On the Way to a Wedding (23 page)

She rubbed the palms of her hands over her eyes, wiping over the tears.

He loosened his grip on her, letting her move in his arms. “Your father was going to have a heart attack anyway.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. That sad expression still in her eyes. Those amazing green eyes.

“You can’t tiptoe around people forever, Toria.”

“I know.” She sniffled. “That’s what Isabelle says.”

He put his hand on the back of her head and pulled her against his chest. She didn’t resist. He brushed his chin over her hair. “What did Isabelle say?”

“That he was a heart attack waiting to happen. She used to be a coronary care nurse.”

Isabelle?
She seemed too crazy to be a nurse. But there were probably a lot of things about Isabelle he didn’t know. “Speaking of Isabelle . . .”

“Yes.” Toria lifted her head again. “Where are they?”

“Held up, I guess. But they’ll be here. Pro wants to go over your prenup with you.”

Toria frowned.

He could understand. She probably didn’t like working on prenups any more than he did. Hopefully, she would forget about the prenup for tonight. Then he asked, “Hungry?”

Finally, she smiled. “Starved.”

“Then let’s eat. They can eat when they get here.”

He slipped her off his lap and onto the love seat. Then he got both pizzas, a bunch of paper towels, the beer and a bottle opener, and brought it all to the little coffee table.

He watched as she lifted the lids on the red and green cardboard pizza boxes. One of them was vegetarian with tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers and zucchini. The other, pepperoni and bacon. Both smothered in cheese, apparently three different kinds.

He opened two bottles of beer—Highgate Ancient Old Ale from the brewery near Canmore—and handed her one, clinking the top of her bottle with his. They ate in silence for a few minutes. She finished a slice of the vegetarian and drank half a bottle of the beer. She looked exhausted and emptied out.

And a little stronger. She’d get over this. She had stamina, and brains, tucked away in that pretty head of hers.

“Why did you have it with you?”

“What?” She reached for a second slice of the vegetarian.

“The wedding dress.”

“I don’t know.” She lifted the pizza out of the box, twining the dripping cheese over one finger. “I was going to show it to Aunt Glenda.” She licked the cheese off her finger. “And, it just seemed . . . important. That dress.”

Her eyes had that faraway look again as she nibbled on this slice of pizza—she’d devoured the first one. She set the half finished piece on a paper towel on the coffee table and dabbed her finger on her lips, catching some cheese.

“He bought it for you.”

She didn’t answer right away. She was staring across the room at the toppled stack of gifts. “Yes, he did. I hadn’t even met Greg at the time.”

“Out of the blue your father bought you a wedding dress?”

“Yes. My parents were on vacation in Paris, and they saw it. He wanted me to have it, so he bought it.”

“Had he met Greg?”

“Yes.”

A tinge of horror rippled into his thoughts. Followed by anger, and a need to protect her. “Do you think he wanted—I mean, do you think he was planning . . .”

“I don’t know. I keep wondering about that.”

“Is that why you’re marrying him? Because your father wanted you to?”

“I’m just going to drink this,” she said as she picked up the half full bottle of beer.

It seemed as if there was only so much she could talk about in one night. He watched her take several long swallows of the beer, gulping.

She finished it.

“My mother suggested that I let them put a cast on my ankle,” she said, setting the empty bottle on the coffee table and changing the subject. “So I can walk down the aisle without crutches.”

And if she didn’t want to talk about it anymore tonight, he wasn’t going to push her.

“You won’t need the crutches by then.” He thought a moment, calculating the date—calculating how much time he had left. “In two weeks.”

“I might.” She reached for the bottle opener and a second beer.

“What’s the problem with walking with crutches?”

“Pictures.”

He laughed. “Maybe she thinks you’ll trip.” And he noticed she was having trouble getting the cap off the beer.

“I won’t trip.”

He wasn’t going to help her. If she wanted to drink it, she’d have to open it herself. “It’s a long dress,” he said.

“That’s right, you’ve seen it.” The cap popped off, flipping up into the air and pinging into the brass colander beside the stack of gifts. She took a long drink.

“You don’t drink much, do you?”

“Not usually. But this tastes good with the pizza.” She picked up her slice of pizza from the coffee table, took another bite and set it down again.

He took a second slice from the pepperoni box. But he just sipped his beer. If she was going to get drunk, he’d better make sure he didn’t.

After she finished that slice of pizza and the second beer, she said, “We need dessert. I’ve got some strawberries.” And she stood up.

So did he. “I’ll get it.”

“No. You sit down. I’m fine.”

She was probably a little drunk, but he’d watch out for her. “You’re drinking. You’ll tip over.”

She tested her ankle.

And he felt a touch of anxiety. “Don’t walk on it. Not yet.” He grabbed her crutches and handed them to her.

Thankfully, she accepted them. Otherwise he’d have picked her up. Now she was aiming toward the fridge. He followed her, half hoping she’d stumble so he could catch her.

Wrong.

She wasn’t swaying or anything. Maybe having the beer with the food would be all right. She got to the fridge and opened the door.

“Oh good,” she said, pulling out a clear container with a blue lid. “We have some left. Isabelle brought these this morning.” Toria picked up another clear container with an orange lid. This one was grapes. He took them out of her hands.

“I’ve got them,” he said. “Go and sit down.”

When she was safely back on the couch—the love seat—he stacked her crutches at the end of it and sat beside her again.

She opened the containers. “We each get two strawberries and a bunch of grapes,” she said. “And they’ll go good with the beer.”

“Do they?”

“I don’t know. I just made that up.”

They both laughed, and then he leaned over and kissed her. Just a light touch, his lips on hers.

He pulled back, about two inches, watching her.

She didn’t move. She sat very still, staring at his lips.

He leaned forward again, and kissed her again, nibbling, lingering over the light kiss. And then a sense of disorientation flashed through him and he realized what he was doing. “That didn’t happen.”

“Yes,” she said, looking like she was waking up from a dream. “It did.”

“No. That was a mistake. That didn’t happen.”

“You’re getting married,” she said, wonderment in her voice.

“I’m―”

I’m not.

Whoa. When had he decided that?

He hadn’t. And even if he had decided, it would make sense to tell Catherine first. And it didn’t matter that he wasn’t getting married because she
was
getting married. To that Lorimer jerk.

And she was drinking . . .

And she didn’t know how. And—and, he was taking advantage of her.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Yes,” she said. “You do.”

· · · · ·

He left Toria to explain why he was gone. She would, in her own tactful way, come up with some story. She wouldn’t tell them he’d kissed her. Or that she’d kissed him back.

Because she had.

He wouldn’t think about that. Not yet. One thing at a time. Something about his wedding had been bothering him for quite awhile and he knew what it was now.

He was not in love with Catherine. He never had been. She’d been his ace in the hole in the status war he’d waged with his father.

And that war had fizzled out.

The sun had gone down behind the mountains a few minutes ago. Not a flashy sunset, not the kind that predicted good weather the next day. Just an ordinary sunset with pinks and blues radiating across the western sky. With the long days leading up to the summer solstice, it would be light for another half hour, maybe three-quarters of an hour.

Ryder pulled up in front of Catherine’s apartment and parked the truck. He hopped out, feeling lighter and more in charge than he had in days.

Scanning the number pad, he found her name and buzzed her unit.

“Who is it?”

“Ryder.”

The entrance door buzzed open.

When he got to her door, he knocked and waited, and then knocked again.

She opened the door, wearing a flowing, silky robe. Something with orange and red geometric angles. Her hair looked like she’d just combed it, and her lipstick looked fresh.

“It’s about time.” She stepped aside to let him in.

“Yes, it is,” he said.

“Don’t get all cocky. You know you messed up. Big time. My mother says―”

“No,” he said, tapping his index finger on her nose.

“No, what?”

He walked past her and into her living room. She already had the drapes pulled closed, even though it was still light outside. “Please. Don’t tell me what your mother said.”

Had he really voiced his thoughts? Finally?

Yes, he had. And it felt good—really good—to know what he was feeling. In fact, he had to say it again to make sure. “I’m tired of hearing what your mother says.”

“You’d better get used to it.” Catherine came around from behind him and stood in front of him. “If you expect to be part of my family, you’ll have to learn to tow the line.”

He laughed. And then he reached for her, hugged her and swung her around.

“Be careful,” she shrieked. “If you break my grandmother’s lamp—that’s an antique, you know. My mother would kill you.”

He set her down.

She straightened her robe.

“You always know just what to say to make me happy,” he said. How come he hadn’t seen this before?

Because he’d seen what he’d wanted to see. Sophisticated, elegant, in charge. And able to do battle with his father. And anyone else for that matter.

“What’s wrong with you?” She stared at him with her arms folded. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“I had a beer.”

“Just one?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, expecting a confession. Or an apology. Or both.

“Yeah.”

“With Pro.” She was nodding her head.

“Not exactly.”

“And that’s supposed to mean?” She stopped nodding and her freshly made-up lips tightened.

“That means Pro was supposed to meet me and he didn’t.”

She blinked, seemed to give up on expecting a confession, or an apology, and lifted her chin, tossing back her smooth hair. “That reminds me. We have to talk about Pro.”

“We do?” He couldn’t help smiling, he felt so good. For the first time in weeks, his head was clear.

“I called him,” Catherine said, as though she were gritting her teeth, “and he wasn’t nice to me.”

“You called Pro?”

“I was looking for you. And he knew where you were and he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t like Pro,” she answered, ignoring the question. “I think you need to find some friends that we both like.”

“You do?” Ryder nodded his head, listening. Listening to it all.

“Yes. Mother says it’s important for us to have similar friends.”

Mother again. It was like he was marrying her mother.
Had been.
“And what if we don’t?”

“Ryder, this isn’t funny. Stop grinning like that. You missed the last shower party my mother held. And you missed the last two appointments for your tux fitting. And you were supposed to be at dinner tonight.”

“I was?”

“We were supposed to have dinner. Tonight. At my parents.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t. You haven’t been answering your phone. You’re being selfish. My mother says―”

“Catherine, do you love me?”

“Love you?” She seemed surprised by the question. “Not at the moment. Not if you’re going to act like this.” She shook her hair back, away from her face, like she was trying to clear her thoughts. And then she faced her grandmother’s antique lamp. “What does love have to do with it?”

She seemed out of her element, in a conversation she couldn’t control.

“And what about you?” She turned back to him. “Do you love me? Because if you really loved me, you wouldn’t be so selfish.”

He waited a beat. Had she said it all? Was she finished?

“I don’t see any point in us getting married if you’re going to be so selfish,” she said, with a quieter voice, as she tried a new approach.

“Right,” he said. “Neither do I.”

She twisted up her eyebrows. “What’s
wrong
with you?”

“Catherine, I think I’m in love.”

“Then you’d better start acting like it. And the first thing I want you to do is get a different Best Man.”

“A different Best Man,” he repeated. Was he really hearing this? He put his hands on her shoulders and held her in front of him. And looked at her. He hadn’t ever really just looked at her.

“I don’t like Pro and I don’t want him in the wedding party.” She stared up at him, determination in her eyes. She was serious.

“I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated you for who you are,” he said, still holding her by her shoulders.

He’d come so close. So close. It was scary.

“Nice words,” she said, shrugging out of his hold. She took two paces away from him and then turned around. “But I want to make something perfectly clear. Right now. If you think you’re marrying me and keeping up with this constant work schedule of yours, you can think again.”

Lightness filled his senses. Power and possibility flowed into him. “Oh?” he said.

She held up her index finger, pointing it at his face. “You can sign that partnership agreement with Jimmy Bondeau.”

Yes
. “Yes.” He knew, now, with complete certainty. He could not marry this woman.

She drew herself up tall, a Sergeant Major disciplining a lower ranking man. “And you can start winding down your time on the job site.”