Mark watched his friend leave. Sam appeared to be in no rush to get married, and yet the guy was extremely eligible. With his dark blond mustache and lean good looks, he was often mistaken for Alan Jackson. Plus he was a successful lawyer and drove a beautifully restored red ’57 Chevy that always drew attention. Yet he’d only been engaged once, and that hadn’t lasted more than two months before they’d both decided they weren’t right for each other.
Obviously Sam wasn’t desperate to create a family for himself because he’d had that growing up. Mark had hungered for that kind of stability ever since he could remember. But he wasn’t any closer to getting it than he had been seven years ago, when he’d proposed to Hannah, his first fiancée. Something had to change, but he didn’t know what.
The waitress came by and he ordered another round. Then he called her back. “Add a shooter to the beer,” he said. “No, wait. Five shooters.” It seemed like a fitting number.
The waitress blinked. “Five? All at once?”
“Yep.” Mark held up his hand, fingers spread. “And you might as well bring five for my buddy, too.” When the waitress continued to stare at him, he added, “We’ll both be taking cabs home, so don’t worry.”
With a nod, the waitress left.
Mark decided if he couldn’t figure out how to fix his sorry situation, he might as well get drunk with Sam. He could bail his Lexus out of the parking garage in the morning.
An extra few hours of parking expense was nothing compared to the bills he had run up with these five canceled weddings. In each case, he’d let his fiancées keep the rings and even go on the honeymoon if they could find somebody else to go along. Three had taken that option, and two had said they’d rather rot in hell. Deb had been one of those.
On top of that, Mark had covered the cost of the reception and other incidentals. He hadn’t wanted his fiancées or their families to suffer financially, considering they’d be suffering emotionally. If he hadn’t brokered his talent for playing the stock market into a lucrative career, he’d really be in the poorhouse. As it was, the weddings had eaten up any financial gains he’d made.
With that depressing thought, he started on the shooters the waitress had brought.
Sam took quite a while returning, and when he finally did, he eyed the shot glasses lined up on the table. “I take it the number is significant?”
Mark had already polished off three of his. “You betcha. Pull up a seat and get started. You’re behind. What took you so long?”
“The waitress stopped me to ask if we were in here for the same reason as the last couple of times. I had to offer her ten bucks to keep her from coming over here and pouring a pitcher of beer on your head.”
“Thanks.” The shooters were starting to kick in, slowly taking the tension out of his body. Ah, this was much better.
Sam sat down and threw a magazine on the table. “I found some interesting reading material in the john,” he said. “I think this might be the answer.”
Mark tossed down the fourth shooter and picked up the magazine. “Texas Men?” He leafed through the ads for eligible bachelors, then glanced over at Sam and grinned. He was getting very relaxed, relaxed enough to find Sam’s gesture hilarious. “Sorry to dis’ppoint you, but I’m stickin’ with girls.”
“You are so dense. No wonder you’re such a mess. I’m suggesting we put you in that magazine.”
“Why?” Mark was beginning to feel really goofy. “So I can rack up more broken engagements? Get in the Guinness Book of World Records?”
“No, the exact opposite. I’m trying to prevent another broken engagement. Here’s what we’ll—”
“Hey. I’ll be a monk. Should’ve thought of that before. Where’s the nearest monastery? I’ll turn myself in.” He picked up the last shooter. “Come on, Sammeeee. Get blitzed with me.”
“Shut up and listen. I’ve thought about this, and the reason you get engaged to the wrong women is that they’re beautiful, and so naturally you have sex with them.”
“Nat-u-ral-ly.” Mark spoke carefully so he wouldn’t slur. “Sex’s good.”
“Except underneath that swinging bachelor exterior of yours, you have old-fashioned ideas. You think because you had sex, you should get married.”
“True-de-doo-doo. And I’m grateful.” He smiled at Sam. “Sooo grateful. Women are wunnerful, Sam. They smell so good, and they feel terrific, and…I love ’em, Sam. I want to marry one of them. I really, really do.”
“You are stewed to the gills, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe that’s just as well. You’re more likely to agree to my plan if you’re pickled. Here it is—we put an ad for you in this magazine, and then we sort through the prospects and find somebody perfectly suited to you. After that you write letters for a long time. A very, very long time. And during that correspondence, you find out if they’re addicted to cell phones, or hate camping, or any of the other stupid reasons you’ve backed out.”
“Not shtupid.”
“Okay, they’re not stupid. But with this woman, you’re getting that all settled way in advance. Every possible glitch that would be a sticking point will be discussed, and analyzed, and dissected, ad nauseum.”
Mark frowned. “Don’t like writin’ letters.”
“I don’t care. I don’t frigging care!” Sam jabbed a finger at him. “This is tough-love time. You are going to write those letters, and you’ll get to know this person before you meet her, before you even think of going to bed with her. Because I know you, and once you do the nasty, you’ll propose. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah.” Mark nodded slowly, so the room wouldn’t start spinning. “I’m gonna have a pen pal.” He paused to think. “And I’m not gettin’ any for a long, lo-o-o-ng time.”
1
Six months later
“ASHLEY, I’M SCARED.” Charlie McPherson watched her older sister close out the cash register for the day. Ashley had worked her butt off in retail for five years and now owned Glam Girl, home to some of Austin’s trendiest fashions.
Ashley glanced up. “About what?”
“Mark wants to meet me.” Charlie wasn’t into fashion, which was why she desperately needed advice and moral support from her big sis.
“Hey, you’ll be fine.” Ashley smiled. “Perfectly fine. He’s a lucky guy.”
“You’re my sister. You’re supposed to say that.”
Ashley gazed at her. “I don’t blame you for being nervous,” she said gently. “Let me finish up here and we’ll go get a couple of big old margaritas and talk about it.”
“That would be good.” Margaritas would definitely help give her the courage to explain her problem.
If she looked more like Ashley, she might not be so scared. Her sister could just as well be modeling fashions as selling them. Charlie envied three things about Ashley. She was nearly five-eight, which allowed her to wear every outfit in the store without hemming it. Secondly, her rich brown hair was wavy, not curly like Charlie’s, so she could wear it long. Last of all, their parents had given Ashley a terrific name which required no fiddling to make it sound right.
Charlie had to hem up almost everything she bought, and if she didn’t keep her blond hair short, she looked like Medusa. As for her name, she was still ticked off at her folks for