You May Kiss the Bridesmaid - Camilla Isley Page 0,25

me. “I’ll go get ours,” he offers, and my knees wobble a little with relief. “Anyone we want to avoid?”

“Yeah,” I say, pointing at Susan and Daria. “The woman in the coral dress with the brown bob, and her friend with the shoulder-length balayage.”

Archie cute-frowns. “Am I supposed to know what a balayage is?”

“Ah, no. It means lighter hair tips and dark roots, she’s the one in the white pants. They’ll be in the same group as Lana. You’ve met her, right?”

Archie nods. “Gotcha.”

While Archie is gone, the Italian guy oh-so-casually walks up beside me, saying, “Fine day, uh?” He jerks his chin up to the sunny sky.

The weather, really? Is this how he’s going to start a conversation?

“Yeah, very nice,” I respond, equally dully.

He moves on to the next obvious topic. “You’re the bride’s sister, right?”

“Yep.”

I’m saved from his next boring conversational tidbit by Archie’s return. He comes our way, walking rather aggressively and staring the Italian guy down. I swear, if he were a peacock he’d have his tail all rounded out in a show of male dominance.

“Hey, Gio,” he says. “The bracelets are being handed out up front; we’re in the orange group. Logan is in the blue with his wife-to-be.”

Italian Guy takes the hint and makes himself scarce, saying, “I’ll go get mine.”

I turn on Archie and glare at him. “What are you doing?”

His chest de-puffs, and he shrugs innocently. “Nothing.”

“The next time you do nothing, try to be less caveman about it. I told you no one can find out about us. And your little scene was completely unnecessary, anyway, your friend is the worst flirt ever.”

“Really?” Archie scrunches his face, surprised. “Must be the Californian air, because in Rome, he used to make conquests left and right every time we went out.”

“He spoke about the weather,” I hiss.

“Ouch.” Archie makes a mock-pained expression and then says, “Hold out your wrist.”

I do, and he takes my arm in a gentle grip, his eyes burning with such passion he might be putting a wedding band on my ring finger. Of course, in Archie-land a ring would only mean: I promise to sex you up good, from now till the end of the week. Nothing remotely romantic.

Still, my pulse speeds up. And when he looks down at my wrist, I follow his gaze and have to work hard not to shiver while he fastens the orange bracelet around it. My skin burns where his fingers graze it, and why does this feel so much like foreplay? Can this man turn everything into a dirty thought, from foot massages to yoga classes to simple tour bracelets?

We can’t be doing this in public. So, the moment the bracelet is secured, I snatch my hand away, croaking a coarse “Thanks.”

His gaze still consuming, Archie purrs back a “You’re welcome.”

And his voice is alluring enough to send another shiver down my spine.

Thank goodness Tucker cuts into our covert seduction game, yelling, “All right, group one, those with a blue bracelet, please follow your guide inside.”

Half the people trail a tall, blonde lady with a pixie cut under the arch. When they’re gone, I do a quick scan of the remaining individuals, sighing in relief when I don’t recognize anyone except for Italian Guy and Tucker, who joins our duo, saying, “Now I understand why teachers back in high school hated to bring us kids on field trips.”

Archie pats him on the shoulder. “You’re doing a brilliant job, man!”

Before Tucker can reply, a tall, lean woman with light-brown skin, a crown of black curls, and striking blue-green eyes joins us, asking, “How smashed are we going to get?”

Tucker shrugs. “I don’t know, how smashed can you get with four glasses of wine?”

The woman smiles. “On an empty stomach? Pretty damn smashed.”

Then she looks up at Archie, taking in his ice-blue eyes, chiseled face, and devil-may-care grin and… Is she blushing?

She extends her hand. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. I’m Penelope Jones.”

And, okay, I’ll admit that if I had feathers, now I’d be puffing them out while making scary, possessive squawking noises to intimidate a rival.

Archie shakes her hand with a non-committal, “Archibald Hill.”

Then the woman turns to me, her smile equally bright. “Penelope, but everyone calls me Penny.”

I take her hand, relaxing several notches. “Summer Knowles.”

“You’re the bride’s sister,” Penny says. “And sorry, everybody must make the same dull observation to you.”

Despite my ridiculous jealousy of a moment ago, I like this girl. “Yeah, I am, and, yes, everyone does,