“You got that right,” April said, her huge grin the only thing brighter than the blingified bodice, flashing like mad underneath the salon’s lights. Of course the alterations department would have to lop a good foot off the front of April’s hem and do some creative molding around Mel’s ample boobage but, other than that, the dresses were bang on. And, as different as they were, complemented rather than competed with each other.
“Well, come on—jack us up!” April said, waggling her hands at the two black-outfitted, smugly grinning consultants standing off to the side. A minute later, April sported a beaded, elbow-length veil that made her look like a fricking Madonna, while Mel opted for a clutch of silk camellias over her left ear. And it was all amazing and wonderful and too perfect for words.
As opposed to the weather, which, Blythe was horrified to note, was not.
Because by the time both brides were back in their regular clothes, the fluffy, lazy flakes had given way to a blizzard. A blizzard not even April’s hotsy-totsy Lexus, in which they’d all trooped up from St. Mary’s, was going to like a whole lot.
So much for getting back to D.C. Or anywhere, for that matter, a thought that made Blythe’s head hurt.
Or her cousins any too happy, either, apparently. The two cousins with Big Plans for the evening, what with it being Valentine’s Day and all.
“Can you drive in this?” Mel asked April as they pushed through the glass doors into the snow scene from The Nutcracker. But without the magic factor. Or the glorious music.
“I grew up in Richmond, what do you think?” April sighed out, then looked from Blythe to Mel. “I’m good with either of you driving, though—”
“No way,” Mel said, draping a protective arm around her daughter before spearing Blythe with her gaze. “And don’t even think about it. The way you drive in ideal conditions is scary enough.”
“Hey—!”
“And the pair of you,” April put in, shivering inside her jacket as she put her phone to her ear, “can hush up right now. There’s a Howard Johnson’s just across the street. And that big supermarket over there.” Both of which were barely visible through the wall of snow. “So if we’re stranded, at least they won’t find us dead of starvation in the car.”
Always the optimist, that April. “What about your guests?” Blythe asked.
“In February? Not to worry, we don’t have any bookings for the next two weeks—” She held up one finger as whoever she’d called answered. “Hey, sugar,” she said, in all likelihood to her fiancé Patrick. “It’s snowing real bad here, it looks like we’re stuck ….”
This in stereo with Mel’s having virtually the same conversation on Blythe’s other side with her honey. Blythe, of course, had no one to call, no one to worry about her. Or disappoint that she wouldn’t make it home tonight. No one who’d even know or care that she was marooned in some lame strip mall in a town so tiny it didn’t even show up on MapQuest unless you hit the magnify dealiebobber five times. Most of the time, she found it liberating, even exhilarating, not having to answer to anybody about her comings and goings. Tonight, though …
Probably something to do with the drop in the barometric pressure.
“Okay, I’m gonna go snag a couple of rooms,” April said, all sparkly-eyed and whatnot. God bless her. “So why don’t y’all go get some food? I’ll make sure there’s a fridge in one of the rooms …”
And off she went, trudging through the storm like the intrepid little pioneer woman she was clearly channeling. Nobody could accuse any of them of being wimps, that was for sure, Blythe thought as she scurried to catch up to Mel and Quinn, laughing like a pair of goons as they slipped and slid across the parking lot.
“Ohmigosh,” Quinn yelped as they got closer to the store, swarmed with people clearly convinced this was Armageddon. “Look … it’s Jack and his dad!”
Jack, being Quinn’s good buddy Jack Phillips, who lived a few houses down from the inn, and Jack’s dad being Blythe’s worst nightmare.
Or fantasy, depending on where her dreams decided to take her on any given night.
As if she needed this day, or her headache, to get any worse.
Oh, yes, Blythe was well acquainted with Wes Phillips, he of the dimpled, dashing politician’s grin that had, in all likelihood, gone a long way toward garnering the freshman congressman sixty-two percent of his district’s vote in the last election—despite Wes’s being that oddest of odd ducks, an independent candidate. Along with, Blythe had to reluctantly admit, policies that made him as easy on the nerves as he was on the eyes. Because the dimples came as part of a package that included honest, direct hazel eyes—complete with sexy crinkles, natch—and a jawline that would make Michelangelo weep. Also, he was tall. As in, tall enough that she could be standing in front of him in four-inch-heels—like, say, now—and those damn bedroom eyes were still level with hers.
But.
Since this was one of those never-gonna-happen things, for many, many reasons, Wes Phillips could darn well keep his eyes and his jaw and his dimples to himself, thank you, and Blythe would content herself with the occasional, random, toe-curling dream, and all would be well.
“Ladies! What on earth are you all doing out in this nasty weather?”
“Um … bridal gown shopping,” Mel said in a might-as-well-come-right-out-with-it voice. Sure enough, Wes’s smile faltered. Not a lot, but enough if you knew what you were looking at. In this case, what Mel’s upcoming wedding probably meant to a man who’d lost his wife in the same car crash two years before that had also killed Ryder’s fiancée Deanna. While Mel’s return to St. Mary’s had obviously been instrumental in binding Ryder’s wounds, Wes was clearly still grieving.
Reason Number One why Blythe had to ignore the dimples.
And Reason Number Two would be his son, who, even while talking to Quinn, shot a hurt-littered glance at her mother. As often as Blythe had hauled Quinn and Jack around over the past few months, she’d had plenty of opportunities to observe, and listen to, eleven-year-old Jack. Caught in that horrible limbo between childhood and adolescence, the boy bore all the earmarks of a good kid ready to erupt—earmarks Blythe knew all too well. Earmarks she wished she knew how to alert his father to without sounding like a buttinski. Or, worse, like she was looking for a way to make herself, you know. Available.
Because—and this would be Reason Number Three, aka the Biggee—making herself available had only ever led to heartbreak and confusion and wondering why she’d even bothered.
However, the good news was that she’d finally caught on, that she was a much saner, nicer person alone than when she was in a relationship. So, hallelujah, she’d never have to fight for the bedcovers again—
“And what brings you out?” Mel said to Wes, and the smile ratcheted up again.
“The usual,” he said, hunkering down farther into his olive-green down parka. “Meeting with constituents, getting an earful. Trying to reassure while not making promises I know I can’t keep.”
Oh, and there was the issue of Wes being a politician. Almost immaterial on top of everything else, but definitely a contributing factor to Blythe’s ignoring how he was looking at her right now. Because she knew all too well what life was like for politicians, having worked with plenty of clients in the trenches. Or close to those who were. Their work was their life, the hours often horrendously long when they were in Washington, their time at “home” still eaten up with travel and meetings and glad-handing the people who’d voted them into office. That is, if one was the conscientious sort, which, from everything she could tell, Wes was. For that, she had to give the man props—
Mel looked around. “No entourage?”
Wes chuckled. “Not today. Sometimes