You May Kiss the Bridesmaid - Camilla Isley Page 0,27

and flannel shirt, all lumberjack hot. “You’re late,” he says.

Pushing him inside, I reply, “Then let’s make up for lost time right away.”

Nine

Summer

A few hours later, I reluctantly get out of Archie’s bed to rush back to my room, shower again, and make myself presentable for dinner with my parents.

Logistics-wise, my family has kept it simple and booked a table at the hotel. Not at the resort’s fine dining restaurant, but at the pool-side grill. Tonight has turned out chillier than yesterday, so when I reach the grill, the hostess leads me to an indoor table overlooking the outdoor pool. Beyond the pool, hills covered in tidy rows of vines stretch to infinity. The view at sunset is breathtaking.

Both my parents and Winter and Logan are already seated at our table, so I’m the last one to join.

I check my watch: 7:32 pm. Last, but not late.

With a preparatory sigh, I pull back the only empty wooden chair and sit between Winter and my dad.

“Hey, everyone,” I say breezily.

The men at the table hum a non-committal greeting while my mom x-rays me for a little longer than I’m comfortable with.

“Hi, honey, you look good,” she says, as if surprised.

“Yeah,” Winter joins. “You’re practically glowing. What’s happened to you?”

So, I’m all sexed up, and it shows. Feeling more like a daredevil than usual, I reply with a half-truth. “I spent the afternoon in bed.” I stretch my arms and back like a still-sleepy cat. “I really needed it.”

“Oh, well,” my mother continues, “I haven’t seen you look this healthy since before the…” She lets the unfinished phrase hang in the air, positively crushing my good mood.

“Gosh, Mom, you resisted all of, what, five seconds before you had to mention the big scandal?”

“I was only trying to pay you a compliment.”

“Yeah, pity you ruined it with that little backhanded segue.”

I steal a side glance at Winter and notice my sister is approaching eye-rolling territory really fast. Right. This is her week, her wedding, and no matter how annoying Mom is being, I owe it to my twin to keep the tension at a minimum. So, I cut off Mom before she can come up with the next retort—she’s puffing with self-righteousness and indignation—I don’t care to hear. Sorry, Mom, but that will have to wait. With any luck, forever.

Turning to my dad, I ask, “Did you guys enjoy the visit to the vineyard today? Amazing how fast they recovered after the huge fire of last year, uh?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my mom shutting her mouth and swallowing whatever comment she was about to make. Hopefully taking the hint we all have to do our best to keep this dinner civil for Winter’s sake.

I can’t completely blame Mom for her attitude. In public, she’s defended me like a lioness, telling everyone who cared to listen they had no business sticking their nose into my private life and that they were in no position to judge. She even fought with her best friend, Lana’s mom, over The Mistake. But behind closed doors, it has been a very different tune since the magazine interview Johnathan the Bastard was paid to give was published.

My ex isn’t famous, but Lana was already dating Christian at the time, and the paparazzi were out to get any specks of dirt they could on her past. Johnathan was more than happy to oblige them. In the interview, he called our affair a mistake—hence how I named it from that moment on. He made me sound like a devil’s temptress. But worst of all, he depicted Lana like a heartless gold digger who wouldn’t forgive him now that she had a famous boyfriend. John spread all that suffering for a ten-thousand-dollar payday. As eye-openers go, mine was pretty devastating. I’d ruined my life, I’d hurt the kindest person in the world, and for what? For someone who cared more about getting a check than he did about me.

Since then, I’ve lost count of the times my mom has asked me, “Why?” or said, “Please, darling, help me understand.”

As if it was that easy. I still can’t process the particular brand of insanity that made me do the unspeakable. And I know Mom means well, but I’d rather not be reminded of The Mistake at every single family gathering for the next twenty years.

At least for tonight, my prayers get answered and, past the initial glitch, we manage to carry on polite conversation for the entire meal