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I sighed. Mostly, I grinned like an idiot. She had us at zucchini bread! Fast pacing and a smooth flowing storyline will keep you in stitches.
More books from this author: Alice Clayton
They have such amazing chemistry. The love that flows between them scorches the pages. Scratch that. See what I did there? I may have been watching too much Sons of Anarchy. Perched backward on hers, she pointed aggressively in response to something he said. He pointed back just as hard, which made her. These two. I leaned back against the bar and pondered the passion that was pinging back and forth between them.
Their words were antagonistic, but their body language?
He leaned; she leaned. He rolled his eyes; she all but rolled her hips. Words were heated; their skin even more so. My skin was rarely heated. In fact, everything south of my ankles was getting decidedly cold.
But that was normal for a bride, right? I was getting married in a month. And listening to Clark talk nonstop about this girl who had rocked his world. And now, watching these two dance around each other, watching his eyes being drawn again and again to the bosom she seemed to be deliberately using to her advantage, I realized that this was what it was supposed to be about.
The dance. The back-and-forth, the spark, the excitement. And after watching Clark go toe-to-toe with this Vivian? I wanted to get sparked too. And to her intended, I say: take care of her.
Because I know people. And everyone laughed along with me, raising their glasses in our direction. Was the clap a little harder than necessary?
Was the threat as affable as my father made it sound? I giggled loudly, earning an eye roll from my mother, who had the most audible eye roll in the room. In any room. And particularly any room my father was in. He leaned over me, pressing an absentminded kiss onto the top of my head. I kissed the air behind him as he sped off to press some more flesh, and turned to see my mother watching us.
Our rehearsal dinner, and he was schmoozing. That wedding dress barely fits as it is. I smiled resignedly, setting down my fork with a clatter that earned me an eyebrow raise. She should enjoy this night! And what was that toast? You know people? How quickly would someone usher me off the table, and how quickly would everyone else go back to their coffee?
I was saved from my mental screaming by my mother, who was making a second pass around the restaurant. Be a good girl and go thank them for coming. Finally, Charles and I found ourselves alone in front of the restaurant.
Before Cinderella was packed off into her stretch limo coach, she was to say good night to her handsome prince. Arms he kept strong, along with every other part of his body, with hours of tennis, racquetball, swimming, jogging, and, of course, golf.
Avid golfer. Of course I did. I signed you up. We talked about this before. Working with your pageant platform is one thing; the therapy dog charity was great. Charles Preston Sappington was tall. My mother, who traded in perfect, had introduced us. He was an attorney.
He argued for a living, which is why I never bothered to argue with him. Hard to go toe-to-toe with the toughest litigator in all of Southern California. I know this because he had it on a plaque above his desk. So I rarely bothered. But for now? Just concentrate on getting some sleep tonight so you can be beautiful for me tomorrow.
But then after that? The honeymoon, baby—the best part. I sighed, bit back my remark, and concentrated on the band that was tightening around my chest. His arms, I mean. Private bungalow. Someone could see! He laughed, thinking this particular squall was over. After all, I was getting married tomorrow. Sound good? Now, Charles, scoot.
I giggled in spite of myself, and my mother frowned at me. Sitting next to my mother, I listened to her chatter as we pulled away from the restaurant and headed toward our home. Sorority house. Canopy bed. Pageant girl, remember? Elbow elbow wrist wrist. Curled up on top of the covers, I was hot, my heart beating faster than normal. Nervous about tomorrow, I suppose. Marrying Charles. Becoming a Sappington and everything that meant.
The ring shone as brightly in the photo as it shone on my hand now. I slipped it off, setting next to the picture. We were engaged five months to the day after we met. Never a hair out of place, never a spot of food on his tie, or a piece of spinach in his teeth. The spinach would never dare. But any piece of spinach would love to get the chance to lodge there.
Charles Preston Sappington was the man about town, the bachelor every woman from San Diego to Santa Barbara had been trying to land for years. Any piece of spinach would count herself extremely lucky to be trapped between his pedigreed teeth; it was the dream tiny spinaches were told by their spinach mothers.
Good family. I was Miss Golden State. He was my final tiara after a lifetime of pretty and prancing. Now I could go quietly into that beautifully manicured good night, my wedding veil firmly in place. And a silent scream in the back of my throat. With that comforting thought—and if by comforting, I mean abject terror—I turned out my light. Looking back, I wish I could tell you there was one particular thing that tipped the scales and made me run away from my wedding.
But all I know was that from the moment I set my feet on the floor that morning, I knew something was off. And not just my stomach, although that had been burbling and gurgling since 3 A.
I ate oatmeal practically every morning of my life.
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But today when I shuffled into the kitchen, I saw something I had never seen there before. Like, with the sugar and the fat. I looked around to make sure that, yes, I was still in my own house.
My oatmeal bowl was set out, place mat and utensils laid with care, as it was every day. Slow cooker was plugged in, with my preportioned amount piping hot and ready for eating. The small pitcher of nonfat milk sat by my place setting, holding exactly a half cup of gray, watery, not-so-much milk. Donuts were where I went off the rails. Taking one more look around to make sure no one was there to witness this culinary mortal sin, I walked over toward the platter.
And regarded the donuts, piled high and arranged with attention toward making a beautifully delicious display. I was a slim girl; genetics plus a Southern California lifestyle had made me so. Long blond hair. Tall; not so much curves as there were hills and valleys; strong from running, tennis, Pilates, yoga, you name it.
But again: never in my life had I seen a donut in my own home. And then in my hand. And then in my mouth.
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And then. Somewhere around the third donut, my mother walked in with my wedding planner, Terrance. Her quiet meant danger. It was every man for himself. Or herself. Normal, chastised Chloe would have nodded, put down the donut in an apologetic fashion, and exited the room quietly, knowing that this indiscretion would be mentally catalogued and trotted out sometime in the future, typically when I least expected it.
And for whatever reason, I decided to draw a line in the sand—with my big, luscious donut. It was a heady mix. Swallowing, I calmly licked my fingertips, never taking my eyes off my mother.
True to form, she remained cool. Terrance shot a stifled grin my way, snagged a cinnamon twist of his own, and went where he was told. I was alone with my mother. What must our wedding planner think?
My mother sighed and looked at the counter. And as she did, I realized it was the single most reliable expression she had on her face when it came to me.
I loved my mother, but it sure was hard to like her sometimes. Good posture is the calling card of good breeding, after all. If I could manage to lift my giant elephant legs off the floor. Mothers of the bride getting in screaming matches with the mothers of the groom. Grooms getting drunk at the reception and falling into the wedding cake. Once I even saw a father of the bride trying to make out with a groomsman. I had someone curling my hair, someone painting my nails, someone applying my makeup, and someone touching up my pedicure.
In the background, happy music played and happy bridesmaids danced while sipping mimosas. The entire house was Happy Wedding Central, bursting with feminine giggles. Yet I, the one the frivolity was revolving around, was ready to burst into tears.
No one was noticing my dark mood except my wedding planner. Which I was pretty sure were stacked. He alone had listened to what I wanted for my wedding, and even though I eventually gave in to what my mother wanted, he had fought for me all along. And now he saw that the tears that were building in my eyes were not, in fact, due to the false lashes recently applied, as I had tried to spin it.
As each hour passed, that ball of awful was getting bigger and bigger, and it was starting to affect the rest of my body. There was a ringing in my ears. My fingers and toes felt buzzy. My tongue felt thick. And my eyes kept filling with tears. My pulse was racing, my hands were clammy, and words were thundering up my throat, literally begging to get out. Scary words. Like no.
And stop. And seriously stop this. But it was just wedding nerves, right? Not so phantom now. They were blocks of foot ice. But normal, right? Please breathe.
Terrance took one more look at me and told the glam squad to scram. Bridesmaids whooshed out in a wave of orange juice and champagne, my curls were quickly pinned to my head, and then I was all alone.
I put my head into my hands and just sobbed. As you do on your wedding day, right? Oh, so wrong. This felt wrong, all of this, just felt so very wrong. I was beyond nerves; I was into panic. Panic that needed space to move and give voice to what was raging inside. Have you ever had those moments when words just seem to hang in the air? I could literally hear them echoing back to me in the stark silence. I lifted my head to see peep-toe pumps, one of them now tapping furiously against the dark teak wooden floor.
I saw tanned and toned legs, knees that were just beginning to wrinkle, an off-white linen afternoon skirt, a peach silk wraparound blouse, a ruby, an emerald, a diamond, Chanel lipstick Rouge Coco Shine, thank you very much , and wide green eyes accented by more than a touch of irritation.
Concern over how I was feeling? Or concern that I might unravel her perfect day? I know which horse I was betting on.Of course I did. A partir del 1 de Enero de , solo ser permitido mantener en plantilla a un trabajador un mximo de 24 meses 2 aos con contratos temporales. View all 10 comments. FangirlMoments and My Two Cents. Charles Preston Sappington was the man about town, the bachelor every woman from San Diego to Santa Barbara had been trying to land for years.
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