Catch of the Day Page 7

  “Tell me that wasn’t thunder,” Pam ordered Jessica.

  “You want me to lie?”

  A flash filled the darkening sky and a sudden burst of wind flapped the edges of the tent where the reception was about to be held. At least they’d gotten the tent with side walls to keep out bad weather.

  “It’s not the rain, but the hail you have to worry about,” Mabel said, magically appearing at their side.

  “What are you doing here?” Pam demanded, still peeved that Mabel had leaked her name to Michael.

  “I’m covering this event for the Serenity News and my blog. Which reminds me, do you have any comment regarding the story that you and Michael were rolling around in Mrs. Zoranski’s garden the other night?”

  “Since when is that something the newspaper would cover?” Pam demanded.

  “It’s for my blog.”

  Pam rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I don’t either. This wedding has been full of news. First the bridesmaid almost dies—”

  “She didn’t almost die,” Pam corrected her. “She just had an allergic reaction.”

  “To being beaten up by the bride’s mother. That’s why the poor girl’s face was so swollen. Because Louise beat her up. With those expensive shoes of hers.”

  “That’s not true. She had an emergency root canal.”

  “Is that what made Louise so crabby?”

  “The bridesmaid had the root canal.” Louise was born crabby, Pam silently continued. Or so she imagined.

  “And then there was a Peeping Tomasina taking photos. Milt from Milt’s Photography was hired to take photos and he wasn’t happy about having competition.”

  “That was the photographer from Bridal Magazine,” Jessica inserted before Pam could stop her.

  “So they heard about the wedding of the century and came to take photos for their magazine?” Mabel hurriedly scribbled in her lime green Rock the Vote notebook. “What caught their attention? Was it the tiara? Or the carriage that took the bride and groom away from the church and is supposed to bring them back again? I bet it was the carriage, right? Those white horses were a nice touch.”

  “It wasn’t the carriage,” Jessica said. “It was Pam’s glass slipper centerpiece with red roses.”

  Mabel frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The magazine photographer was here to cover Pam, not Joy.”

  Mabel frantically scribbled some more. “So, Pam, does this mean that you and Michael are getting married?”

  “No, it means the magazine is doing a story about my floral designs, not my private life.”

  Mabel raised an elaborately penciled eyebrow. “Maybe they don’t know how exciting your private life has been lately. You accuse Michael of being gay, when the night before you’d been cavorting with him on the grounds of the Granite Inn. Which reminds me, why pick that location? I mean, come on, get a room. He has a room there, in fact. So why not take it inside, instead of ruining Mrs. Zoranski’s prized iris?”

  “I’m not here to gossip, but to work,” Pam told Mabel. “We’ve still got arrangements to set up, so you’ll have to leave now. This area isn’t open to the public yet.”

  Mabel sniffed but did depart, perhaps because Joy’s father-in-law showed up and glared at her.

  Pam had to turn away. She still hadn’t recovered from seeing the guy naked through the window at the Granite Inn the other night. And she hadn’t recovered from kissing Michael. She was beginning to wonder if she ever would . . .

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Pam congratulated herself on surviving Joy’s wedding and the Silly String extravaganza that kicked off the actual reception. No hail. Lots of rain. Her job there was done.

  Four weddings down, one to go.

  Pam and Jessica arrived at the Serenity Falls Country Club and dodged the few remaining raindrops as they unloaded and headed inside. After finishing setting up the area where the ceremony was to take place, they next focused on the ballroom, where the reception was to be held.

  Pam was focused on visualizing the final floral impression when she was suddenly stopped in her tracks by Annie Weiss’ strangle-hold on her arm. “What size are you?” Annie frantically demanded.

  Pam stumbled forward as the wheeled cart filled with the centerpieces for the ballroom tables smacked right into her butt.

  “Sorry about that.” Jessica sent her an apologetic look from close behind her. “I wasn’t, like, expecting you to stop.”

  “I wasn’t expecting it either.” Pam rubbed her sore derriere.

  “What size are you?” Annie repeated, even more hysterically this time.

  “Calm down,” Pam said, remembering that the last time Annie had gotten upset, her shop had gotten trashed and the police had been called in. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Never mind.” Annie started hauling Pam after her, yanking her down the hallway away from the ballroom area. “The dress will fit. We’ll make it fit.”

  “What dress?”

  “My maid of honor’s dress. She’s got food poisoning and is a no-show. So you’re taking her place.”

  “Oh no.” Pam emphatically shook her head. “Not me.”

  “Yes, you.” Annie continued tugging her down the hallway.

  “I’m just the floral designer. There must be someone else who can do it.”

  “Do you think I’d ask you if there was anyone else?” Annie opened a door and shoved Pam inside. “Here she is,” she told the assembled group of older women who descended on Pam en masse and started removing her clothes.

  “Hey!” Pam batted their age-spotted hands away. “Stop that!”

  “Relax,” Annie said. “These are my grandmas and great-aunts. They’ll take care of you. Get you into the dress.”

  “No, wait. I—” Pam unsuccessfully tried to hang on to her khaki pants, but they were yanked down around her ankles. A bunch of bullies had done the same thing to her in the second grade. But these weren’t bullies, these were kind-faced, white-haired old ladies armed with straight pins.

  “Stand still.” One of them rapped Pam’s knuckles. “We don’t have time for any nonsense.”

  “Hey,” Pam protested. “No hitting! Any more hitting and I am so out of here,” she warned the group with a narrowed glare.

  “You have such bags under your eyes,” another said. Since the speaker wore enough makeup to cover all the faces on Mount Rushmore, Pam wasn’t too insulted. Clearly this woman was no beauty expert with In Style magazine. “You must not be getting much sleep.”

  “That’s because she’s been too busy rolling around in the garden with that Denton boy. I read all about it in Mabel’s blog.”

  “What’s a blog?” another asked, since Pam was too stunned to say a word.

  “You really do have to get hooked up to the Internet, Betsy. Get connected.”

  “I don’t want to get connected. I went out with that gigolo Ernie Marciano just last week and he was trying to connect his hands with my breasts. The man was an octopus, I tell you. Stand still,” Betsy added for Pam’s benefit.

  “This is not in my contract,” Pam muttered.

  “Yeah, yeah.” They yanked a dress over her head. It was green. Pam knew because she’d been sent a sample of the maid of honor’s dress to help her come up with the floral designs. She also remembered that it was one of the few shades of green that looked absolutely stinking barf-awful on her.

  Apparently the gang of grannies noticed this, too.

  “Betsy, we need makeup over here quick!”

  Pam knew she should have gotten more sleep last night, instead of yearning for a food dehydrator from the TV infomercial. Maybe if she’d had more rest, she’d be able to fight back the unruly Medicare-eligible mob. Maybe not, but she liked to think so. Although it was tough battling a bunch of old ladies.

  Five minutes later, Pam stared at the mirror in horror. “No more hairspray,” she growled at Betsy, who wisely stepped aw
ay.

  The brilliant green, glittery eye shadow and layers of mascara made Pam look like a Las Vegas hooker. And not a very high-priced one. She reached for a Kleenex.

  “What are you doing?” Betsy demanded.

  “Wiping some of this off.”

  “No time!” They grabbed her and whisked her off. “You’re up.” With a little shove, they stuck a bouquet in her hands and sent her stumbling down the aisle.

  The only good thing about the dress from hell was that it was long enough to hide the fact that Pam was still wearing her Nike footwear.

  One of the many bad things was the fact that the dress had clearly been designed for someone with smaller breasts than Pam’s. The amount of cleavage she was showing went right along with that Vegas hooker motif that she had going with her excessive makeup.

  If Pam stood up too straight, her breasts almost tumbled out of the sweetheart bodice. If she bent over, her butt looked huge beneath the bow-festooned back.

  Feeling everyone’s eyes on her, Pam tried to act as if she were a confident model wearing something utterly ravishing on some designer’s runway in Milan. A big stretch for her, but worth a try. All the while she was thinking that the maid of honor whose place she was taking had probably faked an illness just to get out of wearing this ridiculous outfit.

  And then she saw him. Michael. Standing at the end of the aisle. Looking at her.

  Not with passionate hunger in those gray eyes of his. No, sirree. He was staring at her with stunned disbelief.

  Pam supposed she couldn’t blame him. She’d looked at herself in the mirror the same way a few moments ago. Half the audience was probably watching her with similar horrified expressions.

  She wanted to stop the ceremony right then and there to tell the assembled group that this wasn’t her idea and that yes, she did know this puke green color made her look anemic. And to tell them all that she’d always suspected that Annie had somehow manipulated the ballot count back in high school so that she’d won that election. Stolen it. By a mere ten votes.

  But it was too late now. All Pam could do was make the best of a sticky situation and pray that Jessica had finished setting up the centerpieces in the ballroom.

  Pam winced when a pin from the dress’s hem jabbed her ankle as she turned to go into what she assumed was her final position. She’d certainly been to enough weddings to know the drill.

  Now she was staring directly at Michael. He, of course, looked James Bond handsome in a classic black tuxedo with a white formal shirt. No trendy pink ruffled shirts or garish cummerbunds. His cousin Pete, the groom, was looking a little green around the gills but soon perked up when Annie came down the aisle, looking all calm and gorgeous. And tall.

  Pam wanted to kick her right then and there, but restrained herself.

  Clearly, being exposed to so many Bridezillas over the past few days had brought out Pam’s inner warrior. Not enough to fight her way out of this situation, however.

  Annie had probably known Pam wouldn’t be able to battle a bunch of old ladies. That had really been a cheap shot, but an effective one.

  Thankfully the ceremony was a relatively short one.

  Pam’s thoughts kept wandering to her centerpiece arrangements for the ballroom tables, hoping they looked good. The one silver lining was that Roxie, the photographer from Bridal Magazine , wasn’t here to capture Pam in this garish getup.

  Michael was beside her during the processional afterward.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He grabbed hold of her arm as she tried to take off.

  Pam was getting tired of people grabbing her. First Louise this morning, then Annie, then the grannies, now Michael. Something about her expression must have warned him that she was about to blow.

  So what did the man do? Release her and set her free? No, he leaned down and had the nerve to say, “Are you okay? You look funny.”

  “Really?” She propped one hand on her hip. “You don’t like the Vegas hooker thing I have going on here?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Was that the look you were aiming for?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to be here at all, as you damn well know! Annie hauled me in at the last minute because her maid of honor got sick. It was probably this dress that did it to her. It’s enough to make anyone ill.”

  Pam didn’t even realize that her bosom was heaving until she saw the glazed look in Michael’s eyes. He was staring at her chest as if mesmerized. “They’re breasts,” she growled at him. “Get over it.”

  “We’ve got to go pose for the photographer.” This time he looked her in the eyes.

  “Not in a million years. There isn’t enough money in all of Serenity Falls for me to agree to memorialize this fashion atrocity on film.”

  “Actually it’s digital . . . and you can’t refuse. You don’t want to ruin Annie’s wedding day, do you?”

  “No, I don’t want to ruin her day. I just want to beat her up.”

  Michael brushed his fingers over Pam’s arm in a move that was meant to be soothing. Or maybe he was trying to turn her on. If so, he was succeeding. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

  Take me to bed and do that swirly thing you do with your tongue . . .

  “There you two are,” the groom interrupted them. “Hurry up, - they’re taking pictures now.”

  “Come on,” Michael urged her.

  “You weren’t even planning on coming to this wedding,” she reminded him. “He’s your cousin and you weren’t even coming.”

  “We were never all that close,” Michael said even as he maneuvered her outside to the gathering waiting for them.

  “One picture,” Pam growled. “Then I’m out of this dress.”

  Michael grinned. “If you want to take the rest of the shots in the nude, that’s fine by me.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Prude.”

  “Smile,” the photographer said.

  In the end, Pam had to sit through the reception and various champagne toasts. By her second glass, the world seemed a happier place. By her fourth glass, she was out on the dance floor, barefoot and boogying to “It’s Raining Men.”

  She didn’t lack for male dance partners. Apparently the Vegas stripper look went over well with the male half of the population.

  Hours later, Michael found Pam curled up and asleep in a wing-back chair in one of the country club’s few quiet alcoves.

  “Come on, Cinderella.” He gently tugged her to her feet. “The clock is about to strike midnight and your coach might turn into a pumpkin.”

  She swayed and blinked at him. “I shouldn’t drive.”

  “I agree.” He deftly guided her to his rental car. She was asleep in the passenger seat by the time he put the key in the ignition.

  Half carrying her upstairs to her bed was torture for him. Not because she was heavy, but because she was temptation personified. Her breasts threatened to tumble out of her dress at any second.

  She bounced up off the bed the moment he placed her on it and started stripping off the dress. “Bad dress,” she kept muttering. “Bad, bad, bad . . . where’s my bra?”

  He gulped at the sight of her standing there wearing nothing but a confused frown and a silky pair of yellow bikini panties.

  “Where are you going?” he croaked when she took a few weaving steps toward the door.

  “Rosie needs to go out.”

  Right. The Tootsie Roll with legs. “I’ll do it.”

  Michael returned a while later to find that Pam had crawled beneath the covers, leaving her backside exposed. Michael rearranged the covers, tucked her in, then sat on the bed a moment to get his bearings.

  Staring down at her, he wondered what it was about this woman that got to him. She’d knocked him flat the first time he’d seen her, when she’d thrown that football at him in high school to get his attention.

  She’d gotten his attention all right. And then some.

  Now, ten years later, he was still fascinated
. And she hadn’t done anything to get his attention this time around. Well, she had had sex with him after the reunion. Why? And why did he care what her reasons were?

  Because she was more than just a one-night stand. Which was why, when she sleepily reached out for his hand and whispered, “Stay,” he did.

  The first seductive nibble was on her ear. Then her nipple . . . her navel . . . her thigh. Her legs languidly opened for Michael, who courted her passion-drenched silken folds with erotic creativity. A tongue-touch here, a nibble there.

  He built her pleasure from one plateau to another, increasing the tension and the need until she thought she’d die from the need for completion.

  Her eyes flew open. A dream. It had all been a dream.

  Wait a second. She blearily blinked at the male arm around her waist. That was real.

  A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Michael was sleeping in her bed. But he was on top of her covers, a light throw over him.

  She could tell by the pale light in the room that it was barely dawn.

  Her mind returned to the erotic dream. Had it been a dream or a reenactment of what had happened in the middle of the night? Surely she hadn’t consumed enough champagne to not know if he’d made love to her?

  Carefully sliding out from beneath his embracing arm, she gingerly sat up. She definitely had a headache. The rest of her body ached, too, with unfulfilled desire.

  Which meant that the darkly seductive moves he’d made on her were all in her head. Not real.

  She stood, almost tripping on the barfy green maid of honor dress still pooled on the floor.

  A shower. She needed a shower. And aspirin. She headed for the bathroom, stepping over a still-snoozing Rosebud.

  Minutes later, she felt much better with hot water streaming over her head. Now she could start thinking coherently. If they - hadn’t had sex last night, then what was Michael doing in her bed?

  And then memory returned. Her removing the awful dress. Him taking out her dog for a walk. Her asking him to stay.

  The Laura Ashley shower curtain was carefully moved aside. “You okay?”

  Pam stared at Michael, who was wearing a deliciously sexy rumpled look and a killer pair of black silk boxers. She didn’t need to think twice. She simply acted.