Wedding Party Collection: Once A Bridesmaid...: Here Comes the Bridesmaid / Falling for the Bridesmaid. GINA WILKINS
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twinkled at him. ‘You’re not ready for that, Leo. But think a cross between Regency England and the Mad Hatter’s tea party in the office, and Scheherazade meets Marie Antoinette in the bedroom...’
He looked at the bedroom door hard enough to disgust himself. What did he think was going to happen? An ‘Open Sesame’ reveal? Why did he care anyway?
‘So! Leo! How do we start this gastronomic enterprise?’
Leo dragged his Superman-worthy gaze away from the bedroom door and refocused on Sunshine—the vivid, unique, laughing eyes; the luxuriant hair; her free-spirited yet glamorous dress; her naked feet.
‘You’re not wearing any shoes,’ he said. Duh! Of course she knows she isn’t wearing shoes! They’re her feet, aren’t they?
‘I’m generally barefoot when I’m at home. But I do have a lovely pair of black beaded high heels that I wear with this dress if I’m going out.’
He could picture her, tap-tapping her way into South with sparkles on her feet, the red silk billowing. He knew he was staring at her feet, but they were very sexy feet.
And then his eyes travelled up. Up, up, up... To find her watching him, her eyes dazed and wide, lips slightly parted.
She licked her lips.
‘Sunshine...’ he said.
‘Yes?’ It was more a breath than a word.
‘Um...’ What? What was he doing? What? ‘Feet.’ Doh! ‘I mean shoes!’ he said desperately. ‘I mean mine.’
She looked down at his feet. ‘I like them. Blue nubuk. Rounded, desert boot-style toe. White sole.’ Her eyes were travelling up now, as his had done. ‘Perfect with...’
Holy freaking hell. He hoped she couldn’t see his erection as she got to—
Argh. He saw the swallow, the blink, the blush. She’d seen it.
‘Jeans,’ she finished faintly.
Disaster. This was a freaking disaster. Say something, say something, say something. ‘I meant for...for the...the wedding,’ Leo said.
And, really, it was a valid subject. Because he was starting to get curious about what she would design for him. Although it would probably end up being the shoe equivalent of a Design for Dummies pine bookshelf: plain black leather lace-ups.
‘Oh!’ She took a breath, smoothed the front of her dress. ‘Well! I need to see what you’re wearing first, remember?’ She blinked, smiled a little uncertainly. ‘So! Pasta? I even bought an apron!’
Food. Good. Excellent. Something he could talk about without sounding stupid or crotchety or boring or...or crazed with inappropriate lust.
Because he could not be in lust with Sunshine Smart. They were polar opposites in every single possible, conceivable way. Like light and dark. Bright and gloomy. Joyful and... Oh, for God’s sake, get over yourself!
‘You’ve got pots and pans, right?’ he asked.
‘Yes. And most of them are even unpacked.’
‘Most of them? How long have you lived here?’
‘Two and a half years.’
Leo ran his hand over his head. If he’d had hair he would have yanked it. Two and a half years was long enough to unpack all the pots and pans. ‘I need a medium saucepan and a large frying pan. And what about bowls? Plates? Cutlery?’
‘Oh, plates and stuff I have.’
‘You get all that out while I unpack the food.’
She started humming. Off-key.
Leo peeked as she opened cupboards and slid out drawers. Just the bare minimum.
He opened the fridge to stow the wine he’d brought—empty except for butter, milk, soda water, and a wedge of Camembert.
Freezer: a bottle of vodka and half a loaf of bread.
The kitchen had one of those slide-out pantry contraptions, which he opened with trepidation. A jar of peanut butter. A packet of lemon tea. A box of sugary kids’ cereal. A tin of baked beans that looked a thousand years old. And—sigh—three packets of two-minute noodles.
‘Right,’ she said proudly, and pointed to the pot, pan, bowls, and forks she had lined up on the counter. She reminded him of a hyperactive kitten being given a ball of wool to play with after being cooped up with nothing all day.
‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Twenty-five—why?’
‘You look younger. You act younger.’
‘So I’m fat and immature?’
‘You’re not fat.’
She laughed. ‘But I am immature? Just because I can’t cook pasta? How unfair. I’m not asking you to design a boot, am I?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Just go and put on your apron,’ he said, and then wondered what he thought he was doing as she hurried towards a tiny alcove off the kitchen. What she thought she was doing! She wasn’t going to be in the kitchen with him! She didn’t cook! She had scoffed at the idea of cooking classes. So she didn’t need a goddamned apron.
But when she came back she was beaming, and he couldn’t find the will to tell her to go and watch TV while he made dinner.
He took one look at the slogan on the front of her apron—Classy, Sassy, and a Bit Smart-Assy—and had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the smile. He was not going to be charmed. Like Gary and Ben—and probably Marco. Iain. And the tinker, the tailor, the soldier, and the spy.
‘Come on, it’s cute—admit it!’ she said, possibly wondering about the strangled look on his face. ‘You know, I used to be called Sunshine Smart-Ass in school, so seeing this in the shop today was like an omen. Not a creepy Damien omen. I mean like a sign that I am going to nail this pasta thing.’
‘Smart-Ass. Why am I not surprised?’ Leo asked through his slightly twisted mouth. Damn, he wanted to laugh.
She’d messed up her hair, getting the apron on. He could see part of her temple, where her fringe had been pushed aside. He realised he was holding his breath. Because...because he wanted to kiss her there.
Half the male population of Sydney is in love with her, he reminded himself. And you are not—repeat not—going to become a piece of meat in the boyfriend brigade.
* * *
Leo unpacked his knives and chopping boards, liberated extra plates and dishes from the cupboard, unearthed additional gadgets from his magic boxes.
‘Come here so you can see properly,’ he said as he started arranging ingredients on the counter.
Sunshine moved enthusiastically to stand beside him. The wave of heat emanating from him was very alluring. She edged a little closer. Breathed in the scent of him, which was just...well, just him. Just super-clean Leo. Could she manage to get just a bit closer, so that she was just—nearly—touching him, without him panicking and hitting her with a cooking implement?
His arm, naked below the short sleeve of his T-shirt, brushed hers—that was how close she was, because there was no way he would have done that on purpose—and she felt like swooning. Wished, quite passionately, that she hadn’t worn sleeves so she could feel him skin to skin.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with exposure therapy either.
It was, plain and simple, about sexual attraction. Mutual sexual attraction—at least she hoped the impressive bulge in his jeans that had taken her by surprise earlier was Sunshine-induced and not some erectile dysfunction...like that condition called priapism she’d read about on the internet...
Not that she was going to ask him that,