Sweet Talking Man. Liz TalleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
sound like a joke. I grew up with three brothers—I know jokes.”
“Well, I’ll be more careful around you, then. Might end up popping open a can of snakes or sitting on a whoopee cushion.” Leif’s eyes danced, and even though she wanted to smile, she didn’t. She held on to prickliness like a cape protecting her from being silly. She’d tucked away being lighthearted. Hadn’t worked out for her. Besides the hot weirdo who strummed a ukulele at the local coffee shop and practiced tai chi in his yard wasn’t the kind of guy to let her guard down with. Too different from her.
“Don’t worry. I’m an adult and no longer put crickets in my brothers’ trucks.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” He said it like he was truly sorry for her. Why? Because she didn’t do asinine things anymore? Because she didn’t crack jokes? Or wear flowers in her hair? She crossed her arms as he added, “I like your cardigan, by the way. Angora?”
“Are you making fun of me?” Abigail asked, a dart of hurt nicking her.
“No. Why would I?”
“Because I’m wearing... Because I don’t frolic in my underwear.”
Birdie closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”
Leif’s eyes widened. “I don’t frolic in my underwear.”
Abigail opened her mouth, then shut it. Silence as comfortable as a prostate exam descended. Not that she knew about prostate exams...but she could imagine.
Just as she was about to prod Birdie again, the squeal of tires sounded. All three turned their heads to see a bright red Mustang hurtling down the street. Another squeal of tires and the vehicle swung into Leif’s driveway, halting with another screech.
“What the—” Leif muttered as the tinted driver’s window rolled down to reveal a pretty brunette who looked...worried. Abigail tugged Birdie back, but her daughter pulled away, obviously engrossed in the frantic pantomiming of the driver.
“Sorry about this, Leif,” the driver said as the passenger door opened and a ball of white fluffy tulle emerged. “Marcie made me do it. I was supposed to be her maid of honor. I guess it’s, like, an obligation.”
Maid of honor?
Abigail glanced at Leif; he looked gobsmacked, blinking his eyes a couple times before repeating, “Maid of honor?”
And that’s when the fluffy ball flipped over her veil and sneered. “Yeah, maid of frickin’ honor. Today was supposed to be our wedding day, asshole.”
* * *
LEIF’S MIND WHIRRED, random numbers lining up like on a slot machine. December sixteenth. Today would have been his and Marcie’s wedding day.
Oh, shit.
Marcie’s veil was pinned to heavily sprayed blond tresses and one side had fallen down to wag against her sweaty face. Mascara ran beneath her eyes, reminding him of something he’d once seen in a horror movie.
“Marcie—” He couldn’t even figure out how to ask why his ex-fiancée had put on a wedding dress and tracked him all the way to Magnolia Bend. They’d ended their engagement five months ago, and he hadn’t heard a peep from her until now...when his very proper neighbor stood on his front walk, no doubt looking on with disapproval.
This might make the Magnolia Bend Herald...or, at the very least, the Facebook hall of fame.
“Ohhh,” Marcie slurred, wriggling around the car in the tight mermaid gown she’d raved about for weeks last summer, nearly tumbling to the ground despite hiking up the dress. “You remember my name. Ain’t you sweet?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t think I’d find ya, did ya?” she asked, shoving a finger in his face. “My daddy knows a lot of people in this state. You can’t hide, you no-good bastard.”
Leif inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to figure out how a dude handled something like this. He felt caught in some crazy docudrama or a Maury Povich special. “I wasn’t trying to hide from you.” Much.
“Bullshith.” Marcie teetered as she tried to square her shoulders. “You were runnin’ like a damn...uh, something I can’t think of right now.”
He glanced at Marcie’s best friend, Rachel, who still sat in the Mustang looking guilty as hell. “How much did she drink, Rach?”
She held up a half-empty bottle of Crown Royal. “She started last night. I’m sorry. I couldn’t talk her out of it and I couldn’t let her drive herself. She’s loaded.”
Good Lord. Marcie swayed, her blue eyes still locked on him. Abigail had edged onto the grass and he could only imagine the censure in the woman’s eyes. He’d seen her around St. George’s, hovering over the school like a blimp or like that character in Monsters, Inc. Always watching. Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron seemed to be the perfect mother, business owner and citizen—always going the extra mile. She was the kind of woman who made him twitchy.
“Okay, look, Marcie, this isn’t the time or place to talk about what happened between us. Things didn’t work out, honey. One day you’ll see breaking off the wedding was the right decision for both of us.” Leif placed a hand on her elbow, mostly so she wouldn’t fall, and turned her toward the car. “Now go back with Rachel. It’s crazy to show up here like this. When you sober up, you’re going to feel—”
“Don’t tell me what I feel. I waited all my life to wear this dress. See what you’ve done to me,” Marcie said, wrenching her arm away and catching sight of Abigail. She dragged her drunken gaze from his neighbor’s head to her loafers. “Wait. Who’s that?”
“Uh, nobody,” Leif answered before Abigail could open her mouth. Somehow it made him sound guilty. Marcie narrowed her glazed eyes.
“Wait, are you sleeping with her? Her? She’s not your type. She’s, like, old. My mom wears shoes like hers.”
Abigail looked at her sensible loafers, then at Marcie. It was like watching Courtney Love go toe-to-toe with Katie Couric. “For your information, I’m his neighbor, and every woman should have a good pair of loafers—even rude, inebriated women.”
Marcie’s brow crinkled. “Inevreated?”
“Drunk,” Abigail clarified.
“Well, that’s his fault,” Marcie said, pointing to Leif. “But I’m sorry I said that. Still, my mom totally has those shoes. Guess you shop at Talbots, too.”
Abigail turned to the waiflike preteen staring at him and Marcie with eyes as big as dinner plates. “Come on, Birdie. We’ll do this later. Mr. Lively has his hands full.”
Birdie stood agog, not budging. “Okay.”
“Wait.” Marcie held up a finger. “I got something for you, Leif.”
Oh, God. Please don’t let it be a shotgun. Surely Rachel didn’t let her bring a weapon. But then again, Rachel wasn’t the most sensible of girls. She’d brought a drunk, bridal-gown-wearing Marcie from New Orleans.
“Now, Birdie. Come on.” Abigail’s voice sounded more urgent.
Leif glanced at Abigail, then worriedly at the rump of Marcie. The rest of her had disappeared into the car. “You guys don’t have to go. It’s fine.”
But it was not fine.
The fluffy veil swayed as Marcie wriggled out, lunging toward Leif.
Whew. No shotgun or pistol or machete.
Just a plate. With a huge hunk of cake.
“This is for you,” she said, scooping a hunk of white iced cake off the plate. “Thought you might like a piece since you insisted on almond buttercream for the wedding cake.”
And