Stiff Suit: A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy

by Tawna Fenske

  Nope, that’s a BJ.

  “Fair enough,” James concedes, and takes a sip of his new drink.

  I scan the crowd again, playing the game by myself for a bit. I catch Bree’s eye across the grass and smile. She waves back and I can’t help running the game with her in my head. She may be four months pregnant, but she’s engaged to a hot cop, and I’m betting she keeps things spicy with sexy maternity panties. The boarding school background means she probably had a boyfriend named Ashton or Phillip the Third.

  We’re friendly enough I could ask, but I’m guessing James doesn’t want to picture his sister in her underwear.

  In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s lost interest in the game. At least I am until he brushes my arm with his elbow and nods to a couple making lovey-eyes at each other over by the barn. “Matching cotton-print briefs,” he says. “Something with hearts on them or maybe Star Wars characters in compromising positions.”

  I’m so startled I almost drop my drink. He’s paying attention? Not just paying attention, but playing along?

  I clear my throat and try to be cool. He’s right, the couple does have a certain schmoopy, geeky quality about them. “She ordered the matching underwear special for the wedding,” I add. “Right now, she’s considering slipping off to the ladies’ room to remove hers, and then she’ll come back and tuck them in his pocket so he spends the rest of the night thinking about it. About how she’s completely bare under that sweet little sundress.”

  James jerks his gaze to me. There’s alarm there, but something else. Intrigue?

  I let him stare. Let his gaze sweep me from head to toe, holding perfectly still as the question plays through his mind. I know what it looks like when a man undresses me with his eyes, and right now, James Bracelyn is wondering. Thong? Lacy bikini? Nothing at all?

  “Yolanda,” he says.

  I blink in surprise. Did he just name my lady-bits? “What?”

  “That’s the guy’s first girlfriend.”

  Oh. The couple. We’re still talking about them?

  I glance back to where the woman is indeed planting a kiss on her beau’s jawline. She slips off toward the restrooms, and I’d bet a hundred bucks she comes back with her underthings clenched tightly in a fist.

  “Yolanda,” I repeat. “You’re thinking that’s her name, or that she’s not his first?”

  “Not his first.” James lifts his glass again. It’s almost empty, and I remind myself to check on him later. There’s a sober shuttle, so I’m not worried about him driving, but I am worried he’s drinking fast and isn’t used to that. I may not know James Bracelyn, but I know the type, and I know the family, and there’s no way in hell he’s a heavy drinker. Guys wound this tight rarely are.

  “His first love was Yolanda,” James continues, “but the girl he’s with now—she’s the one he’ll stay with forever.”

  It’s such an unexpectedly sentimental observation that I turn to see if he’s kidding. His expression is stone-cold serious.

  “Forever,” I repeat.

  “Yes.” James lifts his drink again, turning his attention back out over the crowd. He scans like he’s looking for someone. Even gilded by attorney instinct and a quintuple dose of scotch, those green eyes miss nothing. I can see him cataloguing every face, every detail.

  I take a step back.

  It’s time for me to go.

  I need to do the bridesmaid thing anyway, fluffing Amber’s veil and helping her steer clear of that creepy guy who brought her Elmer’s Glue boogers in third grade.

  James turns back to me, surprised to see I’ve moved. Surprised and—disappointed? No, I’m imagining that.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I have to.” I swish the hem of my bridesmaid dress in case he’s forgotten why we’re here. “Duty calls.”

  “Right.” He sets his empty glass down on a bus tray with a surprisingly heavy thunk. “Duty has a way of doing that, doesn’t it?”

  There’s not the slightest trace of slur to his words, and he’s still ramrod straight. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never in a million years know he’d just knocked back enough Glenlivet to fell a lesser man.

  James Bracelyn can hold it together like nobody’s business.

  Maybe that’s what makes me do it. The urge to see him waver, to see that flicker in his eyes one more time.

  “Tell you what.” I lean close and lower my voice. “Come find me after photos and cake, and I’ll tell you for sure.”

  He cocks his head. “Tell me what?”

  “What you were wondering earlier?”

  I hand him my glass. There’s still two fingers of Scotch in it, but he seems to need it more than I do. “You were wondering what I’ve got on under this dress.”

  I hold perfectly still, bravado in place, hoping to God I’ve read this right.

  “Is that so?” The faintest trace of a smile catches the corners of his mouth, and he doesn’t look away. “Well, Miss—”

  “Archer,” I supply in case he’s forgotten. “Lily Archer.”

  “Lily,” he repeats, and I love the way his tongue rolls my name like he’s tasting it. “You have the most remarkably astute powers of observation.”

  “Thank you.” I keep my shoulders squared, legs primly together.

  Amber catches my eye, and I lift a hand to let her know I’m coming. That I’m not shirking my bridesmaid obligations. I take another step back.

  “It’s been lovely talking with you,” James says. “And you’re correct, of course. About my speculation over your underthings.” He takes a sip of Scotch. “Or lack thereof.”

  “Good.” I think. A shiver ripples down my spine, but it’s not unpleasant. What is it with this guy?

  “Well then,” I say, somehow holding it together. “Until we meet again.”

  Turning away, I add an extra sway to my hips as I make my way across the lawn toward Amber and the rest of the bridal party. Just before I reach them, I turn back to James.

  He lifts my glass in a toast to me.

  Then he knocks it back in one gulp, my red lipstick gleaming on the rim like a kiss that never happened but might.

  Chapter 2

  JAMES

  I wake to a dull pounding in my head.

  At least I think it’s in my head, though it may be an army of scorpions hammering at my temples with tiny mallets.

  As I crack open an eyelid to check, I realize there’s entirely too much light in this bedroom. Also, it’s not my bedroom.

  Where the hell am I?

  I sit up too fast and instantly regret it, along with all my life choices. The room whirls in unfamiliar hues of pale yellow and lavender, and I grip the edge of a white iron headboard to keep from falling over.

  When nausea subsides, I squint to take in the details. White cotton duvet fringed in eyelet. A framed abstract painting dripping in swirls of blue and magenta. A tasteful vase of yellow daisies on a white-painted dresser. A purple chair draped in silky pink underthings. My gaze snags there and holds for a few beats as I struggle to assemble it all into a story that makes sense.

  When footsteps click closer, I freeze like a pervert shoplifting in a porn shop.

  “Good morning.”

  I jerk my head way too fast. “Ow.”

  “Sorry.” The stunning redhead in the doorway moves toward me, hand outstretched.

  I stare at the back of her knuckles thinking she wants me to kiss her hand, and there’s this awkward moment between me leaning forward and her flipping her palm up to reveal two oblong pills.

  “Tylenol,” she says. “I thought you might need it. There’s Tums in the medicine cabinet, too.”

  Her eyes are a soft flinty gray, and they flit over my chest as she drops the pills into my palm. It’s then I realize I’m not wearing a shirt. Stealing a glance down at the duvet, I wonder if I’m pants-less, too.

  The redhead glances down at the same time, and I swear she just gave a knowing smirk. What does that mean?r />
  Stalling for time, I accept the pills and glass of water with mumbled thanks as I struggle to recall how I got here.

  Flashes of memory blast me like clips from bad movie previews—me at the head of the Bracelyn family table swilling Glenlivet from the bottle while my brothers laugh and slap me on the back.

  My cousin, Brandon, high-fiving me. Bree doubled with laughter, wheezing that she had no idea I could breakdance.

  Fuck.

  “Are you okay?” The redhead—Lily, that’s her name—lowers herself to the edge of the bed, forehead creased in concern.

  “Certainly.” The word comes out flat and unconvincing, so I try again.

  “What happened?” My voice is more of a croak, so I toss back the Tylenol and chase it with the water. It’s cool and wonderful going down, and I hope to God I won’t find out what it’s like coming back up.

  “You had a little too much to drink,” she offers.

  There’s the understatement of the century.

  I set the glass on the nightstand and turn to face her. Her eyes are kind, almost pitying, and that’s definitely not something I’m used to. “How bad was I?”

  She tilts her head and gives me a curious look. “In bed?”

  Oh, God. I was really that out of control?

  I drag my fingers through my hair. It’s too much work to hold my head up, so I drop it into my hands and address my next words into the depths of the duvet. “We—slept together?”

  Lily laughs, but there’s a sharpness to it. Or maybe everything sounds harsh right now with my gray matter throbbing like a stubbed toe.

  “You don’t have to sound so horrified about sleeping with me,” she says, shifting a little so the bed bounces. “Let’s see, you kicked things off by doing a striptease in my front yard.”

  “Christ, no.” I can’t look up. Can’t meet her eyes.

  “Don’t worry, I got you inside when the neighbors started shouting song requests and throwing spare change.”

  “Holy fuck.”

  Lily keeps right on going. “Then we came in, and you started tearing my clothes off with your teeth,” she continues. “If your gums feel raw, it’s from the sequins.”

  “This can’t be happening.” It can’t, it really can’t. My whole life, I’ve never lost control this way. Not once, not even when my father—

  “Once we got to the bedroom,” she continues, oblivious to my spiral of self-hate. “You asked me to paddle you with a rubber spatula while you ate Pringles out of my cleavage.”

  “No.”

  “And then you put on my red bustier and did me from behind while yelling ‘ride ‘em, cowgirl! Giddyup.’”

  That’s it. It’s done. My life as I know it is over. I’ll ask Bree to draft a press release resigning my duties as CEO and—

  “Hey, Iceman.” Her hand is cool on the back of my neck and it eases the coiled tension there. “Relax. I’m teasing you.”

  “What?”

  I raise my head and look into those speckled eyes again. Flecks of gold shimmer in pools of thunderstorm gray, and I get lost there for a second.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d take me seriously,” she says. “You acted so appalled at the thought of sleeping with me, I thought I’d flip you some shit.”

  “We—didn’t sleep together?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Please. You were way past the point of consent. Even if you begged me to—which, for the record, you did—I’m not that kind of girl.”

  I close my eyes and another memory flickers behind my eyelids. Lily tucking me into this cool, white bed as I blathered on about the beauty of her eyes and how I’ve always wanted to kiss a redhead. The softness of her hair against my cheek, her lips against my forehead—those are the last things I remember before she turned and floated out of the room on a cloud of flowery fragrance.

  Swallowing hard, I steel myself to offer the words I suspect I’ll be echoing all day.

  “I owe you an apology.” I clear my throat, wishing desperately for a rewind button on my life. Wishing I hadn’t been a huge ass to this beautiful woman who’s been nothing but kind. “I’m completely appalled by my behavior, and so unbelievably sorry about—”

  “James, relax.” It’s the millionth time someone’s said that to me in thirty-four years, and the second time Lily’s said it in five minutes. For some reason, my shoulders obey, easing just the tiniest bit while the rest of me stays on high alert.

  “It’s okay, really,” she says. “It happens to the best of us.”

  “Not me,” I tell her. “Not ever, I swear.”

  “I know.” There’s that sympathy again, in her voice and in her eyes. “You kept telling me that over and over. It’s why I brought you here.”

  “I’m not following.” Maybe because I pickled my brain.

  “You were freaking out at the reception. You kept talking about being out of control, how you didn’t want everyone to see you like that, so I smuggled you out after the bouquet toss.”

  Another flash of memory hits me and I grimace. “Please tell me I didn’t catch it.”

  “Of course not.” She grins. “I did.”

  “Oh.”

  She tilts her head and tucks a coppery curl behind her ear. “So, you’re okay with a June wedding?”

  More blood exits my brain. “I—”

  “Kidding, sheesh.” She laughs and hops off the bed. “Trust me, I dodge those things like grenades.”

  “Bridal bouquets?”

  “Marriage in general. No offense, Iceman, but you could get down on one knee juggling watermelons with a six-carat diamond between your teeth and a twelve-inch salami in your pants, and I’d politely decline your heartfelt—albeit, very weird—proposal.”

  I pause for a moment on that mental picture, not sure what to make of it, but distracted by the way Lily’s breasts fill out the front of her blouse. I might not remember much from last night, but I definitely remember that. If I had to be rescued by someone, I certainly got lucky with her. “You’re beautiful.”

  The words fall out before I’ve thought them through, and I’m left wondering if I pickled my own impulse control, too.

  “Thank you.” She smiles, taking it all in stride, as she bends down to grab a sweater that’s slipped off the back of the purple chair. Her blouse rides up in back, and I catch a glimpse of two scars on her low back, one on each side of her spine. I wonder what they are, what it would feel like to press my lips against that soft, sweet swath of pale skin.

  I look away fast as she straightens up and turns back to face me.

  “Look, I have to get to work.” A smile tugs the edges of her mouth, and she knows damn well I was checking her out. “There’s coffee in the kitchen, and I left the toaster out. Magma—that’s my dog, you met her last night—she’s sunbathing out back. She’ll probably come in and sniff you when you get up. Just let yourself out when you’re ready.”

  “I—” It’s the second time I’ve tried starting a sentence like that, and it occurs to me I shouldn’t keep focusing on myself. “You’re just going to let a strange man wander your house alone?”

  “You’re not that strange.” She smirks. “Potato chip kinks aside.”

  “God.” Even knowing she’s kidding, I fear there’s a sliver of truth to it. I really do like Pringles, not that I’ve ever admitted that to anyone.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “For rescuing me. For being so gracious about all of this.”

  “No sweat.” She’s already halfway across the bedroom, but she turns back to face me from the doorway. “You’d do the same for someone in trouble.”

  In trouble. Is that what I was?

  My brain zig-zags to the reason I got so deep into the Glenlivet last night, and a slither of unease swirls through my veins. “Let me make it up to you somehow.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Please,” I insist.

  She considers me from the doorway, impossibly long legs planted firmly in a pair of sexy
heels. “Fine,” she says. “You can take me to dinner sometime. I leave the lab at four most weekdays.”

  “Lab.” I struggle to recall what she told me about her job last night. Waitressing? Something to do with hair removal? “That’s—a bar or a day spa or something?”

  Lily folds her arms over her chest and regards me like I’m the kid who just blurted “boobies” in Sunday school.

  “The lab,” she repeats. “As in the U.S. Geological Survey’s satellite lab in Central Oregon. I’m a volcanologist?”

  I stare at her, trying to make sense of her words and figure out if there’s some Vulcan-mind-meld joke I’m missing here. My brain isn’t firing on all cylinders.

  She shakes her head, taking my silence as disbelief. “I have a bachelor’s degree in geophysics and a PhD in geology,” she says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a bartender or an aesthetician, but that’s not my line of work.”

  I open my mouth to apologize again, but she holds up her hand. “Don’t,” she says, giving me a smile that’s much kinder than I deserve. “I really do have to run. But if you find yourself reflecting on the value of not judging someone based on how they look or what secrets they’re guarding or how they behave in stressful moments—like, say, a wedding—and you realize people are complex animals worthy of thoughtful consideration instead of snap judgments, you can give me a call.”

  I’m still processing that cheerful verbal smackdown as she turns and strides out the door. A few seconds later, a door thuds shut at the other end of the house, followed by the growl of a garage door opening. I ease out of bed—thank God, I’m wearing boxers—in time to see a shiny white pickup truck backing out of the garage.

  I hadn’t pegged her as a truck kind of girl, and I’m mulling that as her words wash through my brain.

  “—if you find yourself reflecting on the value of not judging someone based on how they look or what secrets they’re guarding or how they behave in stressful moments—"

  Wait. What secrets did I share?

  Ice slithers through my veins, but I choose to ignore it and focus on the positive. My car is in the driveway, which means she was kind enough to drive me here. Also, I’m not naked, and my boxers are modestly buttoned at the fly. Did Lily take my pants off or did I?