The Stand-In (10 page)

Damn. Why did she let him talk her into bringing him here? When Margie first told her the reporter would shadow her, she’d bristled, expecting a total slimeball. But Patrick had been kind, even sort of fun to hang around with. And he’d promised discretion on the whole panic-attack issue.

Plus he flirted a lot. She couldn’t deny it felt nice to have a handsome man flirt with her, especially one who kissed like he did. Hell, when their tongues collided, her nerve endings had lit up like flares at the scene of an accident. It reminded her of the time she visited the science museum as a kid. The scientist had used her in the electricity ball demonstration, making her touch the apparatus so her hair stood on end.

Amber walked up to Grandpa Ernie and kissed his cheek. Gramps looked her up and down, grinning at her exposed cleavage. “Did someone hire a stripper?”

“Ha!” Renee burst into laughter. “Oh, Dad. That’s a good one.”

Amber adjusted her collar. “I’m not a stripper.” She offered Gramps the sort of smile one might offer to a monkey dressed in people clothes. “You are too cute, Grandpa Ernie.” She glared at Renee. “Or maybe it’s time I called you
Dad
.”

Renee rushed forward like the Grim Reaper, a veritable dark cloud of resentment. “You may have stolen my idiot husband but you will never call
my
father Dad.”

“Girls,” said Pierce, his hands out. “Break it up.”

Winn stared at her father, aghast at the grin threatening to break out on his face. He enjoyed this, the bastard. From the moment Amber had first shown interest in him, he’d baited the two women, pitting them against each other. No wonder her mom couldn’t move on. Having spent her entire life catering to her husband, Renee now spent most of her time hassling the new couple. Indeed, she seemed to thrive on it. And who could blame her? Her father kept throwing his girlfriend in her face.

Winn remembered how he once doted on her mom, how he used to call her pet names and pat her bum. Where had it gone wrong? Her mom insisted he was suffering from midlife crisis. She swore she could get him back and hadn’t granted him the divorce he apparently craved. But now the trio seemed caught up in a battle of wills as Pierce attempted to free himself of his wife.

It sickened Winn.

Even now, as they argued, she watched as if in a haze, not really absorbing any of the vindictive words hurtling through the room. If she distanced herself, wrapping herself in an airtight bubble, she almost didn’t hear them.

A hand reached out and pulled her from the room, interrupting her reverie. Patrick moved her into the hallway. “Winn, are you still with me? You look like you took a little trip back there.”

“I shouldn’t have let you come. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I get it. Families suck sometimes.”

She gawked at him. “You feel the same way?”

“Don’t we all?”

“I guess so.” She stared at her sandaled foot, noticing the chipped nail polish on her big toe. She’d have to get a pedicure before the next wedding. Margie would expect it.

“Have your folks always been so…at odds?”

She grinned at his diplomatic choice of words. “No. I remember them being very happy once. And Amber was my best friend all through university. I always knew she was a little boy crazy. But then one day, after she’d joined us for a family dinner, I caught her in the den kissing my dad. He didn’t stop her. He kissed her right back. Next thing I know, the marriage is in ruins and Amber’s pretending to be my new mom. And my mother, well, let’s just say she didn’t take it well.”

“I can’t blame her.”

“Neither can I. She gave up her career to help my dad in his business. He owns a chain of body shops and she did the paper work for years. With one, stupid kiss, she lost everything overnight. Husband. Business. Self-respect. He thinks Enid and I will accept Amber, but we won’t. I can’t.” She took a deep breath. “It’s partly because of them I hate weddings.”

Oops
. Did she say that out loud?

Based on Patrick’s shocked expression, she must have.

“Wait a minute. You
hate
weddings? You’re a professional bridesmaid.”

She looked to the heavens. “Dammit, how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get me to…admit things. When I’m with you, I say things I shouldn’t. You have weird powers.”

He ignored her raving and drew closer. “Shouldn’t someone like you love weddings?”

“Yes, but I don’t. I took this job because I needed it and I figured it would be easy. I get dressed up, play a part and go home. But in reality, I can’t stand them. The vows, the speeches. The lies. It gives me hives. It makes me sick. Up until Elena’s wedding, I managed to control my feelings. But that day, I just couldn’t breathe.”

“I remember.” His voice was quiet, pensive. So deep and magnetic it drew her in and made her want to lose herself in him for a while. “You said your family is only part of the reason you hate weddings. Is there another reason?”

Too close.
He was fishing for info now and she wouldn’t give him any more. She’d already said too much.

He reached for her hand and, God help her, she let him stroke it. “Tell me, Winn. We’re still off the record.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I’m not a total dick. Even I have boundaries. I can see you need to get it off your chest.”

“I can’t. It’s too embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to be ashamed. We all have stories, like you said. You don’t want to have another panic attack, do you? It’s not good to keep things bottled up.”

“So Enid keeps telling me.”

“Your sister’s a smart woman, although based on the look she gave me back there, she may want to roast my nuts.”

As he chipped away at her defenses, at her broken heart, she dared to look at him. She didn’t see the ravenous curiosity of a reporter written in the furrows on his brow. She saw warmth and a need to make her feel better. His empathy made her melt. His interest made her feel cherished, even if only in that moment. And she hadn’t felt cherished in a long time.

“I do hate weddings and marriage and I don’t believe in love anymore,” she confessed in a small, strange voice.

“But why?”

“Because,” she said, letting go of his hand. “I was engaged once, and he left me at the altar.”

Chapter 5

What the flying fuck? Who did that to her?

As an insane need to find her former fiancé and crush him to smithereens took hold of his being, Patrick just stared, horrified. Left at the altar? Jesus, he’d done some questionable things in his life, but that? Was there anything worse than being deserted at the altar? He couldn’t think of anything, aside from maybe throwing your soul mate into a wood chipper.

Who did such things?

“Winn,” he began. “I’m sorry, and that man is a total jerk. Actually, he’s way beyond jerk status.”

“Enid calls him Shithead Mike.”

Shithead Mike
. So the bastard had a name. “Mike.” He rolled the name around on his tongue, tasting sulfur.

“You can’t tell Margie. Please.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“Of course, not. How was I supposed to break the news that her stand-in bridesmaid was left at the altar like a total dimwit? I needed the job. And anyway,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s done. It happened over a year ago. I’ve let it go.”

Patrick remembered the unique shade of green she’d turned at Elena and Carlo’s wedding. He had a sneaking suspicion Winn hadn’t quite let go of Shithead Mike yet. Somehow the idiot had wormed his way back into her consciousness. Maybe he’d never left.

He didn’t like it.

Okay, he was somehow losing his impartiality on this assignment. He’d interviewed corrupt mayors facing jail time and had managed to present both sides. He’d penned columns about politicians who abused the public’s trust and always kept his cool. But a few words from a woman who attended weddings as a career and his very world seemed topsy-turvy. Literally. He could almost feel his axis shifting, as if he were on a giant slide and tumbling toward Winn.

Suddenly, in learning the tale of Shithead Mike, and of what he’d done to Winn, this assignment felt personal. Way too personal for his comfort.

He attempted to mentally regroup, running through the details he’d researched before meeting her. Funny, he’d done a background check on Winn when he got the story from Jake. He hadn’t seen anything on this Shithead Mike. Now he wanted to go back and do some more fact-checking.

And then he wanted to introduce the dumb fuck to his fists.

Okay, this isn’t about you. Calm down
.

Shit, he’d always had a problem with rescuing damsels in distress. He knew it. He only had to spot a pretty face, her eyes all teary, and he puffed out his chest. Look at the grief it had caused with Gloria. He’d tried to help her, too, and it had hurt him in the end.

No. He could not go there with Winn. Even though he’d spent the remainder of the weekend remembering their kiss on the dance floor and the way she’d felt in his arms. Warm and soft, in all the right places.

“Hey,” she said softly, a hand on his forearm. “Are you okay? You went really pale there for a second.”

He removed her hand from his arm, noting her slight flinch. “I’m fine. And I understand you don’t want to talk about Shithead Mike. You should…get back to your grandfather and…eat cake.”

“Okay.” She gazed at him, her eyes full of disguised hurt. “Do you want a slice? I’ll fend off my scary relatives.”

“No. I’ve got some work to do. You said you had the details for the next wedding?”

“They’re in my purse, inside.”

“Great. Maybe you can just text them to me later. Let me know where you need me next.” He stared at her, gritting his teeth. “Have a nice time with Grandpa Ernie.”

As he walked away, she called to him. “Patrick. You wouldn’t say anything in your article about me being left at the altar, would you?”

Her eyes filled with tears and he almost ran back to her and crushed her against his body, but he resisted. “No. You have my word.”

As she mumbled her thanks, he walked away and trudged toward his car.

* * * *

That evening, Patrick sat in his home office, glaring at his notebook. Call him old school. He still preferred keeping story notes in a book until it was time to make a soft copy. He’d written every article in the same fashion since finishing journalism school. Something about putting thoughts down on paper fed his soul. The exercise helped him think, helped him to organize.

Distracted, he ran a finger over the inside of the leather cover and then he stared at the few paragraphs he’d jotted. Certain words and phrases jumped off the page as he skimmed.

Winifred Busby, professional bridesmaid
.

Professional liar
.

Panic attacks
.

Left at altar by Shithead Mike
.

Yes, he’d given her his word her sordid history with Mike wouldn’t be part of the article, and he planned to keep his promise. However, in trying to solve the mystery that was Winn, he’d written down all he’d learned about her. He’d always known he saw things more clearly when they were etched in black and white. Hell, he’d always been a black-and-white sort of man. In his book, one either leaned to the side of good or tumbled toward the side of bad.

But he found his stories in the gray area in between. It was where he’d discovered philandering politicians and bureaucrats on the take. He’d met sleazy mayors in the gray area, too, and had taken pleasure in exposing them.

Winn haunted the same, dark places. He didn’t understand her, not really. Why on earth would a woman who was dumped at the altar want to work as a professional bridesmaid? Was it all some sort of perverted need to relive her darkest moment while escaping the repercussions of an actual marriage? Was she a glutton for punishment? A masochist?

Or was she simply unhinged?

The more he pondered how Mike treated her, what she must have endured on the day, he grew angrier. Despite his mistrust of Winn, he could see her troubles began with her former fiancé. Even though he hadn’t witnessed her public humiliation, he knew enough to understand it would have changed her, and not necessarily for the better. The panic attacks proved it.

He stared at the page before him, unseeing, and picked up his pen. Before he knew it, he’d written a few more lines.
Shithead Mike. Shithead Mike. Shithead Mike
. With each repetition of the man’s name, his penmanship grew sloppier, more jagged.

Damn. He hated being in the gray area. It was time to return to black and white.

Only he wasn’t really a black-and-white man anymore, was he? Not since Gloria’s betrayal. She’d colored him in shades of gray, too, and had shown it to the world.

Slamming shut his notebook, Patrick wandered over to his couch and plunked down onto the corner cushion, propping himself up on the arm. Weariness trickled into his muscles and his shoulders sagged. With a huff, he grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV, clicking to the evening news, but paid little attention to the stories about local shootings and the weather.

When Jason Dietrich, suited and smiling, appeared on the screen, he sat up and listened. As the reporter showed footage of a charity gala, Jason and Gloria danced in the background. He dipped his wife. She laughed, her voice tinkling with apparent happiness.

The reporter extended her microphone toward Jason. “Mr. Dietrich, this event has brought out all the stars in Toronto’s elite. Tell me, are you having a good time?”

“You bet, Patsy.” Jason grinned and looked with fondness at his wife. “I’m so fortunate to be here with the woman I love.”

It may have been Patrick’s imagination, but he thought he spied a tense wrinkle around Gloria’s eyes. He couldn’t help feeling a bit of perverse satisfaction in her discomfort. If she wanted to live her life as a lie, more power to her.

He had no use for liars.

As he turned off the TV with a savage click, his thoughts once again strayed to Winn. As much as he desperately wanted to lump her into the same group as Gloria and Jason, somehow he couldn’t. She’d been hurt, too.