Page 70 of Holiday Wedding
He frowns, quirking his mouth in a perplexed way. “What?”
I shake my head.
He sets his jaw and crosses his arms, an immovable force.
I fall back onto the pillow and stare up at the cracked paster ceiling, mentally scolding myself. “That first night. When you were wearing my too-small bathrobe. You didn’t want to be in the same bed as me.”
I sound insecure and pathetic. I hate it and yet I can’t stop. These last few days have been like living in paradise. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the rejection to come. For him to see all my imperfections.
“I wasn’t wearing anything under that robe,” he says slowly, brow furrowed as if he’s trying, and failing, to figure me out.
“I didn’t mind,” I say in a small voice, unable to look at him.
“I wanted to hide how much I like the idea of sleeping next to you.” His baritone has deepened, tinged with embarrassment.
That gets my attention. I prop myself up on my elbows. “Oh?”
“You thought I didn’t come to bed easily that night because I wasn’t attracted to you?” he asks, like he can’t understand the language I’m speaking.
I’m back to looking at anything that’s not him, because he guessed correctly. That’s exactly what I was thinking. It hadn’t occurred to me that he could want me. With the exception of Gwen, no one wants me. At least not for long.
I turn my gaze to the window where the snow is lightening into occasionalspats of flurries broken by periods of calm. The weather service on Dean’s phone says the worst of the storm is over. We’ll leave this room eventually. What will happen to us then? Most likely I’ll go back to being Jenny, the best friend in Los Angeles, and he’ll go back to being Dean, the bodyguard in New York. The idea of it sends me into a pit of despair.
“Jenny,” he says in a commanding voice, one that forces me to look at him. “Is that what you thought?”
“Yes,” I admit. “It never occurred to me you’d be interested in me. Why would it? We fought all the time and...” I gesture down at myself, as if that explains what I’m trying to say.
He’s not touching me. He just sits and stares at me with a quizzical frown. “What are you talking about? I’ve been attracted to you for a long time. Years even. Do you remember when we first met?”
I scratch my forehead and think. It only takes a second because, of course, I haven’t forgotten. “Gwen and Caleb had gotten back together. They were in their dating phase, when they would get dressed up in disguises and go out. I came here to New York to visit Gwen that summer.”
I’d stumbled over my words the first time I saw Dean. One look at his stern yet handsome features and muscular body had me tongue-tied. I don’t think I even said a proper “hello,” just nodded mutely when we were introduced. He had his professional robot face on then, remote and icy.
“We all went to the Central Park Zoo to see the seals.” I grow wistful as the memory takes hold. “They kept swimming right up to the edge of the tank. They would splash us. Gwen got soaked, and Caleb lent her his jacket.” It all comes back to me vividly. The chemical smell of the seal’s water, how sticky my wet shirt felt, the sun’s warmth on my bare arms and legs.
“You wore a red dress with white polka dots,” Dean says so quietly it barely registers.
Lost in the memory, I continue, “I recall thinking how nice that would be, to have someone take care of me like that. To choosemeout of the millions of women in the world.”
“What about the flowers? Do you remember those?” he asks in a way that tells me this is important.
“The petunias?”
“The flowers over by the water fountain,” he prompts.
I pull up the image. A sun-faded ceramic planter as tall as my waist, full of flowers. Bright purples, red, and blue. Tiny, white-edged vines trailing over the side. How the blossoms bobbed when I touched them. Their fragrance, organic and earthy. The slick feeling of sap on my fingertips. It all comes back to me.
I sit up and glare at him, offended from reliving the day. “I smelled them, and you made fun of me. That was when I started to dislike you.”
“You stuffed your nose so far into them that you got pollen all over it. Looked like you’d been sniffing yellow paint.” Laughter bubbles up from his chest.
Just like he laughed at me back then. I’d been so embarrassed. I wanted to impress him, but instead I was caught making a mess like a toddler. Pollen all over my face, hands, and dress.
“You were rude. You made fun of me.”
“Iwas rude?” His voice rises an octave. “I lent you my handkerchief, and you called me a grandpa.”
My lower lip juts out. “It was a fabric handkerchief. Who even uses those anymore?”
