Mayhem in High Heels (2 page)

She shrugged. "They
are
nice, Maddie."

Three against one. I didn't stand a chance. "Okay, fine. Let's do the ivory linen one."

Mom clapped her hands with delight. Gigi's eyes lit up with that dollar sign look again.

I sincerely hoped Ramirez didn't mind working overtime.

* * *

Five hours - and a mere thirty-five pages worth of people I barely knew - later, I pulled my little red Jeep up to my studio apartment in Santa Monica. Just blocks from the ocean and sandwiched in between rows of eclectic buildings that conformed to L.A.'s hodge-podge school of architecture, it was my little slice of heaven.
Little
being the operative word here. A fold-out futon and a sketch table, and I was at max capacity. Which is why Ramirez and I had decided that I would move into his place after the wedding. Unlike me, he had an actual house. With an actual bedroom. And closets. Oh man, did he have closets. Little did he know they'd all soon be filled with shoes.

But I had to admit, a part of me was going to miss my little studio. It might be small, but it was cozy, quaint, and I'd come to love it.

I fit my key in the lock and shoved the door open.

"Hey, honey, I'm home," Ramirez said, grinning at me as he flipped channels on my TV.

I couldn't help it. My hormones did that little happy "squee!" they always did when I saw him. He had that tall, dark and handsome thing down to a science, his broad shoulders tapering to a compact frame. Black hair, just a little too long, curled around his ears. Dark eyes, a square jaw, and a paper-thin white scar cutting through his left eyebrow all gave him a slightly dangerous air that made women swoon and men lock up their daughters.

Luckily, my father lived two hundred miles away.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, dropping my purse on the kitchen counter and leaning in for a hello kiss.

"Mmmm... hello," he murmured against my lips, wrapping both arms around me.

I swear it was almost enough to make my afternoon with The List melt away.

"My cable was out," he said, when we finally came up for air. "Thought I'd come watch the game here. I ordered pizza, too. Should be here any minute."

"Pepperoni?"

He grinned. "With extra cheese."

The man was a god.

"So, how was your day?" he asked, settling himself on the futon as tall guys in expensive sneakers filled the TV screen.

"Ugh!" I plopped down next to him. "Don't ask. Did you know that my fourth-grade teacher is coming to our wedding?"

"Okay. Cool."

"No, not cool. I haven't seen her since I was ten! And then there's my uncle Charlie's first wife who lives in Belize, my grandmother's third cousin from Oklahoma, and the guy who sold Mom her minivan!"

Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me. "Sounds like a lot of people."

"Four hundred."

"Damn. What happened to small and intimate?"

"That's what I'd like to know," I mumbled, grabbing for the remote as a Budweiser commercial flickered across the screen. "And we're getting ivory linen place cards."

"I'm watching that."

I flipped to the news, checking the weather for tomorrow. I had this new pair of suede boots I was dying to wear, but not if there was even the slightest chance of rain. "Just a sec."

"Darlin', if I miss tip-off, I'm gonna cry."

I gave him a playful smack. But gave in, flipping back once I saw we were all sunshine for the next week. Gotta love L.A.

"So," I said, relinquishing the remote and leaning my head against Ramirez's chest, "we're doing the final cake tasting tomorrow. One o'clock."

Ramirez threw an arm around me. "We?"

"As in, you and me."

A groan rumbled beneath my ear.

"What?"

"Didn't we already pick a cake months ago?"

"Yes, but this is the final sampling to make sure everything if perfect."

Another groan. "Do I really have to be there?"

I felt a frown settle between my brows. "You should
want
to be there."

He leaned back, narrowing his eyes at me. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means, this is our wedding."

"I know. I'm just not a real wedding-y kind of guy. Can't you just taste it?"

"Alone? Come on, don't you want to have a say in the cake? Don't you want to have any input into the most memorable day of our lives? Don't you care what color the flowers are or what kind of place cards we have?"

He cocked his head to the side. "Is this a trick question?"

I threw my hands up. "This is
our
wedding, Jack. Not just mine. I want it to be special for you, too."

"And I'm sure the flavor of cake will make all the difference."

"Now you're just being sarcastic, aren't you?"

"A little."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Not the way to win points, pal."

He sighed. A big, full bodied thing that said he was wondering if he shouldn't have just stayed at home and listened to the game on the radio instead.

"Okay, if it will make you happy, I'll go sample cake tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Thank you. I'll pick you up at 12:30. But-" I held up one finger. "-you're not doing it to make me happy. You're doing it because you want to. Right?"

He shook his head at me, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Sure. I want to spend my afternoon stuffing my face with buttercream icing."

The sarcasm was thicker than my mom's mascara, but I decided to let it go, instead nestling back into the crook of his arm.

"So..." Ramirez's fingers began kneading the nape of my neck. "If we're previewing the cake, does that mean we get to preview other things, too?"

I leaned my head back and met a pair of dark eyes, simmering with that bad boy look that had me smitten from the start.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked, as his fingers kneaded lower, slipping inside my blouse and toying with my bra strap.

"The honeymoon."

I grinned, going instantly warm in all the right places.

"What about the game?" I asked, gesturing to the TV.

A wicked smile slid across his face, his lips leaning in toward mine as his eyes went from hunger to pure lust.

"What game?"

Chapter Two

I took one step up, my thighs burning in protest, my breath coming out in short, quick puffs. Then I stepped back down. Then back up again as sweat trailed in unattractive beads down the sides of my face.

"That's it, you're doing great!" Dana shouted from the front of the room. Twenty-odd stepping, sweating, groaning people (including yours truly) filled the studio, following her lead, marching to her every command like a bunch of bootcampers. Of course, Dana's was the only sweat-free forehead. Not even a ladylike glisten, every hair on her pretty blonde head in place, her cute little red work-out tank (and I do mean
little
--Dana subscribes to the 'less is more' school of fashion), not the slightest bit damp under the arms even though my actress-slash- aerobics instructor best friend had been leading the Step and Burn class for the last forty-five minutes. Me - I was sweating and grunting like a linebacker as I went up, then back down the two bright orange plastic steps in front of me.

"Three more to go. You can do it!"

I glared at my cheerleader-esque friend. I'd swear that's what she said three step routines ago.

I did the up and down thing again, my Nikes squeaking on the freshly polished gym floor as I tried (in vain) to keep up.

I'm not exactly what you'd call a health nut. I'm more of a chocolate toffee-covered-macadamia nut. On top of a mound of ice cream. Served with a brownie. While Dana was the reigning Aerobics Queen of the West Side, the only times I ever actually used my membership to the Sunset Gym were on those ninety-plus-degree days of summer when the lure of the two Olympic-sized swimming pools won out over my inherent aversion to physical activity. And even then I mostly doggy paddled.

Not that I wasn't figure conscious. In fact, at one point in my life I'd had visions of being a sleek, svelte runway model, strutting the catwalks of Milan and Paris in the most haut of couture creations. However, when my last adolescent growth spurt topped me out at 5'1 1/2", those dreams faded faster than an acid-washed jean. Instead, I'd turned my passion for fashion to design. Specifically, designing shoes. After a rocky start in the business, I was finally starting to come into my own. Okay, so I wasn't Michael Kors. But, I did have my very own line being stocked in chic boutiques throughout Beverly and the West Side. And, there was even a rumor that a certain unnamed mega-actress might be considering wearing a Maddie Springer original to the Oscars this year. (Okay, it's Angelina Jolie. How cool is that, huh?!)

So, while I was about as fashion forward as a girl could hope to be, I generally left the whole kill-yourself-at-the-gym thing to Dana. My philosophy: if the heels are high enough, everyone looks like they have runner's calves, right?

But with the Big Day looming in the not too distant future, Dana had worn me down. Especially when she'd accompanied me to the last dress fitting, where my heavenly white satin corset number had clung a little more "snugly" to my hips than I might have liked. (read: squished into the dress until I looked like pale pork sausage.) While the willowy stick-figure fitter had assured me she could make a few "adjustments" to the dress, Dana's idea of making a few trips to the gym instead had sounded like a better plan. That, of course, was before I was sweating like a hog in heat and stepping endlessly to nowhere.

"That's it! Now turn to your right!"

I turned, almost colliding with a guy in short-shorts and a headband a la Richard Simmons. "Sorry," I mumbled between gasps.

"Now throw those hands up! Whoo! You're doing great!" Dana demonstrated, shooting both hands in the air and shaking them like she was at a holy revival meeting. "That's it. Feel that burn! Isn't it great?"

I could think of a few other adjective to describe it. I raised my hands almost to head level, wincing in pain as muscles I didn't know I owned protested. I glanced up at the clock. Ten more minutes. If I survived that long, I was so rewarding myself with a mocha frappuccino when this was all over. With lots of whipped cream. I was pretty sure I was burning off a gazillion calories. I swiped an arm across my brow. Hell, with sweat alone, I'd probably lost three pounds.

"And, one more time. Let's really sprint now. Double time!" If she wasn't my best friend, I might have killed her. Dana flashed her perkiest smile, bobbing up and down like an energizer bunny on wheat grass-laced speed as she quickstepped up and down her orange stairs.

I tried to keep up, willing my feet to move as fast as they could. Up, down, left, right. I was almost in a rhythm when I slipped (probably on a drop of my own perspiration) and tipped to the right, knocking into Richard Simmons. Who was midstep and was thrown so off balance his arms flailed wildly in the air, swatting a woman in purple stretch pants in the face. Stretch Pants let out a yelp louder than a Lakers fan watching a free throw.

"That's it! Let it out. Wooo!" Dana encouraged.

I rolled my eyes, mumbling apologies to Richard Simmons as I scooted my stairs to the back of the room and ducked out the door. One midstep collision a day was enough for me.

* * *

After ten minutes in the sauna and a long, hot shower, I was beginning to feel human again. I was just stepping out of the shower, towel drying my hair in the ladies' locker room, when my cell chirped to life, displaying Ramirez's number. I flipped it open.

"Hey, you," I said.

"Hey. Listen, I've got a ton of stuff to do today."

I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "Stuff?"

"Yeah. I had to hit the shooting range this morning, and a buddy of mine called and asked if I'd help him paint his rec room."

"Paint a rec room?"

"Yeah." I heard traffic sounds in the background, cars honking and the tell-tale rumble of eighteen-wheelers.

"Where are you right now?" I asked, frowning into the phone.

"I'm on the 60. Running that guestbook for the reception out to my mom's."

I looked up at the utilitarian clock hanging on the tiled wall. 12:15. Uh oh.

"You better not be trying to bail on me, mister."

There was a short pause. Then, "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Hmmm." I made a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat.

"But, I am running a few minutes late," he said. "Why don't we just meet at the studio?"

"You
are
going to show up, right?"

"Of course!"

Only the way his voice rose half an octave didn't reassure me any. "Jack..."

"I'll be there. I promise. I'm looking forward to it. I want to be involved in our wedding and I can't wait to sample the cake."

"You're so full of shit."

"Yeah, I know. But I'm showing up anyway. See you at one."

And with that, he disconnected.

I stared down at the phone, still feeling my forehead do a Botox-worthy wrinkle between my brows.

As much as I got Ramirez's whole guy-aversion to white lace and buttercream, it left me with a distinctly unsettled feeling somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I know, I know, it's normal, right? I mean, he's a guy, and a cop guy at that. Weddings are about as girly as things come. But the fact that I had to nearly twist his arm into a pretzel to get him to even taste cake (seriously, it's cake, how bad did he think it would be?) made a small part of me worry that maybe the aversion wasn't solely wedding related. That maybe it carried over into being married related. I mean, he
had
proposed kind of suddenly. It wasn't like we'd ever discussed marriage, we'd just sort of jumped into it. Headfirst. In the shallow end. And I wondered if maybe now that the rosy glow of Paris and stolen c
afe au lait-
flavored kisses had turned into the reality of mile-long guest lists, meeting wedding planners, and running a guestbook out to his mother's in midday traffic, maybe he was regretting that leap.

"Hey, got time for lunch?" Dana asked, jogging into the locker room, still fresh faced as ever.