Wedding Party Collection: Always The Bachelor: Best Man's Conquest / One Night with the Best Man / The Bridesmaid's Best Man. Michelle Celmer
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got between us, there were good times, too.”
“What are you trying to say, Ivy?”
She took a deep breath, looked up and met his eyes. “I’m trying to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
He waited for a sarcastic remark, a caustic dig to pop into his head. Instead he was drawing a blank.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Ivy was proud, so he knew that hadn’t been easy for her.
He settled for, “You didn’t, but apology accepted.”
“He’s a twenty-two-year-old psychology major,” she said, and it took him a second to realize she was talking about the cupcake on the tour. “Really smart kid. He’s engaged to a lovely girl that he is absolutely crazy about and plans to marry after they both graduate. They’re considering moving to Texas. I told him to give me a call when and if he’s ever looking for an internship.”
“A bit of advice. Next time you might want to tone down the flirting.”
“I was not flirting.”
“I saw you, darlin’. You were most definitely flirting, and laying it on thick.”
“Okay, May be a little. But you were jealous. Admit it.”
“If I say yes, will you sleep with me?”
She just grinned and turned back to the window. “I knew you were jealous.”
He didn’t see any point in arguing. Once she set her mind to something she rarely backed down. And what the hell, May be he had been a little jealous.
If anyone was going to sleep with Ivy on this trip, damn it, it was going to be him.
When they got back to the villa everyone else was gone. Since dinner had already been prepared, they figured it would only be polite to sit down and eat. And it wasn’t so bad.
Ivy would go so far as to say it was darn near pleasant. Something strange had happened on the ride back from the marina. The tension that had been dogging them since their fight yesterday afternoon seemed to wither away. They seemed to have come to some sort of understanding.
And she began to think that when he followed her around, incessantly bugging her tonight, it might not be such a bad thing. Since there wasn’t much else to do.
After dinner he pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m going to call it a night and head up to my room.”
Sure he was. “It’s barely eight o’clock.”
“I’m a little tired, and I have some work I wanted to catch up on.”
Did he really think she was that gullible? That she didn’t know exactly what he was up to? He was pulling the same routine he always did. He would pretend he was going to leave her alone, then dog her relentlessly all night.
But just to make him happy, she played along. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Sweet dreams.”
Dillon walked around the table, stopped beside her chair and held out his hand. She looked at it suspiciously. He stood there patiently waiting, and finally she slipped her hand in his. She assumed he meant to escort her from the table. Instead he turned her hand over, exposing her wrist, and he leaned forward.
Unsure of what he was doing, but curious to find out, she sat motionless. Even though her heart had begun pounding out a faster and slightly erratic rhythm.
His eyes closed and he inhaled the scent of the perfume she’d dabbed there. The bottle she’d bought in town yesterday.
He looked up at her, his eyes like a hot spring ready to bubble over. “I like it.”
Her hand felt small and warm wrapped in his and his breath was hot on her skin. Then his lips brushed just below her palm and tiny jolts of awareness, like little static shocks, rippled up her arm.
Oh, my God.
She found herself looking forward to the time he would spend nagging her, and figured, if today was like every other day this week, she wouldn’t have to wait long.
He let go of her hand, then walked inside. She didn’t doubt that he’d be back in a minute or two. He would find some ridiculous reason he should keep himself glued to her side.
Yep, any minute now.
She sat at the table several minutes, then got up and walked to the balcony railing and looked out over the ocean, at the sun sinking slowly below the horizon. Several minutes passed before she heard a noise behind her.
She couldn’t help grinning. The man was so predictable.
She wiped the smile from her face and turned to him. “I thought you were going to—” The words trailed off when she realized it wasn’t Dillon, but the housekeeper, preparing to clear the table.
“Ma’am?” she asked in a thick Mexican accent.
Ivy’s cheeks blushed with embarrassment. “Sorry. I thought you were…someone else.”
She scurried past her into the house. The poor woman must have thought she was a loon. Although, compared to Deidre, who scarfed chocolate and had nervous breakdowns, and Dillon, who walked around in his underwear with his winkie hanging out, and the Tweedles—she wouldn’t even go there—Ivy was definitely one of the most normal of the bunch.
Apparently Dillon was going to wait until Ivy went to her room, or May be he was there already, lounging on her bed. The way he had been when she got out of the shower.
That was probably it. All this time she’d been waiting for him, he was probably waiting for her.
She headed up to her room, making sure her footsteps were just heavy enough, so he would know she was coming. The hallway was quiet and dim. Her bedroom door was open, just the way she’d left it, the room dark. No doubt he was going to try to startle her again.
She stepped in the room and switched on the light, eyes on the bed where she expected him to be.
It was empty.
Was he on the balcony? In the bathroom?
She checked everywhere. Even in the closet, but the room was as empty as she’d left it that morning. Besides the bed being made and the bathroom cleaned spotless, not a single thing appeared to be out of place.
Huh.
She was surprised, and even worse, disappointment tugged at her conscience. Why had he picked now to stop being a pest? When she was finally getting used to having him around? When the idea of spending a little time with him didn’t repulse her?
May be she was just being impatient. May be he was going to give her time to settle in, then he would show up, all prepared to annoy her.
She could wait.
She kicked off her sandals and fluffed her hair with her fingers. Besides the times that it was wet and snarled, today was the first time Dillon had seen her hair down. Not that it looked all that different than it had ten years ago. It was a little longer, but still had a hint of unruly curl to it. Her mom used to nag her incessantly about it.
“Would you please do something with that mop,” she would complain when Ivy would let her hair dry loose and wavy. Which she did ninety-nine percent of the time.
Looking back, she remembered her mom nagged her constantly. She still did. About her hair and her clothes and her makeup. Her posture. Areas in which she considered herself an authority.
“If you learned to use eyeliner correctly your eyes wouldn’t look so small,” she would say, or, “I saw you interviewed on CNN and as usual you were slouching. Would it kill you to sit up straight?”
Most people would be proud to have a daughter who even made it on CNN. But her mom didn’t see it that way. Nothing was ever good enough for her.
Ivy