if that word starts with a “D” and ends with an “ude”.
Finally they hurry into the building. I close my eyes and count slowly to a hundred, stroking Aceto, feeling the battle-scars under his fur and the satisfied purr rumbling up from deep within him. I open my eyes and I’m still in the Wine Knot parking lot.
And I can’t stall any more. I heave a sigh that I feel all the way to my soul, and fling my car door open to follow them. Then my cell phone rings.
I wince. It’s Pamela. I consider ignoring it, but she’ll keep calling me. She and I have BESP – Bestie E.S.P.
“Hello, crazy. You are not doing this,” she says when I answer.
“How did you find out?”
What a ridiculous question. This is Greenvale, population 50,000. It’ll be the talk of the town. Oh, and now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure the Witlockes notified the Greenvale Herald.
“Oh my God. It’s true? You’re actually getting hitched to that himbo?”
“It’s a long story. Involving, uh, suddenly realizing my true feelings, and, you know, opposites attract and…” I massage my temples with my free hand.
She makes a loud sound like a buzzer. “Errr. The lie detector determined…that was a lie! We hung out Wednesday night. And you neglected to mention this to me? I’d think you would have led with that.”
I lower my voice. “I’ll explain later. How about tomorrow? I’ll call you and we can get together for lunch or something.”
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t want to interrupt your honeymoon.”
“Pamela.” I pour all the stress and aggravation of this morning into that one word.
“Fine. I’m sure you have a good reason for this travesty,” she says resignedly. “I know a good lawyer who can arrange an annulment whenever you say the word,” she adds. “Me. I’m the good lawyer.” There’s a moment of silence. “Did I hear you say ‘the word’?” she asks hopefully.
I grab my purse, and the gym bag where I stuffed my wedding attire, and slide out of the car. “Sadly, you did not. Also I’m not even married yet, so how could I seek an annulment? Love you, miss you, I’ll call you tomorrow and explain everything.”
“Wait, what about your job back in Seattle? And doesn’t Jonathon travel around the West Coast, doing his wine salesman shtick for the Witlockes? Are you guys moving to Seattle together?”
I start walking across the parking lot towards the wedding chapel. “No, I’m staying here and so is he. He can work for his family from here. And I took a four month leave of absence.” I just told my boss that two days ago, and he was not delighted.
“Will they hold your job for you for that long?”
“Probably not,” I admit. “But I’m a very good accountant, if I do say so myself. I’ll find another job. Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. Or tonight, maybe even. Bye.”
“Well, I’d say congratulations but I’d be lying. Good luck, I guess.” And she hangs up.
As I’m walking, I look down into my purse to where Aceto is comfortably resting on top of my wallet and makeup bag. He blinks up at me and utters a questioning meow.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t have any choice,” I inform him.
He makes a sound that comes out like, “Wow.”
“I know, right?” I nod in agreement.
Then I run into what feels like a linen-wrapped solid wall, and I look up, startled.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the blushing bride.” It’s my old nemesis, Donovan Witlocke, his voice a deep sexy rumble laced with mockery. “And if you’re not blushing, you should be.”
I haven’t seen him in years, but I never cease to marvel at – I mean resent – how beautifully that skinny, shaggy-haired boy filled out. He’s got the shoulders of a linebacker, a jaw that would make Superman weep with envy, and his upper lip is a perfect Cupid’s bow. The familiar musky scent of his cologne sets my nerves aflame.
What is he even doing here? He lives in Los Angeles, where he runs his massively successful company, Futuristics Robotix.
And now, on this day of all days, here he is. Of all the people I would not want in attendance at my fake wedding, Donovan Witlocke takes up the top five spaces on the list.
I arrange my features into a mask of indifference. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite half-Wit.”
“Half-Wit?” He shakes his head chidingly. “Not your best work, shortcake.”
Ugh. This again. Yes, I’m only