The Wedding Pact Box Set - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,16

her hand and wrapped his other arm around her as he pulled her to his chest. “I assumed that you and Mr. Vandemeer would want us to sleep in separate rooms until the wedding, so I figured we could enjoy a little time alone together since we were already up here. If you know what I mean.” He winked.

Megan couldn’t believe he’d just said that to her mother. She kicked his shin, but his smile barely wavered.

Her mother’s face turned a pretty pink, which Megan didn’t find surprising. Everything her mother did only enhanced her beauty and sophistication. She wasn’t an ugly crier, so of course her blush would look like blush, not like the ugly splotches Megan got when she was embarrassed. There had never been any question as to why her father had married the Southern belle from Atlanta, who still carried her Southern accent around like a badge of honor. But she’d found it impossible to live in her shadow.

Her mother reached for the diamond pendant at the base of her neck. “Bart and I understand young love. We’re not that old-fashioned. You’re both grown adults, days away from your wedding. We know you . . . do things . . . in Seattle. So Josh, we put your bag in here with Megan’s.” She gestured to the suitcase Megan hadn’t noticed until precisely that moment.

Josh’s arms stiffened around Megan. “I wouldn’t want to offend—”

“Don’t be silly.” She waved him off with one hand. “But save the hanky-panky for later and come down to the kitchen. The guests are arriving in twenty minutes.”

“Guests?” Megan gasped.

Megan’s mother shook her head. “Really, Megan. Don’t you listen to a word I say?” She released an exaggerated sigh. “I told you about this months ago.”

Megan hadn’t paid attention. Her mother had gone mother-of-the-bridezilla with planning the details for the wedding, down to the exact size of the lovebirds her mother had monogrammed onto an old handkerchief—seven-eighths of an inch by five-eighths—and Megan had done her best to tune it all out. She was now regretting that decision.

“I had a feeling something like this would happen,” her mother said. She pointed to the dresser along the far wall. “I made you both an itinerary for the rest of the week so you know where you need to be and when.”

Josh glanced at the dresser, but Megan kept her attention on her mother. “So we need to be downstairs in twenty minutes?” Obviously her mother wasn’t interested in volunteering what was planned for the evening. She’d need to read it in whatever booklet—or, knowing her mother, tome—was placed on the dresser.

Her mother rolled her eyes. Even that looked pretty on her. “Not quite. The guests arrive in twenty minutes. I need you downstairs pronto to help finish setting up.” She took a step toward the door before turning back. “And Megan . . . you should consider putting on some fresh clothes and touching up your makeup a bit. You look like you’ve been on a two-day drinking binge.”

She made an exaggerated grimace, then walked out the door toward the stairs.

“I’m not sure whether to be horrified or amused that your mother called what we were doing hanky-panky,” Josh said, shivering as though he’d narrowly escaped a brush with death.

But Megan ignored him, shutting the bedroom door—a little louder than normal but not as loud as she wanted—then running into the Jack and Jill bathroom off her room and flipping on the light.

“Ohmygawd!” she gushed in horror. Her mascara was smeared under her eyes, and her hair looked like it belonged to a creative child’s Barbie. Her natural waves had ratted into a huge mess on the right side of her head, where she’d been leaning against the plane window. She’d just had a conversation with Josh—and he’d kissed her—looking like . . . this.

“Your mother thinks we’re going to sleep together tonight,” he said from the bedroom.

“I know. I was privy to the conversation.” She opened the linen closet and grabbed a washrag and stuck it under the running water.

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I have bigger issues to worry about.”

“Your makeup? Honestly, you don’t look that bad.”

“Maybe not for a zombie!” she moaned.

“Why are you so worked up?”

“I looked like this—” she pointed to her reflection in the mirror, “—down there.” She pointed to the door.

“So?”

“So?” She shook her head, trying to swallow the burning lump in her throat. “You obviously wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

I will not cry.