Matthew put in.

  “Used to be true, my man, but not anymore,” Shortie said. “I don’t date people I work with.”

  “You know, I used to be like you,” Erin said. “I wouldn’t date anyone I met at a wedding.”

  “You met Matthew at a wedding.”

  “Exactly,” Erin nodded.

  Shortie rolled his eyes and stepped into The Pie Plate before he could argue with her. Dating Abby Browne was a complication he just didn’t need, no matter how pretty her hair looked in the sunlight or how lovely her eyes were.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday morning, just after dawn streaked peach and coral ribbons across the Savannah skyline, Abigail drove to the Coastal Georgia Botanical Gardens. She whizzed past sleepy Savannah Ponds, scowling at the bucolic splendor her grandmother apparently preferred to living with Abigail in the city. She promised herself that she’d pop in on her way back, once the wedding was safely over. Abigail parked and walked the paths to the rose garden, wrapping her sweater around her to ward off the chilly morning.

  Dew drops glistened on the roses, surrounding a black metal fountain in the center. Mist rose from the ground to twine around the roses, giving the garden a dream-like quality and dampening sound. Abigail strolled along the paths, inhaling the sweet perfume of the just-blooming flowers, feeling like the princess in a fairy tale, alone in a quiet, enchanted world. She traced her fingertips over a velvety rose the exact color of butter and bent to sniff.

  “That one’s called Julia Child.”

  Abigail started in surprise at Shortie’s voice right next to her. The rose slipped from her hand causing droplets of dew and petals to cascade over her ballet flats. Shortie stood next to her, dressed in a forest green t-shirt and worn jeans, a pristine white chef’s coat tossed over his arm. The rising sun gilded his curls. He crooked a grin at her and Abigail couldn’t help but smile back, her pulse thrumming in her wrists.

  “What’s called Julia Child?”

  “The rose,” Shortie waved at the golden flower.

  “For the chef?”

  “The very same,” Shortie nodded. “My gramps was a big fan.”

  “And what are these dark pink ones?” Abigail gestured to the roses lining the opposite side of the path. “And the light pink ones over there, close to the fountain?”

  "Well, that dark pink one is the Paula Deen, and the light pink is…."

  “It is not,” Abby laughed. “You’re just making stuff up.”

  "You got me. I don't know much about flowers," Shortie said. "That one really is named for Julia Child, though. I read it on the sign."

  “You’d think the butter color would be more Paula though.”

  "True," Shortie said. "You're here early."

  “I didn’t know what Erin would need.”

  “It’s a pretty standard wedding. Ceremony at 11. Some light appetizers while they smile pretty and snap pictures. Lunch. A quick dance. We’re out.”

  “Sounds like a lot to do.”

  “You get used to it,” Shortie glanced skyward. “The hardest part of an outdoor wedding is the weather. Hopefully, the rain will hold off. Otherwise, we’re going to have some soggy puff pastry asparagus spirals.”

  “And Julia would most definitely not approve of that.”

  “Very true,” Shortie chuckled. “Though I think I’d worry about Erin’s disapproval a bit more. Let me go get started.”

  Abigail trailed Shortie to the nearby cottage garden, where workers bustled to set up circular tables with gilded chairs to turn the lush emerald lawn into a bridal garden party. Dylan, dressed casually in jeans and a black t-shirt, hustled up, carrying an armful of ivory tablecloths. A woman, her long ponytail swinging, dashed over to take the cloths from Dylan with a simpering giggle.

  Over the past week, Abigail noticed that women turned into blithering idiots when Dylan was around. Though he tended just to ignore it and was unfailingly polite to everyone, Abigail understood. Objectively, Dylan Delaney was easily the best-looking man she'd ever seen in person, being blessed with the type of traffic stopping looks that few mere mortals got. He could easily have been a movie star. But Dylan's good looks left Abigail cold. Abigail preferred kind and sweet men like Shortie. Something about Shortie set her instantly at ease, in a way she couldn't ever recall being around anyone.

  Not that it mattered as men didn’t ever seem to notice her at all.

  “Hey, Abby, Erin’s setting up at the bridal cottage. Can you go give her a hand?” Dylan called as he headed back down the path to the parking lot.

  “Is it always this frantic?” Abigail asked Shortie. She eyed the workers bustling among the tables, busier than the bees buzzing in the flowers.

  “You kidding?” Shortie shook his head. “This is totally under control.”

  With a wave to Shortie, Abigail headed off to find the bridal cottage. When she arrived, Erin was in the midst of her pre-bridal arrival checklist. She handed Abigail an acrylic clipboard painted with ladybugs, with a thick sheaf of papers on top. Abigail glanced through the paper. “How many checklists do you have?”

  "For today or just generally?" Erin asked as she arranged a small crystal vase of cut roses on the mirrored vanity table, never pausing in her brisk movements. "You want to grab the white tulle out of the tote and help me drape it around this mirror?"

  By the time the bridal party arrived, just before ten, Erin and Abby had transformed the bridal cottage into a welcoming, cozy space for the bride to relax in pampered comfort before the ceremony. The bride, her makeup and hair already complete, perched on a wingback chair, wrapped in a silk robe until it was time to don her gown, a perfectly chilled glass of champagne in her hand. Her bridesmaids, dressed in sunshine yellow, buzzed around the mirrors like bees to flowers while a photographer snapped photos. Peppy music poured from somewhere, barely audible over the happy chatter.

  “Hey, are you good with kids?” Erin grabbed Abigail’s arm and nodded toward a young pre-teen girl seated in the corner, her chin on her fists as she scowled at the floor.

  “I guess?” Abigail answered. She had slightly more experience with kids than she did with being a bridesmaid but neither amounted to much.

  “Can you do something to cheer her up? I’ve got to keep the bride calm and happy.”

  “Hey, I’m Abigail. What’s your name?” Abby approached the girl, keeping her voice low and gentle.

  “Riley.” The girl answered in a bored voice, her mouth tugged down at the corners. A tendril of her dark brown hair slipped from her updo. Riley pushed it back with a sigh, her brown eyes watery with the start of tears.

  “You don’t look too happy to be in the bridal party, Riley,” Abby knelt next to the chair to bring her eye level with the girl.

  “I’m not,” the girl crossed her arms over her chest, her lower lip trembling.

  “How do you know the bride?”

  “Caro’s my sister.”

  “You’re not happy about being in her wedding?”

  "Not as the flower girl! I'm ten years old,” Riley plucked at the tier of ruffles on her ivory dress. "I should have been a junior bridesmaid, but Caro insisted on all her stupid sorority sisters instead."

  “Why don’t we go for a walk? Get a snack?” Abigail suggested when se
veral of the bridesmaids—she had no hope of remembering all their names—turned to glare at Riley’s outburst.

  “I don’t want a snack.”

  “I do. Will you come with me?”

  Riley sighed heavily, the put-upon ennui of a prepubescent teen, and followed Abigail out of the room into the bright sunshine.

  “I like your dress,” Abby complimented her as they strolled through the rose garden.

  "I don’t,” Riley snapped. "I wanted this gorgeous purple satin one I saw, but Caro insisted on this babyish thing. Have you ever seen so many ruffles?"

  “It does have lots of ruffles,” Abby agreed easily, trying not to smile at the image of Riley in a bright purple gown with the bridesmaids all in yellow. “But the ivory color brings out your lovely eyes.”

  “Whatever.”

  "I get it. You don't like your dress. I understand that's a common bridal party problem." Abigail halted beside the trees that lined the path to the cottage garden. The lawn looked like a bridal bower, with gorgeous floral centerpieces on each table, tulle wrapped fairy lights in the trees, and perfect place settings at each seat. Behind the cottage, Shortie arranged canapés on a silver serving platter, smiling and laughing with his crew as they prepared. He waved, and she waved back.

  “Whatever,” Riley rolled her eyes.

  “But it’s your sister’s wedding day. Maybe you could be grown up about it instead.” In Abby’s experience, most adults treated kids too much like they were babies. If you treated them like adults, they usually lived up to it. “You don’t want everyone remembering how you acted so spoiled and bratty, do you?”

  “I suppose not,” Riley touched one of the pink azaleas and then jumped back. “A bee.”

  She swatted the bee, knocking it towards Abby. As though time slowed, the bee tumbled through the air, buzzing, straight toward Abby’s face. She put her hands up in a hopeless attempt to ward it off. The bee’s downy fuzz brushed the back of Abby’s hand before the searing pain of the stinger embedding in her flesh hit. Abby cried out, as much from surprise as pain.

  “Did it sting you?” Riley exclaimed, her voice shrill.

  Abby cradled her throbbing hand to her chest, her eyes watering from the sudden pain. Seconds later, Shortie arrived at Abby’s side, panting from his dash across the lawn. He clasped her shoulders, turning her to face him, and tilted her face up. “What is it?”

  "A bee stung her," Riley said. "On her hand."

  Gently, Shortie clasped Abigail’s hand between his and pulled it away from her chest. He turned her hand over, tracing the reddening welt gently. A black dot sat in the center of the growing bump. “The stinger’s still in it.”

  Never dropping her hand, he pulled out his wallet and fumbled with it one handed. Shortie yanked out a credit card. With quick efficiency, he scraped the plastic over her hand, pulling the stinger from her swollen flesh. Abby gasped, tears spilling out of the corners of her eyes, even as the burning lessened.

  “You’re not allergic, are you?” Shortie asked, concern on his face. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness.

  Abby shook her head, pressing her cheek to his palm. “I don’t think so.”

  "You've never been stung before?" Shortie draped an arm around her shoulders, ushering her toward the catering area. "Let's get some ice, and I think I've got Benadryl in the first aid kit."

  "Riley, can you find your way back to the bridal cottage?" Abby asked. The girl nodded, her face pinched with guilt. She trotted off, and Abby reached for her phone.

  “What are you trying to do with that?”

  “Text Erin.”

  “I got that.” Shortie dropped his arm from her shoulders and tapped on his own phone for a bit. Abigail missed the warmth of his arm and then chided herself for being silly. He was just being kind. He opened the sliding door of his catering van and helped her to sit on the edge of the cargo area. He rummaged in the front section and came up with a battered green metal first aid kit.

  "That looks like an antique," Abigail commented. She flexed her hand. The swelling seemed slightly better than before Shortie removed the stinger, even though the welt still throbbed.

  “We keep it stocked. Don’t worry,” Shortie handed her a rattling bottle of pills. “Let me get some baking soda and make a paste like my gramps used to. You’ll be good as new.”

  After heading over to the cooking area, Shortie rushed back to her side with a tiny prep bowl of white paste. He splashed water on her hand before smoothing the thick paste on with his long fingers. He wrapped her hand in a blue checkered dishtowel filled with ice, cooling the sting, and held it there. Idly, he rubbed his thumb over her wrist, and her awareness narrowed to that simple touch.

  “What’s your real name?” Abigail blurted.

  He glanced up at her, his blue eyes nearly exactly matching the color of the spring Savannah sky and full of amusement. “Angus James.”

  “Very Scottish.”

  “Indeed,” Shortie nodded, “I was named for my Gramps’ grandfather who arrived here from the Scottish highlands. My gramps was thrilled they named me after him. I used to tell him that if your name was Angus, you’d go by Shortie too!”

  Abby laughed. This close, Shortie's eyelashes were tipped with gold. He would never be handsome, but he grew more attractive as she got to know him. Or maybe that was his warm personality shining through. She drew a deep breath, scented with cinnamon and sugar. The homey scents calmed her.

  “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “What are friends for?”

  Were they friends? Abby squinted up at him and then sighed. A guy as wonderful as Shortie would never consider her anything other than a friend. She slid out of the truck and stood. "Guess I'd better let you get back to work."

  “See you later, Abby-cakes.”

  At just after four that afternoon, Shortie arrived at the Savannah Ponds recreation center, bearing foil-wrapped trays of leftovers for the residents to enjoy. He strolled into the sunny atrium and waved to the stooped gentleman manning the front desk, his navy-blue baseball cap on backward, as though he were 50 years younger.

  “Hey, George!” Shortie greeted him. “Brought you some leftover wedding cake.”

  "Shortie!" Slowly, George high-fived him with his palsied hand, dotted with age spots. Shortie set the foil-wrapped trays on the marble counter and leaned against it. He ignored his throbbing feet, aching from working since before dawn, and dredged up a smile for George. When George struggled with the corner of the tightly wrapped foil, Shortie eased up the edge and handed him a small slice of cake.

  “That’s all for now,” Shortie said. “Ms. Edna will scold.”

  “I can handle her. Got lots of practice after 50 years,” George waved a hand. “How you been, Shortie? Heard you’re in the wedding catering business now.”

  “Been doing a few weddings here and there.”

  “That and The Pie Plate must keep you hopping.”

  “Keeps me out of trouble.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You should come by and—“ But Shortie’s invitation was cut off by a beautiful, clear voice singing the first verse of Amazing Grace from the next room. “What’s that?”

  Shortie followed the singing to the French doors leading to the sunny lanai across from the reception desk. He peeked inside. Near the windows, two older women sat facing him, one champagne blonde and the other an improbable orange. A woman with chestnut brown hair sat with her back to him. The blonde woman caught sight of him first, and the singing stopped as the brunette turned. Abby?

  “Shortie?” Abby scrambled to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

  "Just brought some leftovers that I thought the guys here might enjoy," Shortie asked. "How's the hand?"

  “Fine.” Abby wrapped her brown sweater around herself, tugging the cuffs down over her hands. “Thanks again.”

  Shortie shrugged and stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He hadn’t done any
thing for Abby that he wouldn’t do for anyone else. When he heard her scream echo across the rose garden, his knees went weak. But she was just a friend. He’d feel the same way if Erin screamed. Maybe. Probably. Possibly. His protective instinct for Abby didn’t mean anything.

  “Abigail, aren’t you going to introduce us?” The champagne blonde interrupted, her tone imperious.

  “Oh, yes! Sorry,” Abby waved between them, flustered. “Shortie Campbell, this is my grandmother, Nancy McCarthy, and her roommate, Linda Olson.”

  “Shortie?” Her grandmother repeated. “Is this the gentleman that helped you after you toppled into the mud?”

  “Abby didn’t so much topple as get dragged by Jasper,” Shortie plastered on his best charming smile and shook her hand. “He’s just a puppy, ma’am.”

  "Abigail says you own a restaurant," Nancy said, “and you're a caterer."

  "Yes, ma'am," Shortie answered. "I just stopped by with some leftover wedding cake."

  “Cake?” Linda spoke for the first time in a nasally northern accent. “Young man, did George put out that cake already?”

  “I dunno. He was eating a piece when I heard Abby here singing,” Shortie smiled at Abby. “You have a beautiful voice.”

  "She does, but she doesn't use it enough,” Her grandmother sniffed. Spots of color bloomed in Abby's cheeks before she ducked her head shyly, clearly uncomfortable with praise.

  “The Romeos always know when there is free food about. We gotta get a move on,” Linda leapt from her chair with surprising agility. “Got your warpaint, Nan?”

  “If you mean my lipstick, yes,” Abby’s grandmother stood and brushed her lips an inch from Abby’s cheek in a quick air kiss. She stage-whispered to Abby, “It wouldn’t hurt you to put on some color with a handsome young man around.”

  Abby flushed harder as her grandmother and Linda trotted down the hall toward the dining area, leaving Abby and Shortie entirely alone.