Wedding Party Collection: Once A Bridesmaid...: Here Comes the Bridesmaid / Falling for the Bridesmaid. GINA WILKINS
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against a gurgle of laughter. ‘What about the prosciutto? I managed to tear that the way you showed me.’
‘Flayed flesh.’
‘Ouch,’ Sunshine said, but she was laughing. ‘What about how I scooped the gelato?’
‘Please! Like ooze from a wound.’
‘It’s a good thing I don’t have any coffee, or we’d be up to poison.’
‘Since I didn’t see an espresso machine in that shell of a kitchen, poison sounds about right.’
Rolling her eyes, Sunshine pushed her chair back from the table. ‘Well, then, I will make you some tea—something all well-bred hippies can do. Unless you have some words to throw at me about scalded skin. The invitation is on the coffee table, waiting for your approval, so why don’t you check it out while I clear up? Something else I can do.’
She watched from the corner of her eye as Leo moved to the couch, sat, reached for the invitation.
He was smiling—full-on!—as he slid the pad of his thumb so gently across the card, as though it were something precious. Oh, he did look good when he smiled. It was kind of crooked, with the left side lifting up further than the right. A little rusty. And it just got her—bang!— right in the chest.
Fried bat, anyone?
Tearing her eyes away, Sunshine finished making the tea.
‘So! Is it okay?’ she asked, sliding two mugs onto the coffee table and sitting beside Leo.
He turned to her, smiled again. Heaven!
‘It’s great. The calligraphy too.’
‘I guess the next step is to discuss the menu.’
Leo picked up his mug. ‘I’m going with a seafood bias, given the location.’
‘Uncanny! Exactly what I was thinking.’
‘Canapés to start. Local oysters, freshly shucked clams served ceviche-style, poached prawns with aioli, and hand-milked Yarra Valley caviar with crème fraîche.’
‘Ohhhhh...’
‘Buffalo mozzarella and semi-dried tomato on croutons, honey-roasted vegetable tartlets, and mini lamb and feta kofta’
‘Mmm...’
‘Just champagne, beer, and sparkling water—we don’t need to get too fancy with the drinks to start. But any special requirements we can accommodate on request.’
‘Good, because Jon’s mother will insist on single malt whisky—and through every course. Nothing we say ever dissuades her.’
‘Well, it’s better than a line of coke with every course.’
She gaped at him. ‘Line of...?’
‘Natalie,’ he said shortly. ‘Another reason she will not be performing at the wedding. Just to be absolutely clear.’
‘That’s...’ She waved a hand, lost.
‘Anyway, moving on. The first course will be calamari, very lightly battered and deep fried, served with a trio of dipping sauces—lime and coriander, smoked jalapeno mayonnaise, and a sweet plum sauce.’
‘Oh, Leo, could you teach me how to make that at least?’
‘No. The main meal will be lobster, served with a lemon butter sauce and a variety of salads that I wouldn’t dare describe to you.’
‘Lobster! Oh.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘You know, Leo, I saw the most intriguing thing about lobsters on the internet.’
‘Yes?’ He sounded wary.
‘They are actually immortal! They stay alive until they get eaten.’
‘That can’t be true.’
‘Which means coming back as a lobster in the next life wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Except...’ Nose-wrinkle. ‘Well, I’m not sure that when they’re caught they’re always killed humanely. So you might be lucky enough to live for ever—or you might get thrown into a pot of boiling water and be absolutely screaming, without even having the ability to make a sound, because some sadistic cook couldn’t be bothered to kill you first.’
Leo gave a sigh brimming with long suffering. ‘Okay—barramundi it is,’ he said. ‘Coated with lemon and caper butter and wrapped in pancetta, served with in-season asparagus.’
‘That sounds divine. And so much more humane.’
‘I am not a lobster sadist,’ Leo said, sounding as if he were gritting his teeth.
‘Well, of course not.’
There was the tic. ‘And they are not immortal.’
‘Well, they might be—who would know? And they can, a hundred per cent, live to about one hundred and forty years. Which is almost immortal.’
He regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘How is it you’ve made it to twenty-five without being murdered?’
‘You’re definitely watching too many crime shows.’
‘Dessert,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m thinking about figs.’
‘Figs. Oh.’ Sip of tea.
‘“Figs oh” what? Is this the fruit version of your vegetarian hang-up? Because there will be sugar, you know.’
‘It’s not th— Actually, it is partly that. But, more to the point, I think fig pollination is kind of disgusting.’
He had that fascinated look going on.
‘Wasps,’ she said.
‘Wasps?’
‘They burrow into the fig and lay their eggs in the fruit, then die in there. Ergh. And it’s quite brutal, because on the way in the poor wasp can lose her wings and her antennae—it’s a tight fit, I guess. Come on—you have to agree that’s a bit repulsive. And sad too.’
Leo had closed his eyes. Tic, tic, tic.
A moment passed. Another. He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘So, we’ll serve a variation on the glacé I made for you at Q Brasserie—perhaps with a rose syrup base. And, because it’s a wedding, some Persian confetti.’
Sunshine beamed at him. ‘That’s just perfect.’
‘And remember I know your modus operandi, Sunshine Smart-Ass.’
‘But I don’t have one of those!’
Leo simply put up the ‘stop’ hand. ‘For the non-seafood-lovers there will be ricotta tortellini with burnt-sage butter sauce as an alternative first course, and either chargrilled lime and mint chicken or a Moroccan-style chickpea tagine for your fellow commune dwellers for the main course.’
‘Oh, even the chickpea thing sounds good. Because chickpeas are sort of like the meat of vegetables, don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What about the cake?’
‘Four options: traditional fruit cake, salted caramel—which we can do with either a chocolate or butterscotch base—or coconut.’
‘Oh! Oh! Could we do one of those cake-tasting things? You know, where you sit around and try before you buy? I would so love to do a cake-tasting.’
‘For the love of God, can’t we just ask the guys what they want?’
‘What would be the fun in that?’ Sunshine asked, mystified.
Leo ran that hand over his head. ‘I’ll talk to Anton—he’s my pâtissier.’
‘And I have the most amazing idea for the decoration. Kind of Art Deco—my current favourite