There were more photos—endless photos—after the ceremony, then they piled into the cars and drove to the Fairfield Boathouse for the reception. The food came quickly, which was just as well as Vivian was starving, having somehow forgotten to eat breakfast and lunch in all the rush. The champagne flowed freely, and before she knew it they were at the speeches part of the evening. Her father spoke well and made everyone cry, then Jason’s mother took the floor and made them laugh. Seth told droll stories and earned his brother some raised-eyebrow looks from her sister. Then it was Vivian’s turn to talk about the happy couple.
She’d never been crazy about public speaking, so she chugged down her glass of champagne before taking the mike. She’d written out her speech, and she pretty much stuck to the script as she shared how happy she was for Jason and Jodie, and how she thought they made a great couple and couldn’t wait for little Johnny and Jan and Jill to come along. Everyone seemed to think that was funny—phew—so she finished on a high note.
With the official stuff out of the way, the music started. Vivian knocked back more champagne while watching her relatives make idiots of themselves on the dance floor, then went in search of the ladies’.
Afterward, she couldn’t quite face returning to the rowdy din. Not just yet. She slipped out the front entrance onto the covered balcony that circled the Victorian building. The river was dark as night, but fairy lights circled the gum trees nearest the boathouse and the world seemed mysterious and full of promise.
The scent of smoke drifted to her and she glanced to her left. Someone stood in the shadows of the balcony, the tip of his cigarette glowing.
She smiled, because she knew exactly who it was. Full of champagne and mischief, she went to talk to Seth.
* * *
WHATEVER ELSE A person thought about Vivian—and Seth had had a few very detailed, very specific thoughts regarding her in the twenty-four hours since they’d met—it was impossible to ignore the fact that she knew how to move. There was a swing to her hips, a strut to her walk that issued a challenge.
Look at me. Take me on.
Watching her walk toward him, half her face in shadow, he could only admire the way she worked it.
“Ms. Walker. Taking a break from the festivities?”
“Avoiding the ‘Chicken Dance.’”
He winced. “Really?”
“Yep. There will be some ‘Greased Lightning’ and the ‘Bus Stop’ before the night’s over, too.”
He swore under his breath and took another drag on his cigarette.
“You got another one of those?”
“Didn’t realize you smoked.”
“Only when I’m drunk.”
He gave her an assessing look. She wasn’t swaying on her feet or glassy-eyed, but her cheeks were a little flushed. She waved a hand dismissively.
“Relax. I’m not there yet,” she said.
“Hey, whatever gets you through the night.”
God knows, she’d get no judgment from him. He’d been guzzling champagne since they’d arrived at the boathouse, trying to anesthetize himself against the knowledge that his brother’s life was officially over.
He offered her a cigarette and lit it, breathing in her perfume. Spice and musk. Nice.
“So I hear you’re a fashion designer?” he said as she blew a stream of smoke into the darkness.
“Been asking about me, James?”
It took him a moment to remember their James Dean/Marlon Brando conversation from last night.
“My mother mentioned it. She seemed to think we might have a lot in common.”
Her eyebrows shot skyward and she looked as horrified by the notion that his mother had matchmaking on her mind as he had been.
“Yeah, I know. I laughed so hard I think I broke my funny bone,” he said.
“What is it with people always trying to pair everyone off in neat little couples? News flash—not everyone in the world wants to file two by two onto Noah’s Ark and live like the Brady Bunch for the rest of their lives. There’s a hell of a lot more to life than paying taxes and making babies.”
“Man, don’t get me started,” he said, thinking of the grief his father gave him every few months about giving up the band to do something “realistic” with his life. No matter how many times he explained that music was his life, it never seemed to get through.
“No offense, but I nearly choked on my own tongue when Jodie told me Jason had asked her to marry him. I mean, she’s only twenty-six. That is young to be getting married these days.”
“You think I didn’t freak when Jason told me he’d popped the question? Your sister is nice and everything, but come on.”
She held her hands in the air. “Hey, preaching to the converted here.”
He reached for the bottle of champagne he’d smuggled out with him and took a swig before passing it to her. He watched her pale throat as she tilted her head back and drank deeply.
“I’ve got to ask this, because it’s been bugging me. What is it, exactly, that people say about weddings?” he asked.
She handed him the bottle. “I don’t know. Why?”
He shook his head, confused. “You’re the one who said it.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, last night. You said tomorrow is another day and you know what people say about weddings.”
She laughed, the sound loud and delighted. “That’s freakin’ hilarious.”
He watched her, unable to stop himself from smiling even though he had no idea what was so funny. “You want to let me in on the secret?”
“Sure. I have no idea what people say about weddings. I was trying to be mysterious. You were doing your whole brooding thing, and I wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t a pushover.” She laughed again and this time he joined in.
“Well, mission accomplished. Congratulations.”
“Why, thank you, James.” She grabbed the bottle and took another swallow.
He took advantage of the opportunity to check her out again. The other bridesmaids looked okay in their dresses, but Vivian looked amazing. He especially liked the split in the side of the skirt that had tantalized him with glimpses of her thigh all day.
“I bet the other bridesmaids were pissed when they heard you’d be maid of honor,” he said admiringly.
“You don’t need to butter me up, James.”
“Don’t I?”
“Nope.” Her gaze held his, and he was pretty damn sure that he wasn’t imagining the invitation in hers.
Well, happy birthday, Mr. President.
“In that case, maybe it’s time for me to bring out the big guns.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the joint he’d rolled earlier.
“I see you’ve really committed to the whole rock-and-roll lifestyle.”
“You got a problem with that?”
She gave him a slow, steady head-to-toe appraisal.