His Wedding. Muriel JensenЧитать онлайн книгу.
of panties and a sports bra. Remarkably, everything fit. The shorts were a classic boy cut, with his logo on a hip pocket. The T-shirt had the logo across the chest.
She was staring in the mirror at her alarmingly natural face, free of makeup, and her wet hair, into which she’d tried to fluff a little volume, when there was a knock on the door.
She opened it.
Brian stood there, a pair of floral flip-flops in one hand and simple white tennies in the other. He held them up for her to make a decision.
“Ah. Perfect.” She chose the tennies.
“Come out when you’re ready,” he said. “I’ve poured you a cup of coffee.”
She had already slipped on the shoes and took only a moment to fluff her hair again, then concluded any effort to look fashionable was hopeless.
She found Brian tearing at a package of oatmeal cookies. He’d pulled open the curtain between the front and the back of the store, probably so that he could watch for customers.
A battered coffee table next to an old red sofa held two diner-style mugs of coffee and an empty plate. He dumped the open pack of cookies unceremoniously onto the plate.
“Good thing about owning a general store,” he said, gesturing her to sit down. “You can entertain at a moment’s notice.”
She sank onto a sofa cushion. “And provide clothing for people who fall into the drink.” She grinned in self-deprecation. “Certainly was a conversation stopper, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. But it doesn’t have to be the end of the argument if you have more to say.” He sat beside her and thought back. “As I recall, you said, ‘We’re talking about my sister’s wedding and you’re not going to—’ And then you screamed.”
She took a cookie, dunked it in her coffee and popped it into her mouth. “Actually, now that I’ve been immersed in cold water, I see your arguments more clearly.”
“Really. You agree with me?”
“No,” she denied firmly, “but your feelings aren’t that different from mine.”
1He leaned back into his corner of the sofa, his legs stretched out and crossed under the table. He sipped at his coffee and waited for her to explain.
She turned toward him, cookie in one hand, cup in the other. “I’m afraid of embarrassing them, too, though for different reasons. I feel very much out of my element amid all their style and elegance. I mean, Chloe would probably never dunk a cookie in her coffee, would she?”
“Uh…I can’t say I’ve ever seen her do it.”
“See? And she’s not only stylish and elegant, she’s European. I am so not going to measure up to the rest of the Abbotts.”
As she made that claim, an idea formed, full-blown. Three years ago, she’d been left at the altar—well, not the altar, the travel agency. Her fiancé was supposed to meet her there to pay for their honeymoon tickets to Hawaii. When he never came, she went home, to find a voice-mail message that he’d changed his mind about the wedding and was off to London.
She’d been more careful of men since then but hadn’t stopped looking for the right one. And despite Brian’s resistance, she was beginning to wonder if it was him. Now she thought she had a way to spend time with him to determine if he was or not. Convincing him of that, of course, would take time and effort and was a job for later.
“You’re not going to measure up?” he said in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. You always behave as though—”
She interrupted with a swipe of her cookie in the air. “It’s an act. I’m just afraid that one day I’m going to do something embarrassing to them.”
“Get a grip, Janet,” he said. “They’re not royalty. They’re just wealthy people who are socially well connected.”
She gave him a dry look. “If I may quote you, ‘Easy for you to say.’ You grew up in their world. Your parents had the same standard of living, the same social connections. You know how to behave among all this—” She raised a finger to stop him when he would have interrupted her. “Yes, you have that scandalous background.” She enunciated the word with a dramatic waggle of her eyebrows. “But people deal so much more on perception than they do fact. All people notice is that you behave like a gentleman, that you’re well-spoken and well educated. Columbia, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I went to Columbia.”
“I went to Las Manzanas Community College and Columbia River College.”
“Doesn’t education depend on the thirst for knowledge in the student, rather than on where he goes to school?”
“I don’t imagine my brothers’ Ivy League educated friends would believe that.”
He studied her with a frown. “I think you have some reverse snobbery at work here.”
She smiled innocently. “Why? You’re convinced everyone’s going to judge the Abbotts by the unfortunate circumstances of your birth.”
He continued to frown, and she couldn’t decide if he was out of arguments or out of patience. She considered it a good time to make her point.
“I’ve been asked to be Campbell and China’s maid of honor,” she said, sipping her coffee, “and I don’t have the luxury of refusing them. China’s my only sister and I’m hers.” She paused on the chance he wanted to comment. He didn’t.
“So friends and family are coming from far and wide to this wedding of the year, and I have to be part of the party and take my chances that I won’t do or say something inappropriate among all those people and with all the press bound to be there. Word is the New York Times is sending someone.”
She bit into her cookie, avoiding his eyes. Was she overdoing it? She couldn’t tell. And for a usually straightforward man, he was a master at hiding what he was thinking when he wanted to.
She ate the last bite of her cookie, chewed and swallowed, buying time.
“But if you were best man,” she added, putting her cup down and dusting off her hands, “I’d feel less intimidated. You can help me during the Mass. I wasn’t raised Catholic and I’m not familiar with the ritual, but you are, right?”
“My mother took me to church when I was a child, but I haven’t been in a long time. I don’t think your brothers have, either.”
“At least you have some experience. I won’t know whether to stand or sit or kneel, but you’ll be beside me. You can give me a high sign. You can provide moral support during the reception, and I can deflect the reporters away from you. We’ll help each other.”
HER ARGUMENTS WERE very transparent. The Mass could be confusing to the uninitiated, and it was true that the congregation sat behind the wedding party, so it wasn’t possible to follow their lead in sitting, standing, kneeling unless you turned around to see what they were doing—and that would be just the faux pas she seemed so worried about.
But Sophie, Sawyer’s fiancée, knew the ritual; she sang in the choir at St. Paul’s. Following her lead would be easy enough.
And he couldn’t remember ever seeing Janet make a misstep despite her insistence that Abbott society was unfamiliar to her.
He could only deduce that she was laying it on a little thick because she was determined that her sister and her brother have the wedding they wanted, and that included him.
And, though he disliked admitting this to himself, he found it hard to refuse the appeal in her wide brown eyes. Even knowing it was as much performance as sincere emotion, he was going to let it reel him in. Undoubtedly, he would hate himself for this later.
“All right,” he said.
She blinked at him. “You mean…you’ll do it?”