Never the Bride (3 page)

He props his sunglasses on top of his head and grins, and by “grins” I mean melts my heart. “I’ve got something to show you!” He takes my hand and guides me through a small crowd. We are walking the opposite direction of my work, toward a two-block stretch of quaint shops.

He drops my hand and starts talking with his hands, which I notice immediately because usually he has them stuffed deep into his painter jeans. “She called the company this morning, asked for our help designing the inside of her shop. It’s right up here.”

I eye him suspiciously. “You build homes…”

“I know, but I think she just called, maybe because it’s my dad’s company, but—”

“Who?”

He stops and gestures toward a storefront. It’s obviously unoccupied, but inside a couple of people are milling around. One in particular is catching Blake’s eye. And mine. The plain glass window is busy with reflections of the street, but through all that I can see her. She’s practically glowing among the dust and clutter of an unfinished
room. And bending over. Let’s just say she’s…taut. All of her. Head to toe. Even her neck looks in shape.

I fold my arms. “You’re gonna stop building homes to make, what is it, shelves or something?”

Blake smiles. “For Veronica Steele, yes.”

I take a deep breath. I had never actually seen her in person until now. I’d seen a picture of her…okay pictures. Lots of them. This woman, whose name sounds like she stepped straight out of Harlequin, USA, was Blake Lightner’s college obsession.

We stand there for a moment, Blake observing Veronica and me observing Blake. He’s got this weird expression on his face. It’s part thirteen-year-old with an
SI
swimsuit issue and part dumbfounded,
Why didn’t she choose me? That
part I can relate to.

Still, it irritates me. “What? And you need my approval? What do you see in her?”

We both look. We both know. Legs like a giraffe. Hair like a wild pony. Curves like a coastal highway.

“What’s not to like?”

“She’s just very giraffey I mean, sure, her neck is long, her legs are long, but don’t you think she’s a little out of proportion? She’s got short arms, or maybe a long waist, but either way, she’s very giraffey.” I know. I sound stupid. I get this way when Blake gets this way.

“I was thinking more along the lines of gazelle.” He’s staring like we’re five-year-olds at the zoo and the zebras are mating.

“Well, good luck finding a vet for the two of you.” I sigh a little. I’m being hard on him and I know it. The truth is, he’s always loved Veronica. I’m about to apologize for my snarkiness when his attention is diverted by another woman walking by. It’s just for a second, but I
see it. “I’m not sure they can cure you of the bad case of shallow-itis you’re suffering from.”

Blake’s gaze slides sideways. “I am not one of those guys.”

“I hate to shatter your perfectly solid opinion of yourself but people who hold on to old flames and refuse to let go are pathetic.”

My words are harsh. Not as harsh as I want them to be. But Blake’s sensitive, which is why I like him and why I hold back. And yes, that’s holding back. Especially when I offer a small smile. I stand there for a moment, drowning in my own subtext.

Veronica is bent over again. We’re both staring.

“Well,” he says, and I can’t tell at all if he’s being serious or not, “is it curable?”

“This girl’s gotta get back to work. Enjoy the show.” I walk toward Starbucks, checking my watch. The line is long, but that is a good thing today. I need some time to cool off. I feel foolish. And hopeless.

How can I, Jessica Stone, compare to
that
? Leggy. Blonde. Owns a business. Steele will win over Stone any day of the week.

I sigh loudly—too loudly—and the woman in front of me turns, offering a sympathetic smile. “This line is barely crawling.”

I stand on my tiptoes to see what’s going on. Short on baristas? Nope.

“It’s that she’s blonde,” I tell the woman in front of me, who is a carrot top—curly and afro-like.

She peeks around the line to look. “Yep. The men always feel like they need to chat up a blonde.”

I didn’t know redheads felt the same way. Huh.

“What is it about blondes?” I ask her.

She fluffs her curls. “No idea. I hate her. Look.”

I stare at the young barista, who really doesn’t seem to be doing anything out of the ordinary She’s taking orders, smiling at customers, counting change. But somehow when she does it, it seems sexy.

I am fully aware that I am discriminating by hair color. And I’m also fully aware of how shallow that makes me.

The redhead finally gets to the front and begins ordering. I chew a nail, wondering if I should text Blake, just to make sure things are okay But then I notice a man. He’s standing in the corner, near the wall of coffee mugs, noticing me. The second thing I notice is that when I notice him, he doesn’t stop noticing me. He doesn’t look away. He locks eyes with me, and I look away first. He’s cute! Slightly rugged but not above a button-down cotton shirt. A nice, gentle smile. Compelling eyes.

“Ma’am?” By the tone, I realize the barista has probably been trying to get my attention.

“Oh, uh, sorry.” I shuffle forward. “Grande latte, skim, extra foam.”

“For?”

“Jessie.”

I hand over the money and glance back at the guy. He’s still staring at me. He looks familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him. It’s not his face. It’s…the way he’s standing.

“Ma’am?”

“Oh, sorry,” I say as the blonde dumps the change into my hand. I scoot out of the way and stand near the bar where the coffee comes out. The red-haired woman is standing nearby. “Hey,” I say to her, “is it just me or is the guy over by the mugs staring at me?”

She nonchalantly glances over. “The motorcycle dude?”

I see the motorcycle dude. Scary and not at all looking like a latte guy. “No, the other guy, standing by the mugs.”

“Um…”

“He seems kind of intense. I mean, to just blatantly stare, you know?”

She doesn’t say anything. Now
she’s
staring at me. I’ve got two people staring at me.

Thankfully my drink comes up. I grab two sugars and tear them open. I pour. I stir.

I wonder if he’s still watching me. And then I realize that I had been so distracted by his intensity, I forgot to be cute. I look back up, this time with a cool smile on my face, but he’s gone. I peer out the window. Maybe he’s waiting outside. But no. He’s gone. Probably the lilac suit.

I rip open two more packets and pour furiously. Stir so hard coffee drips. I grab four napkins and scrub the counter. Two more packets and I don’t bother stirring this time. I secure the lid and walk outside.

Yes, sometimes I ruin his coffee simply because I’m in a bad mood. But the man should count his blessings. I could add something much worse than sugar.

I make it back quickly because when I’m mad I walk fast. I deliver the latte to Mr. Coston, who is busy on the phone explaining to someone that just because a person died in a house doesn’t mean it’s haunted.

Back at my desk, I gaze at the shiny silver banner that hangs across the wall behind me. It’s been there for two weeks. It looks tacky against the marble lettering of Coston Real Estate. It reads,
HAPPY TENTH ANNIVERSARY
! The exclamation point bothers me. I’m certain that the banner was meant for a married couple. If not, then the exclamation
point is unnecessary because maybe someone isn’t excited about being at the same dead-end job for ten years.

I can’t complain too much. They did bring me literally pounds of my favorite candy. I open my desk drawer and plunge my hand into a bag of dark chocolate M&M’s. You wouldn’t know it by looking at the situation, but I’m a bit of a risk taker. I’m allergic to chocolate. Not in an airway-closed-off kind of way but I do swell. Sometimes my lips get puffy, and I won’t lie, it’s a good look for me. Other times I’m not so lucky, and an eyelid will droop or something. Dark chocolate and chocolate in liquid form give me the least trouble. But when I do indulge, I have to make sure I’m not due for a date or a presentation or something, because I never know exactly what’s going to swell.

Since I’m stuffing my face with chocolate, why not continue down what Nicole would call a self-destructive path? I log on to Matches.com. The opening page has one match being lit by the other’s charm. It’s kind of cute, except the song is corny, so I turn down the sound. I log in and punch in my password, Dark Cocoa. My screen name appears:
WELCOME, LEGALLY_BROWN
.

The front doors of the office open. I quickly minimize the page and smile as my co-worker Christa enters. She peeks over the counter.

“Hey, Jessie.”

“Hi, Christa. How are you?”
And your perky, beautiful self?

“Good. I can’t wait for after work. You’ll be there, right?”

I pause. I had no intention of going to her bridal shower in the break room. I was going to cut out early to avoid it. But the bright smile that must’ve won the guy—now fiancé—over starts to fade and she seems a little hurt. “Of course,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She claps her hands. “Yay! All right, see you then!”

She bounces down the hall, and all she’s missing is a team to cheer for. I pull up my
Matches.com
page again.

Ugh.
NO MATCHES
blinks like a hazard light. Why did they have to make it blink? Blinking is for excitement and road hazards.

Maybe it’s a subtle message that I’m on the wrong road.

It’s noon and I tell Nicole I’ll have to skip our planned lunch because I have to go get something for Christa. Nicole says it’s fine because she wants to decorate the room a little more. How a break room can look any better with streamers is beyond me, but I let it go. I don’t want to become that bitter person who stands people up at their bridal showers because I’m insanely jealous.

I find an open meter in the Paseo Nuevo district, parallel park like a moron, and walk a few blocks to get to the gift shop that is my home away from home.

I notice an awful lot of men shopping today. These are the cool ones, who are shopping a few days before Valentine’s to get the exact right gift. They’re thinking ahead, not running out and grabbing something in a hurry. Their women, whoever they are, are lucky.

I open the door to Malia’s Gifts & Flowers. A robot Cupid, playing
Love Is in the Air
, pretends to shoot an arrow. I never liked Cupid. Thought he was a little creepy with his diaper and fat rolls.

I notice Malia behind the counter, sacking up some grand gift for a guy. She hands him change and wishes him luck. Malia is beautiful for her age. She’s sixty-two and looks like she’s forty, except she’s all gray.
She has a youthful playfulness about her. She spots me and waves enthusiastically I wave back, then block the door so the guy with the balloons, stuffed pink bear, and card can’t get out.

He gives me a curious look.

I can smell his cologne. “Hi.” I smile.

“Hi. Excuse me.”

“Not so fast.” I look carefully over his purchases and notice he had picked out a card that had made me snort out loud when I read it last week. Funny, but not so romantic. “Love the balloons. The pink bear is cute. But trust me, you’ll want to write something personal in the card.”

He looks down at it, a slight panic crossing his face. “I went with humor. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I’m…I better go back…this is…”

I place a steady hand on his shoulder. “Listen, the card is fine. It doesn’t matter what’s in there. Just write something personal. You don’t have to write an essay, just two or three lines that make her feel like you have thought this through.” I let go of his shoulder and step aside.

He nods, gazing up at the balloons. “Maybe the balloons were a mistake.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Not long. Three months.”

“Then it’s perfect. It’s too soon for jewelry, but this still says, ‘I’m crazy about you.’”

“Thank you,” he says, relieved.

“You’re welcome.” Malia is coming toward me, so I step toward her and embrace her with a hug.

“How are you?” she asks. “I didn’t see you this weekend.”

“Fine. The shop looks great! Love the Valentine’s decorations.”

“Yeah? I kind of think I went overboard.”

“No,” I say, gazing at the hundreds of hearts hanging from the ceiling. “It’s the season for going overboard. For most people, anyway.”

She pinches my cheek and begins walking toward the counter. “What brings you by?” She looks me up and down as I walk with her. “You eating enough, girl?”

“More than my share of my favorite food group.”

Malia arranges a pile of fake roses as she talks. “How many times do I have to tell you? Chocolate is not a food group.”

I grin and adjust the heart-shaped notepads. “Hey, I’ve got to get my antioxidants somehow.”

Malia looks up at me, worried. “Well, are you at least carrying Benadryl?”

I smile. She’s such a mom. “Yes, I’ve got my emergency supply here.”

“Let me go microwave some organic spinach for you.” She starts moving toward the back room. “I’ll season it; it’ll give you energy.”

“And stick in my teeth.” I grab her arm, and she stops, though it’s obvious she’s disappointed. “It’ll be awkward,” I say, “because I won’t know I have green slime on my teeth and nobody will tell me. I’ll get home, see it, die of embarrassment—and then I’ll have to eat more chocolate. So I better pass.”

She shoots me a mild look.

I begin to browse. “I need a bridal shower gift.”

A customer approaches the counter, and I let Malia take care of him.

I wander the displays, looking for anything that doesn’t scream Valentine’s Day. I pick up a cloth doll with a mop of blond hair. “The bride’s young enough that she might actually enjoy this,” I holler as I hold the doll high enough for her to see.

I hear her laugh. She finishes with the customer and joins me.

“Did you know,” I say, fingering the yarn, “that your son has quite the thing for blondes?”

Malia nods. “No curing a man of that.” She reaches for a display and hands me a shiny silver heart-shaped frame. “She’ll love this. One can never have too many frames.”