Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  And that’s not all. My instinct says something else is very wrong with the situation, except I can’t quite grasp what that is. By the time I figure it out, it’s probably going to be too late.

  Suddenly, my stomach roils violently. I try to turn away, but it’s too late. I projectile-vomit all over the shiny hood.

  “Oh shit!” Whiskey jumps out of the car.

  Since there’s no food in my belly, it’s mostly clear liquid. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t gross. I yank my hands off the metal and take a couple of steps back, too sick to calculate what it’s going to take to clean this thing.

  If only my day would end now. This craptastic incident is going to culminate in Whiskey yelling at me over this damned fancy puke-mobile, even though this is one hundred percent his fault for trying to kidnap my sister. I gird myself for a fight, but all he does is put a gentle hand on my back. “Are you okay?”

  “If you hadn’t tried to kid—” Wait. Did he just ask if I’m okay? I frown at him. “What did you say?”

  He gives me the slightly exasperated look of a man annoyed with a dimwitted toddler. “I asked if you were okay.”

  “Uh.” I glance at the car and finally notice it’s a Maserati, the kind of vehicle men fantasize about. The kind they worship. “You aren’t upset about the car?” Everyone I know would be pissed off. Hell, I’d be pissed off.

  “Huh?” He notes the condition of the hood, then shrugs. “Nothing that can’t be washed.” His eyes skim over my face. “You don’t look so good.”

  He grabs a wad of Kleenex from his car and blots the sweat on my forehead and temples. His touch is incredibly tender. My brain is trying to reconcile this with the man I met two weeks ago—the fun, carefree type who fucked like a god.

  Most guys I know don’t do caring very well. And I can’t quite figure out what to make of his reaction.

  At the same time, I can’t forget he’s crazy enough to kidnap a woman from her own wedding, even if he did think it was me.

  I cross my arms. “How did you find me?”

  “Well…technically I found your sister.”

  “Yeah, whatever. How’d you do it?”

  “The tab.”

  The unfairness of the universe is unbelievable. “The club told you?” The hotel clerk was so freakin’ rude to me when I asked for his name, but the club just handed over my sister’s name? “They just told you?”

  “They wouldn’t normally. I know the owner.”

  Of course he knows the owner. Ugh. Just my luck. This is why I go to clubs that aren’t as cool and hip as Z.

  “qo’ ’oHbe’ ’IH,” I mutter. It’s Klingon for “The world is unjust.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I’m too tired and sick to explain it. “How did you know I was here?”

  “The wedding announcement.”

  Of course. The damned wedding announcement. I swear they exist only to let anonymous one-night stands track you down.

  He peers at me. “Do you want to sit down?”

  What I want is to see what’s left of the ceremony. But I’m too embarrassed to go over there, especially with Dad having overheard the thing about me and the one-night stand. What will Mom say? What do I say to her? And how on earth am I going to face Joe’s parents?

  Forget watching the rest of the ceremony. I want to go bang my head against a palm tree and just erase the last fifteen minutes.

  But since it isn’t possible to selectively delete memory, I say, “Yeah.”

  Whiskey takes me to the passenger seat, and I sit down gingerly. It’s a convertible, so I can just hang my head over the side if my gut decides to empty itself out again.

  He settles behind the wheel. “So. Your name is Pascal. And the last name is Snyder.”

  “Yeah.” So much for anonymous fun. Sighing, I try to look at the bright side. Like…how I was hoping to run into him later anyway. But really, couldn’t he have waited until my promotion first? “And you?”

  A second of hesitation. “Court.”

  I nod. It’s a good name. Solid. Strong. I like it entirely too much.

  I rub my forehead. What’s wrong with me, thinking about how much I like the guy’s name in a situation like this? He’s proven himself seriously unstable. Who kidnaps a bride from her wedding just because you think you slept with her once?

  I should be repelled by his…weirdness. But instead, my hormones are lighting up like a conifer on Christmas. They also note he’s painfully gorgeous with the Hawaiian breeze stirring his dark hair and the sun giving a golden glow to his skin. His eyes are the most perfect shade of blue, and I feel like I could stare at them forever.

  Temporary fling, Pascal. You have bigger goals than hooking up with a guy.

  And no matter how wrung out and lightheaded I am at the moment, I must not forget that he’s insane. And criminally inclined. He tried to kidnap Curie. He’s probably a mafia boss or something. Although…do mafia bosses come this young and good-looking?

  To hide my discomfiture, I clear my throat and shift a bit. “So. Why are you here?”

  He pulls out a folded bill from his pocket. “Remember this?”

  I stare at it for a second, then pull back upon recognition. The fifty dollars that I left him. It waves like a flag of shame between his fingers. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “What’s the meaning of this? I thought you could do math better.”

  The shield that never fails to go up every time somebody questions my competence snaps into position. “Of course. I studied math in college.”

  He looks at me up and down. “Where? Five-dollar-diploma-dot-com?”

  “The University of Chicago,” I say between clenched teeth. Then, very deliberately, I relax my jaw. He probably jumped to the wrong conclusion. The amount is inexplicable and weird. “I didn’t mean to leave you only fifty bucks, okay? That’s all I had at that time. I went back to the room to add to it.”

  Propping his elbow on the headrest, he leans closer. “How much?”

  I purse my lips with annoyance. Does he think I’m that ignorant? I know how much a suite like where we stayed costs. “About five hundred.”

  He considers. “That’s not bad, although I think an orgasm from me is worth at least a hundred bucks.”

  “What? You charge by the orgasm?” Is he, like, a hooker? “Did you get into trouble with your pimp?”

  I thought hookers were mostly women, but that’s probably sexist. There’s nothing that says men can’t do it, although it would be such a waste if Court was a gigolo. He’s too handsome and nice… Actually, being good-looking and great in bed probably makes him very good at his job. A high earner for sure.

  And why does that bother me so damn much?

  “My pimp? Did you think I was trolling for”—he has trouble finding the right word—“a client at the club?”

  “Well. Not at the time.”

  “Then why did you leave me the money?”

  He’s upset about that? “I was trying to pay for my portion of the room.”

  “But I already took care of it. Didn’t you see me give them my credit card?”

  “So? I pay my own way. We both used the room, so why should you pay for everything?”

  He stares at me like I just spoke some more Klingon. Maybe I should have, since he doesn’t seem to comprehend anything anyway.

  “Are you rich?” he asks.

  Maybe he fell out of the bed and cracked his skull after our one-night stand. “I don’t understand what that has to do with anything, but no, I’m not rich. I do, however, have a job, and I do make my own money.”

  He runs a hand over his face, then stares at me like an English major facing a multivariable calculus problem. “It’s just that…I never met a woman who insisted on splitting the bill when there was no, you know, obligation.”

  My head is hurting, and I don’t have the energy to explain, but I plow on. Somehow it’s very important that he understand. “I think it’s smart to pay your
own way. That way, there aren’t any weird expectations.”

  “You mean like wanting to have brunch the next morning and possibly exchanging phone numbers?”

  “Look, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I had to leave because I was scheduled to meet Curie to help her with the wedding stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I don’t know why you came all the way to track me down. Most people would just try email or something,” I say, my exasperation growing. “What would you have done if I were really getting married?”

  Court runs his long fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Ask what the hell you were doing with me?”

  He isn’t quite meeting my eyes. The reddish tint on his face is from more than the sun. I start to speak, but his attention shifts. I look over my shoulder and see Dad standing there, staring at the two of us.

  The sun glints off the silver streaking his otherwise brown hair, and his eyes are narrowed. Anxiety knots in my throat.

  “Hi,” I say, but it comes out a nervous squeak. “I thought you were going to go back to the wedding.”

  “The ceremony’s finished.” The lines between Dad’s eyebrows deepen.

  Oh crap. This can’t be good. What’s he going to do? If he plans to yell at me, surely he can wait until Court’s gone.

  “You.” Dad points at Court, some kind of calculation taking place behind his unreadable expression. “Since you’re here, you might as well join the reception.”

  “What?” I squeak. “But why?”

  Court glances at me. Say no, I will him. If ever there was a time for telepathy…!

  His mind deflects me like a coat of Teflon. “Sure,” he says with a smile that belongs in a bank commercial—inspiring trust and confidence.

  “Pascal, you should’ve said something about him earlier so we could avoid the…spectacle.”

  Dread descends like a cluster of heavy clouds. Dad actually swung a bat at one of my exes when I snuck out with him in high school. (Thankfully, he missed.) There’s no way this is a friendly gesture. “Yes, Dad. Sorry.”

  “If you were just more like Curie—”

  “I think Skit—Pascal is great,” Court says.

  “Do you, now?” Something light and glowing breaks through the dark thunderclouds in my dad’s expression.

  That’s either an “I forgive you” or an “I’m going to stab you in the back in the first opportunity” look. Since I don’t know which, I say, “I feel sick again. I really need to lie down.” To add verisimilitude, I put a hand over my belly and moan with as much pathos as I can muster.

  “Pascal, you should’ve seen a doctor,” Dad says, crouching closer. His voice is full of sympathy, which means he’s buying my act.

  A hand pats my back—Court’s hand. “I’ll take her to her room and make sure she rests.”

  “You?” Dad squints.

  “I studied nursing for a while.” Court flashes him another of his trusty bank-commercial smiles.

  “Well then.” Dad leans closer and whispers, “Don’t do anything your sister wouldn’t do.”

  “Okay,” I say, although I have no clue what he means. Curie’s been with Joe since high school, and there’s very little she wouldn’t do with him.

  “The reception’s starting. Your mom’s holding her own, but…”

  “Yeah, you should be there for her and for everyone, really,” I say.

  Dad gives Court and me an inscrutable look, then leaves.

  I slump in my seat until Dad’s out of sight. Then I reach for the door.

  “What are you doing?” Court asks.

  “Going back to my room.”

  “Didn’t you hear me tell your dad I’d keep an eye on you?”

  I stare at him, unsure why he’s asking me this. I can’t think of a guy who’d voluntarily play nurse to a sick woman. It isn’t like Court and I are anything. We just slept together once. “You can’t be serious.”

  “More serious than prostate cancer.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, doing my best not to snort at his choice of disease. “You didn’t study nursing.” If he did, I majored in quantum physics.

  “I read a biography on Florence Nightingale. Picked up some stuff.” He makes a circle around his face. “And this mug of mine is known to cure many female ailments.”

  “And the source of your boundless ego,” I mutter in Klingon.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” This is one good thing about speaking a language not that many can understand. I can say what I want.

  “Where are you staying?” he asks, starting the car.

  He’s not going to give up. A guy who flew all the way here to screw up a wedding isn’t going to just roll over.

  I have no idea what his idea of nursing is, but I gotta marshal all my strength to deal with his persistence.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pascal

  “You really don’t have to. I think I threw up enough, and really, I’m just going to lie down. It’s going to be super boring,” I say for the tenth time in the elevator.

  “Cool. I like boring,” Court says.

  I want to punch him. But I won’t because I’m a civilized person. Also because my punch is going to make him laugh rather than give up and go home. I can’t even fart to horrify him because speaking Klingon doesn’t make me one.

  “Besides, I promised your dad.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Least I could do after ruining his daughter’s wedding.”

  Crap. That makes me feel worse, because it was really my fault. “Fine,” I say between my teeth.

  We enter my room. Housekeeping’s come by, so it’s tidy now. I grab a shirt and shorts from the dresser. “I’m going to change. Stay here and do nothing.”

  “Gotcha. Nothing. Take your time.”

  I go to the bathroom and lock it with a loud click. The mirror shows an extra-pale, extra-tired woman. Probably all my pigment got used up doing the Technicolor yawn.

  First things first. I brush my teeth with extra toothpaste to get the taste of the stomach acid off my tongue. Once I’m satisfied, I change out of my dress and put on the comfy shirt and shorts. Then, without thinking about it, I reapply my lipstick. The second I’m done, I groan silently. It looks like I’m trying to impress him. Ugh, Pascal!

  I pluck a Kleenex, start to wipe it off, then stop with a loud groan this time. Now he’s going to know I wiped it off.

  Annoyed with myself, I toss the crumpled tissue in a bin and walk out. The only thing that matters here is making myself extra clear to Court. I wasn’t kidding when I told Curie no dating until promotion.

  When I’m out, Court herds me to the bed. “Sit,” he says.

  “Aren’t you supposed to say lie down?” I blurt, then bite my tongue. That sounds like I’m flirting or something, doesn’t it?

  “Not yet. Can I borrow your phone for a sec?” he says. “I want to check something.”

  “What happened to your phone?”

  “It’s got a problem. I can’t use it.”

  “Okay.” I put in my passcode and hand it over.

  He taps a few keys. His phone buzzes, then goes quiet. He hands my phone back to me.

  “What’s that about?” she asks.

  “I put my number in for you. Just in case you need to get in touch.”

  Does he honestly think we’ll be texting and calling each other? “You’re the one who followed me here. And didn’t you get my number too?”

  “Yeah. So next time we can do that email thing you mentioned, like civilized people.” He pops a can of icy-cold Coke and hands it to me. “Here.”

  I take it automatically, then stare at it like it’s a coiled snake. “Where did you get this?”

  “The minibar.” He gives me a slightly indulgent look that says he’s not going to rag on me because I’m obviously sick. “Want me to call for ice?”

  I cringe. “You know this Coke isn’t worth the twenty bucks th
e hotel will charge, right?”

  “It is now.” He places a few bills on the dresser, then takes a chair by the bed. “There. I’m paying.”

  “But—”

  “Coke is a cure-all for stomach issues.”

  I give him a dubious look. “Right, Mr. I Read Florence Nightingale’s Biography.”

  “Don’t knock it. It’s got a lot of useful information.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like how patients should just do as their nurses say without any back talk.” He points at the can. “Now drink, before it gets warm.”

  I take a sip. It’s surprisingly refreshing. Without intending to, I down more than half fairly quickly. “Anyway, you don’t have to pay for it,” I say.

  “I insist. It’s up to the nurse to provide what the patient needs.”

  “So you can bill me a hundred bucks for it?”

  “I would never try to wrangle compensation.” A wicked gleam sparks in his eyes. “Not money, anyway.”

  His brilliant smile tells me everything I need to know about what he wants. And the problem is that it’s too damn tempting, like a Garden of Eden apple. But I remind myself of the big picture I have for my life. I can’t give that up for some momentary fun. “Look, Court, I’m flattered by your…” I search for an adequate word. Stalking, obsession and insanity are probably not what I should go for here. “Your, uh, interest…and determination…but really, it isn’t going to work. I’m not dating anybody anyway.”

  “Really?” He arches his eyebrows. “Explain, because I’m lost.”

  I don’t think I said anything too esoteric. “What I mean is, I’m not interested in a relationship.”

  “Ever?” He leans closer, his gaze turning quite intense. “Were you secretly hoping to land that Joe guy yourself?”

  The damned Coke goes down the wrong way. I cough and sputter. “No! What are you… You’re crazy.” I snatch the Kleenex from Court’s hand and wipe the tears in the corners of my eyes. “I’ve never felt a thing for him.”

  “So why the relationship embargo?”

  “Look, I’m up for a big promotion this year,” I say.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, I can’t jeopardize it by dating. I’ve been a junior analyst for four years at my company. I have to get promoted this year or my career is finished. Nobody stays a junior analyst unless they’re dumber than a fruit fly.”