Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins
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I asked. “I thought this was a wedding.”
“There is no groom.”
“But—”
Ian looked over again, his face grim.
I swallowed. “Oh. Oh, holy guacamole, Ian. Are you kidding me?”
“No groom.”
I fumbled in my purse for the wedding invitation he’d given me last week.
The pleasure of your company is warmly requested at the marriage ceremony of Laura Elizabeth Pembers & Devin Mullane Kilpatrick, Saturday, September, etc., etc.
“Devin’s a woman?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God, Ian.”
“Yes.” He cut another glance my way.
For a second, I didn’t say a word. No wonder he looked clenched all the time! No wonder he had issues with women! No wonder he didn’t want a date! “So you never …”
“No.”
“And she didn’t …”
“No.”
“How did you …”
“I found them in bed together, Callie.”
“Oh, Ian.” I reached out and put my hand on his leg. He glanced down, then at me again, eyes icy. Right. I carefully removed my hand—apparently there was a “no touching” rule in effect. Couldn’t blame him. Crikey. Ian’s ex-wife was gay.
Holy. Crap.
There was an exit for a rest stop up ahead, and Ian pulled off the highway. He parked the car carefully between the lines, despite the fact that there was no one else around, shifted into Park, then turned to me, his face expressionless. His hands still gripped the wheel.
“We met at Tufts. She was in law school. My first real love, everything I was looking for and all that. We dated for two years, got married after graduation. Devin was her friend from high school. She was in our wedding, ironically. About three years into the marriage, I came home early one day, and there they were. Any questions?”
A zillion, I thought, but I only asked one. “Do you still love her?”
“Would I be going to her wedding if I hated her?”
“Well, yes, absolutely,” I said. “You could make a scene, have a hissy fit, get drunk, grope your ex-mother-in-law.”
He gave a reluctant grin, and my heart twisted a little. “I don’t hate her.”
“You didn’t answer the question.” I felt my cheeks warming.
He looked down. “Sure. I married her. I’ll always love her a little.”
“And why are you going to the wedding, Ian?” I asked.
He sighed and put the car in reverse, backing out carefully. “Damned if I know. Closure, I guess.”
We pulled back on the highway. Man. Ian McFarland had caught his wife cheating on him, and here he was, going to her wedding.
For some reason, that made my heart feel a little bit too big for my chest.
I MADE IAN WAIT YET again once we got to the hotel … not on purpose, honest, but I felt I needed to start my hair from scratch, so that required another shower. Plus, I wanted to look incredible. Ian might not know it (or want it) but I was about to be the best date he’d ever had, and part of that involved being gorgeous. So I fussed with my hair, used the big curling iron to make it swingy and smooth. “Callie, time’s up!” Ian called from the hall.
“Two minutes! Almost ready, Ian,” I lied. Did my makeup to perfection, smoky eyes, easy on the lip gloss. A little perfume at the old pulse points. My grandmother’s pearl necklace and matching earrings. Then I put on the dress. It was long. It was red. It showed off the girls. And yes, my shoes were begging for it, slutty little strappy purple (I know!) things with three-inch heels. Oh, mommy!
“Callie, this time I’m really leaving without you.”
“You definitely don’t want to do that,” I said.
“We’re late. Again. You have five seconds, Callie, and if you’re not with me, that’s probably not the worst thing in the world. Five … four … three …”
I grabbed my little sparkly evening bag “… two …” glanced once more at myself in the big mirror “… one …” and opened the door. “Hi.”
Oh … God. He was in a tux. I’d sort of forgotten to think about that. He looked like an assassin about to infiltrate a state dinner … tall, blond, dangerous, and heavens, it was a turn-on! Those eyes of his were staring back at me, and you know what, it had been a long time since I’d had sex, and could we please just do it right here in this hallway? Holy. Guaca. Moley.
His eyes drifted down, slowly, assessingly, then back up, pausing at the girls for a gratifying heartbeat or three, then continuing up to my face. “Let’s go,” he said, then cleared his throat.
I snapped out of my haze of lust. “‘Let’s go,’ Ian? Can’t you do better than that? Here, I’ll give you an example.” I smiled and let my eyes drift over him once more. Frrrroooww! “Ian, you look … amazing. Wow. Okay, now it’s your turn.”
He almost smiled. “You look pretty. Let’s go.”
I sighed. “You’re a work in progress, Ian McFarland.”
Still, it was kind of a thrill, walking through the lobby of the prettiest hotel in Montpelier. Heads turned, people smiled, and I felt very Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus the prostitute factor.
Ian was quiet in the car. His GPS system guided us past the gold-domed Capitol, the charming brick buildings, inviting shops and luscious smells of downtown Montpelier.
“Nervous?” I asked as we drove over the bridge.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I am still totally game to pretend to be your girlfriend,” I reminded him.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“That’s so insulting. And to think I wore this dress for you.”
Ian was not amused. His eyes looked tight, if such a thing were possible. “Sorry,” I muttered, adjusting my bracelet. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” I glanced at the little GPS system, which was one of those handheld thingies. “Can I look at this?” I asked. “I’ve been meaning to get one.”
“Sure,” Ian said, taking a left as instructed.
I picked up the unit. Cute. There was an arrow at the bottom of the screen. I touched it. It showed our next four instructions. Yes, I definitely could use one of these things. Vermont roads were notoriously unmarked. I hit the button to exit back to the last screen. Escape? the unit asked. I hit yes.
“When do I make the next turn?” Ian asked.
“Um, let me check here … oh. Oops, I think I … there’s nothing.” Ian gave me the Siberian Freeze again. “I just touched an arrow,” I explained. “It asked if I wanted to escape, I said yes, that’s all.”
“You canceled the instructions,” he said, pulling over a tad abruptly.
“Oh. Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think I did, actually, but—”
He took the GPS from me. “You did,” he said. He stabbed a few buttons with unnecessary roughness, I thought. Growled. Stabbed some more. Finally got it back.
“Don’t touch it again,” he said.
“Okay, boss,” I said, sighing. “Sorry. Again.”
Ten