that.”
I ignored him, forging on while not making eye contact, because, lordy, if I had to have this conversation with him, I absolutely could not look at him.
“And I understand that after such a long dry spell, you might be confused about what you feel, and that’s okay,” I said. Jeebus, this sounded like a sex talk by Mr. Rogers. “The thing is, you don’t have to marry the first person you sleep with after Mom.”
There, I said it. And my wise advice and counsel were met with complete silence. I waited for him to express relief that he didn’t have to get married. And I waited. Finally, I glanced up at my father, who was staring at me in the same way he had when I discovered he was actually the tooth fairy. Chagrin.
“Sheri is not the first,” he said.
“She’s not?” I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you.
“No.”
“But you never told me about anyone before,” I said.
“You didn’t need to know,” he replied. “They were companions, not relationships.”
“They?!” I shouted. I didn’t mean to. The seamstress sent me another critical look, and I coughed, trying to get it together.
Dad shifted in his seat, sending me a small smile of understanding. “Maybe meeting here wasn’t the best idea. I thought you’d be excited to help plan the wedding, but perhaps you’re not ready.”
“Of course I’m not ready,” I said. “But you’re not either.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, really? Answer me this: Does Sheri prefer dogs or cats?”
“I don’t—” He blinked.
“Yes, because it’s only been two weeks,” I said. “You remember that lump on your forehead? It took longer than two weeks to get that biopsied, but you’re prepared to marry a woman you haven’t even known long enough for a biopsy.”
My voice was getting higher, and Dad put his hands out in an inside voice, please gesture. I would have tried, but I felt as if I was hitting my stride in making my point. I went for the crushing blow.
“Dad, do you even know whether she’s a pie or cake sort of person?”
“I . . . um . . .”
“Do you realize you’re contemplating spending the rest of your life with a person who might celebrate birthdays with pie?”
“Chels, I know this is coming at you pretty fast,” he said. “I do, but I don’t think Sheri liking pie or cake is really that big of a deal. Who knows, she might be an ice cream person, and ice cream goes with everything.”
“Mom was a cake person,” I said. There. I’d done it. I’d brought in the biggest argument against this whole rushed matrimonial insanity. Mom.
My father’s smile vanished as if I’d snuffed it out between my fingers like a match flame. I felt lousy about it, but not quite as lousy as I did at the thought of Sheri—oh, but no—becoming my stepmother.
“Your mother’s been gone for seven years, Chels,” he said. “That’s a long time for a person to be alone.”
“But you haven’t been alone . . . apparently,” I protested. “Besides, you have me and Annabelle.”
“I do.”
“So why do you need to get married?” I pressed.
Dad sighed. “Because I love Sheri and I want to make her my wife.”
I gasped. I felt as if he’d slapped me across the face. Yes, I knew I was reacting badly, but this was my father. The man who had sworn to love my mother until death do them part. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Mom had passed away, and Dad had been alone ever since, right up until he met Sheri Armstrong two weeks ago when she just kept raising her auction paddle for the marginally hot mathematician.
I got it. Really, I did. I’d been known to have bidding fever when a mint pair of Jimmy Choos showed up on eBay. It was hard to let go of something when it was in your grasp, especially when another bidder kept raising the stakes. But this was my dad, not shoes.
One of the bridal-salon employees came by with a tray of mimosas. I grabbed two, double fisting the sparkling beverage. Sweet baby Jesus, I hoped there was more fizz than pulp in them. The bubbles hit the roof of my mouth, and I wished they could wash away the taste of my father’s startling news, but they didn’t.
“Listen, I know that being the object of desire by a crowd of single, horny women is heady stuff—”
“Really, you know this?” Dad propped his chin in his hand as he studied me