Nothing Like Love (6 page)

Simone looked at Jessica and Tom. They were facing the priest, and they had no idea that Everett was there.

Simone shifted her eyes back to him. He’d shaved since last night, and he was wearing a suit instead of jeans, but he still looked tired.

No, not tired. Strained. Like whatever he was feeling was almost killing him.

Then he started walking down the aisle, his eyes never leaving the couple standing at the altar.

He was in love with Jessica. That had to be it. He was in love with her, and he’d come here to declare himself and beg her not to marry Tom.

Oh, God. Was there any way to stop this from happening?

Unless . . . what if Jessica was in love with him, too? What if that was the reason she’d looked so troubled last night, and today? What if—

Everett stopped halfway down the aisle. “Tom.”

At the sound of his voice, Tom and Jessica jerked their heads around.

The priest stopped talking. Jessica gasped, but after that there was dead silence in the church. Everyone was staring at Everett, but he only had eyes for one person.

“It was harder when we met. We live in a different world now. I’m not saying things will always be easy, but we don’t have to be afraid of who we are. Not anymore.” He took another step toward the altar. “And even if we did, I wouldn’t give a damn. Life is short. Too short not to spend it with your soul mate.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, his heart in his eyes, looking at the person he loved.

You could have heard a pin drop. Simone looked at Tom and saw what everyone else could see: the battle raging inside him.

Whatever Simone had expected, it wasn’t this.

Tom was gay. And it was clear from everyone’s reaction—the look of mingled shock and disbelief on the faces of family and friends—that no one had known.

No one except the bride.

Jessica’s face was pale, but there was no stunned amazement in her expression. She’d known the truth. But if she knew her fiancé was gay, why had she agreed to marry him?

Simone’s eyes went back to Tom. His torment was so palpable that her heart ached in sympathy. What was he going to do? He’d kept this hidden for years, and now the truth had crashed down like a thunderbolt.

Tom closed his eyes. “I love you,” he whispered. Then he opened his eyes and said it again, loud enough to be heard all through the church. “I love you, Everett.”

There was a stir in the first pew, and Simone saw Tom’s mother collapse against his father. Across the aisle, Jessica’s parents just looked stunned.

Everett started to walk toward the altar, but Tom held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, his voice shaking. Then he turned to his fiancée.

“Jessica, I . . . I don’t know what to say. You’re my best friend, and I’m hurting you worse than I’ve hurt anyone in my life. If you want to scream at me or curse me or punch me in the face, I deserve it.”

When he stopped talking, he just stood there, waiting.

There was a long moment of silence. Then Jessica lifted her chin.

“There is something I’d like to say to you. Here in front of all our family and friends.”

Tom braced himself and nodded. “Go ahead.”

Her lower lip was trembling. “I’m so proud of you, Tom. And . . . and . . . I’m happy for you, too.”

She pressed her lips together to stop the trembling, and then turned to address the church. “I guess it’s obvious that the wedding is off.” She took a deep breath. “But I want to thank you all for coming. And the reception is paid for, so . . . I hope some of you will join me there. There’ll be food . . . and music . . . and . . .”

The invitation seemed to use up Jessica’s courage. As she looked out at the stunned congregation, her eyes filled with sudden tears.

The priest stepped forward then and spoke to her in a low voice. He led her away toward a small side door behind the altar, and her parents and sister hurried after her.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

F
rom his seat near the back of the church, Zach watched the drama unfold in disbelief. Things like this didn’t happen in real life.

After the bride disappeared and the groom and his lover left the church, the guests around him erupted into conversation as they began to straggle out. Zach rose to his feet and looked toward the altar, where Simone and the other bridesmaids had gathered together.

Talk about an etiquette conundrum. What was the wedding party supposed to do in a situation like this?

Zach didn’t care about the wedding party en masse, but he did wonder what Simone would do. He’d been thinking about her since he’d woken up that morning, and he’d been looking forward to seeing her at the reception.

After a few minutes, the bridesmaids seemed to come to a decision. They laid their flowers down on the altar and went through the same side door the bride had gone through.

Well, damn. Now he couldn’t be sure whether Simone would be at the reception or not.

It was odd that he was even thinking of going. He didn’t know any of these people, and weddings could be tiresome even when you knew everyone. So why the hell was he considering attending a reception filled with total strangers to celebrate a wedding that hadn’t even taken place?

Because Simone might be there.

Which, in itself, was not a good reason. If he wanted to see Simone, all he had to do was wait for Monday night’s rehearsal.

But if he waited until rehearsal to see Simone again, their relationship as colleagues would be front and center. He wouldn’t be able to forget that fact the way he had last night.

The way he wanted to again.

The church was nearly empty, and Zach was standing in the aisle, looking toward the altar where Simone had been. She’d been bloody gorgeous up there with the other bridesmaids. A few of them were more classically beautiful than she was, but to Zach’s mind Simone was far and away the sexiest.

And the only one he’d had eyes for.

It was the last thought that decided him. He’d be breaking his rule, but he wanted to see if there was still a spark between the two of them—or if he’d bollixed that up last night.

Half an hour later he was standing in the doorway of the grandest function room in the Ritz-Carlton. A surprising number of people were there, considering the circumstances—and Simone was one of them.

Zach made his way over to the table where she sat with a few of the bridesmaids and their escorts. When she saw him her eyes widened in surprise.

“Zach! What are you doing here?”

There was an empty chair next to her, and he took it. “I was invited.”

She raised an eyebrow. “In case you didn’t notice, the wedding was short one groom. I think you’re off the hook.”

Her dress was chartreuse satin, and it clung to her slender curves in an extremely pleasing way. Her short dark hair had been curled, and the soft corkscrews drew attention to her wide cheekbones and enormous brown eyes. Whatever sheer lip gloss she’d used on her wide, full mouth made him think about the kind of kisses that went on for hours.

“I didn’t have anything else on today, so I thought I might as well stop by and ask you for a dance.”

There was a band on the dais at the end of the room, but they were still setting up their amps and instruments. Simone looked at them and then back at him. “There’s no music.”

Her friend Kate spoke up. “You could go get a drink at the bar. The band will probably be playing by the time you finish.”

Simone glared at her. “I’m not sure I feel like dancing.”

“You always feel like dancing.”

“What about Jessica?”

“I don’t think she’s coming. But you’ll see her if she does.”

Simone looked back at him, and he got up from his chair and held out a hand. “What do you say? Beer, wine, or something stronger?”

Simone took his hand and let him help her to her feet. “Something stronger.”

“So what’s the story with your friend and her gay fiancé?” Zach asked a few minutes later.

The mahogany bar with its brown leather stools was in a quiet alcove, and except for the bartender, they had it to themselves. They took seats at the far end so Simone could keep an eye out for Jessica.

Simone had ordered a Manhattan and he’d made it two. Now they clinked their glasses together and took their first sips.

“I wish I knew,” Simone said ruefully. “I could tell Jess was upset about something, but I had no idea Tom was gay. None of us did.”

“I got the impression from what she said at the altar that your friend herself knew.”

Simone nodded. “I think so, too.”

“But why would she be willing to go through with a sham marriage? That’s a thing I can’t understand.”

Simone raised her glass to take a sip. As she lowered it one of her green satin straps slid down her shoulder, and she used her other hand to push it back into place. “Maybe she thought it would be simpler to know it was a sham up front.”

Zach raised an eyebrow. “A sham up front? What do you mean?”

“Well, come on. Aren’t a lot of marriages shams, in one way or another? Not all of them, of course . . . but more than we’d like to admit. If you marry a gay man, at least you go into the thing without unreasonable expectations of romantic love.”

“Unreasonable expectations of romantic love?”

“That’s right.”

This conversation was fascinating. “You think it’s unreasonable to expect romantic love in a marriage?”

“I think it’s unreasonable to expect romantic love to last. It’s an illusion, plain and simple—designed to make sure we propagate the species.” She leveled her eyes at him. “What about you? You’re not married. If you believe in romance, why are you still single?”

“Maybe it’s because I believe in romance too much. I’m waiting for my soul mate, and I won’t settle for anything less.” He paused. “I can’t believe I’m hearing a repudiation of true love from a professed fan of Shakespeare.”

“Are you kidding? No one knew better than the Bard that love is capricious, arbitrary, fickle, and blind.” She grinned at him. “Look at the play we’re doing now. Shakespeare obviously believed that love makes asses of us all.”

“That’s your interpretation of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
?”

“You bet. Demetrius loves Helena first, right? Until he decides he loves Hermia . . . for no apparent reason. Then Puck’s love potion switches him back to Helena. You can’t get more arbitrary than that.”

“All right, Miss Oliver, I want some backstory. Where does all this cynicism come from? I sense a rocky romance in your past.”

Simone tilted her head back to drain her glass, and Zach watched the muscles of her throat move as she swallowed. She set the empty glass on the bar and touched her tongue to an amber droplet on her lower lip.

Zach shifted on his bar stool.

“No rocky romance,” she said. “No romance at all, in fact. That’s the advantage of knowing what men are good for and what they’re not.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What aren’t we good for?”

Her eyes gleamed with equal parts mischief and challenge. “True love. The long haul. Happily-ever-after.”

“And what
are
we good for?”

“Sex, friendship, and carrying large pieces of furniture.”

Zach laughed in spite of himself. “And you think the Bard shares your attitude?”

“Absolutely I do. He had no illusions about romance. ‘Men have died from time to time, and the worms have eaten them, but not for love.’”

It was hard to believe that such determined pessimism didn’t have its genesis in past disappointment, but if there was a story there, Simone had no intention of telling it. Better to change the subject.

“That reminds me. How is it that you’ve memorized so much Shakespeare? I’ve been acting and directing his plays forever, but what’s your excuse?”

Simone looked away from him, signaling to the bartender for a refill. Zach held up his glass for another as well.

After a moment she spoke again. “I’m dyslexic.”

She said it casually, but Zach had a feeling the emotion behind that experience was anything but casual. He also had a feeling that Simone was not a person who appreciated overt expressions of sympathy.

He matched her casual tone. “I see. And?”

“I wasn’t diagnosed until my junior year of high school, so I spent most of my childhood thinking I was stupid . . . and trying to find ways to compensate. I discovered books on tape at the local library, and I’d spend hours listening to whatever we were reading in English class, learning pages and pages by heart.”

Zach stared at her. Other than her offbeat fashion sense, there was nothing childlike about Simone. She was an intelligent, funny, sexy-as-hell woman. But now he had a sudden image of her as a teenager—a teenager with an undiagnosed learning disability, listening to books on tape in an effort to memorize the words she had trouble reading on the page.

The image made his heart ache, but Simone wouldn’t appreciate that response. Still going for a neutral tone, he said, “That must have been rough on you.”

She shook her head. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Unaccountable woman. “How so?”

“You of all people should understand.” She declaimed solemnly, “‘They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.’”

He quoted the following line. “‘They have lived long on the alms-basket of words.’” He paused. “You fell in love with Shakespeare.”

She smiled. “I started with
Twelfth Night
. It was like getting lost in a dream . . . or getting drunk on words. Do you know what I mean?”

“My first was
Romeo and Juliet
. I haven’t been sober since.”

“Is that why you became an actor? Because of Shakespeare?”

He nodded. “I played Mercutio in school and that was it for me. I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up.” He put his elbow on the bar and rested his head on his hand, studying her. “But what about you? Weren’t you interested in going onstage?”

She shrugged. “It never occurred to me. Dyslexic, remember? Too many bad memories of trying to read out loud in English class. And while reading and writing were always a struggle, drawing and design never were. Art was my thing. And since I never wanted to be in the spotlight, I figured out early on I could have more fun behind the scenes.” She leaned her elbow on the bar to mirror him, resting her cheek on her hand as she looked at him. “You, on the other hand, probably always craved the limelight.”

He pretended to be insulted. “Me? Not at all. I was always modest and retiring. The movie star thing was a sheer accident.” He paused. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did it take so long for your dyslexia to be diagnosed? Didn’t your parents notice you were struggling in school?”

She straightened up and took her elbow from the bar. “I do.”

He was confused. “You do what?”

“Mind you asking.”

Damn. “I’m sorry, Simone. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“That’s all right. But I’ve dallied with you long enough. I should be getting back to my friends.”

She slid off her bar stool. Once she was standing beside him, he was reminded of how petite she was. From his vantage point she seemed small enough to take home in his pocket.

He settled for putting a hand on her arm. “Don’t go. What about the plan you hatched in the taxi cab? You said if you ever felt at a psychological disadvantage with me, you’d take off your top.”

That made her smile. “Maybe another time.”

“Or you could ask me something personal. That would make us square.”

She looked at him for a moment, her smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. Then she got up on the bar stool again and leaned toward him.

“Who called during dinner last night?”

He’d been prepared for inquiries into his childhood, his career choices, and possibly his sex life. On the surface, this seemed a much easier question.

When one of Simone’s eyebrows rose, he realized he’d been staring at her for several seconds without answering.

“A friend,” he said finally.

She nodded sagely. “Male?”

“No.”

“Old and ugly?”

He smiled. “No.”

“Former or current?”

“Former or current what?”

“Girlfriend.”

He shook his head. “Neither. Purely platonic.”

“Hmm. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

“Better or worse about what?”

“About being rejected last night. I’ve been telling myself you passed up the possibility of a hot one-night stand because you got a call from a girlfriend or an old flame. But if you could be sidetracked by a platonic friend, then I couldn’t have been very tempting.”

His heart slammed into overdrive, and the extra blood flow headed straight for his groin.

It was a few seconds before he could speak. “Do you want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“The truth is, I can’t think of a time I’ve been more tempted . . . or a woman I’ve found more tempting.”

His heart was pounding, and the flush in Simone’s cheeks made him certain that hers was, too.

Those eyes . . . a rich, warm brown that made him think of melted chocolate, fringed with lashes that brushed her cheeks like tiny black fans. Eyelashes couldn’t be that long and thick without cosmetic assistance, and yet they suited Simone so perfectly it was easy to believe they were homegrown.