Dating Dr. Dreamy - Lili Valente Page 0,60

the motions, but not plugging in the way I used to.

I don’t get a rush when I walk into the kitchen to start a job anymore. I don’t get nervous around fussy brides; I don’t even care when the old people complain about the gourmet salad dressing and ask for a bottle of Ranch, instead. The job just doesn’t seem to matter as much as it used to.

Nothing does.

“I’ll tell you what kind of bride,” Melody says in a conspiratorial whisper, glancing over her shoulder, though the bridal party left an hour ago and the last of the guests are drifting out to their cars in the front parking lot. “A bride with a bun in the oven.”

“No,” Aria says, wrinkling her nose. “No way.”

“Yes, way.” Melody plops down on the grass beside her. “I heard her mom talking after she’d had a few too many glasses of champagne. The bride was four months pregnant. They had to move the wedding up from the original date in November so she’d be able to fit into her dress.”

“God, but she was so tiny!” Aria shakes her head. “By the time I was four months, I looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg.”

“You totally did,” Melody agrees, giggling when Aria nudges her in the side with a sharp elbow. “Sorry, but you did. I would never have imagined your stomach could get as big as it was by the end.”

Aria lifts one shoulder. “At least I didn’t get stretch marks.”

“Good genes,” Melody says with a sigh. “I hope I got them too. Not that I would really care. Babies are worth a few stretch marks.”

“My friend, Hannah, calls them battle scars,” Aria says with a smile.

“Is there anything else left inside?” I ask, backing toward the outdoor kitchen at the edge of the botanical gardens.

I don’t want to talk about babies. It’s one of the many topics that remind me of a perfect night that I wish I could forget.

“No, I got everything. Sit and visit for a minute.” Melody pats the grass beside her and Aria.

I glance at my watch. “I really should get home. I’ve got to get up early and shine the silver for the bridal shower tomorrow afternoon.”

“No you don’t,” Aria says. “It’s my turn to prep the serving plates. Mom’s going to watch Felicity so I can take care of it first thing in the morning.”

“Sit,” Melody repeats. “Take a load off. It’s not so bad now that the sun is setting.”

I sigh and fiddle with the van keys. “Honestly, I’d rather head home. We’ve got a forty minute drive, and I don’t feel like—”

“Sit!” Melody and Aria say at the same time, sending a prickle of suspicion across my skin.

“I don’t want to Talk with a capital T,” I warn them.

“We don’t care,” Melody says pleasantly. “Sit your butt down. Now. I’m invoking emergency sister procedures.”

Grudgingly, I sink down to the sweet-smelling grass and sit cross-legged next to my sisters, watching the pink sunset light turn purple and the air begin to flash with sleepy-looking lightning bugs. Slowly, twilight transforms the garden into an even more romantic place than it is during the day.

I close my eyes against the beauty of the scene, only opening them when Melody puts a warm hand on my arm.

“This has gone on long enough,” she says gently. “We’re worried about you.”

“What’s gone on long enough?” I play innocent, though I have a good idea what my sister is talking about.

Melody is talking about the numbness, broken only by periods of intense sadness and bouts of prolonged crying I do my best to do in private, but can’t always, not when I spend up to twelve hours a day working with my sisters. Melody is talking about my inability to care the way I used to, and the way my smile has gone into mid-summer hibernation.

She’s talking about me mourning the loss of Mason.

“You know what I mean,” Melody insists, not letting me off the hook for a second. But then, I didn’t expect her to. “If you miss Mason that much, you should call him.”

“I can’t call him.” I roll my eyes. We’ve had this conversation half a dozen times already. It’s getting ridiculous. “And you know why. So give me a break, okay?”

“Then let us help you find someone to talk to. A counselor or something,” Melody says. “If you’re determined not to give that poor man another chance, at least give yourself one. You can’t live