Wrong Dress, Right Guy Read online

  “Look, it was an honest mistake,” he said.

  “Only on your part.”

  “All right, I admit it. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I should have asked.”

  That’s as close to an apology as she was going to get. “Okay, Mr. Grier, I can give a little, too. We got started on the wrong foot. Why don’t we just kiss, makeup and go our own way?”

  “I like the kiss part,” he said, so automatically that it insulted Cinnamon.

  “Consider it done.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, flashing her a smile. “I like my kisses actual, not virtual.”

  For a charged moment they stared at each other. Cinnamon had the feeling he really wanted to kiss her. But why? They’d been as compatible as fire and ice. So why did excitement cut through her at the mental picture of her mouth pressed to his and his arms locked around her?

  She moved farther away from him, spotting a photograph on the bookcase behind the desk.

  “Is this where you work when you’re here?” She reached for something to distract her from the image. They stood in his office.

  “Yes, why?”

  She lifted the heavy frame and stared at the people facing the camera. In the center, between Mac and Allison stood her grandmother, Zahara Lewis. The photo had been taken in the living room of Cinnamon’s house. Decorations hung from the walls in the background.

  “It was her birthday, five years ago,” Mac supplied. “We gave her a surprise party.”

  “I wish I’d known,” she said absently, speaking to the grandmother she barely knew.

  “We didn’t know where to reach you.”

  Cinnamon turned around. Mac was a lot closer to her than she expected him to be. She backed up until she felt the bookcase behind her.

  Turning, she replaced the photo. “Allison says you wanted to buy the house.”

  His face changed, as if he were an animal who’d hunted and finally had his prey in sight. “I still do. I can make you an offer right now.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

  “Why would I do that? I have a job nearby and…”

  “And what?” he prompted.

  “And I want to know more about my grandmother.”

  “Why didn’t you come and visit her? You could have learned firsthand.”

  “It wasn’t possible,” Cinnamon answered.

  “Why not?” He was menacingly close to her.

  “It just wasn’t, but I hear you spent a lot of time with her, even lived in her house.”

  “Your house,” he corrected.

  She nodded. Her throat was too dry for her to speak. It was her house now. Knowing Mac had lived in the house made her nervous. Since Allison had mentioned it, Cinnamon thought of him each time she walked into a room. When she turned a light on, she wondered if his hand had done it before her.

  In fact, for someone she disliked, he occupied a large portion of her thoughts.

  “I think I’d better go find my sister,” Cinnamon said. “And I’m sure you have best man duties to perform.”

  “Are we all made up now? Friends and neighbors?”

  “Neighbors,” she said.

  As she moved to pass him, he took her arm and turned her to face him. “Kiss and make up,” he said, and his mouth took hers. He kissed her hard, and Cinnamon clutched his arms. For a long moment, she hung there. Then, she regained her senses and jerked back, but he was still holding her.

  “Let me go, Mr. Grier.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the pleading in her voice. Or feel the rapid beating of her heart.

  “I’m not holding you,” he said.

  She looked down. His hands hung at his sides, but hers were on his waist. When had she put them there? She dropped them quickly, but didn’t want to. She wanted to keep them there, run them up his body. Her palms itched with the warmth of him. She could still feel the pressure of his hands holding her close, the imprint of his body against hers and the dark secret of his mouth.

  Mac’s hand came up and slowly lifted her chin until she was staring into his eyes.

  “I think you know me well enough to call me Mac now.”

  Chapter 4

  “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  Cinnamon groaned as she opened her eyes. Samara came through the bedroom door. Cinnamon closed her eyes and turned her face into the pillow. “Go away,” she moaned.

  “How’s your head?”

  “I left it somewhere. And I don’t know where that is.”

  “Well, open your eyes. I brought help.”

  Cinnamon peered up.

  “Coffee,” Samara said. “Elixir of the gods.” She sat Indian-style on the coverlet and put a breakfast tray in front of her.

  Cinnamon pushed herself up against the pillows. Raising her hand to her head, she tried to contain the pounding. She took the coffee cup her sister offered and tested the liquid for heat before drinking it.

  “How much did you drink last night?” Samara asked.

  “I didn’t count.”

  “You rarely drink more than a couple of glasses of wine. So was it Mac Grier who’s putting you on the road to Margaritaville?”

  Cinnamon stared over her coffee cup. “I am not on the road to Margaritaville.”

  “Don’t give me that look,” Samara told her, lowering her chin and mocking her sister. “I’ve seen it before and it has no effect on me.”

  Cinnamon cut her eyes away, looking into her cup again.

  “Here, have some toast.” Samara offered her a plate.

  Cinnamon couldn’t think of eating anything.

  “It’ll make you feel better.”

  She took the buttered bread and bit off a small piece. Samara was eating like she hadn’t had breakfast in years.

  “What happened to you last night? You were dancing with that guy.”

  “What guy?” Samara asked. Cinnamon wasn’t so out of it that she didn’t realize her sister was feigning ignorance.

  “The one from the cafeteria. The one you don’t like. The one who’s always underfoot.”

  “Well, he can dance.” She smiled. “But I didn’t spend any time with him. I was too busy making sure you didn’t make a fool of yourself.”

  “I didn’t have to. Allison Grier, excuse me, Allison Mathis, made sure of that.”

  Cinnamon looked at the chair in the corner. Lying across it was the dress she’d worn to the ceremony and reception. On a small table next to it was the bridal bouquet.

  When they called for all the single women to gather for the traditional throwing of the bride’s bouquet, Cinnamon had remained at a nearby table where she was talking to the groom’s mother. She was off men. She didn’t need to participate in any superstitious act just because she was single. She had no plans to change her marital status.

  Allison rolled her wheelchair to the center of the dance floor. The crowd of women stood behind her. The gathering had become quiet, waiting for her to throw the bouquet. Cinnamon saw Allison glance at her brother and wink. Then, calling Cinnamon’s name, she flung the bouquet at her. To protect herself, Cinnamon caught the flowers.

  All eyes were on her as the sound of happiness and sorrow rose from the crowd of women. Cinnamon stole a glance at Mac. His face had turned as bright a red as it could under the darkness of his skin.

  “I guess this means you’re next.” Samara’s voice brought her back to the present.

  “Next for what?”

  “For marriage, of course.”

  “Samara, you’re the superstitious one. And how many times has that worked? Most people who catch the bouquet are not the next ones to marry.”

  “We’ll see,” she said in an irritating manner. Unfolding her legs, she got off the bed. “Eat up. I have to go back now.”

  “Already? What time is it?” Cinnamon looked at the clock radio. Her eyes opened wide. It was nearly noon.

  “I want to get back to the city before the traffic gets bad.
” Washington, D.C., traffic was known for being notoriously gridlocked. “I’ve put everything in the car. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  Samara hugged her and with a bright smile, she was gone. The house felt empty the moment Cinnamon heard her sister’s car engine recede. Pushing the covers back, she pulled the tray closer and finished the breakfast Samara had cooked. Her head felt a lot better after eating.

  Getting out of bed, she switched on the television, needing the noise. As the screen jelled into faces, Mac Grier stared at her.

  Good morning, I’m MacKenzie Grier and this is Keeping it Honest.

  Cinnamon dove for the television remote and hit the off switch. She wasn’t ready to see him right now. And she wasn’t ready for honesty. She still had Mac’s kiss on her mouth, even though she’d tried to wash it away with Margaritas.

  According to the sign at the city limit, Indian Falls had a population of 3,259. Cinnamon walked down Main Street, stopping briefly to look in the shop windows. She would never do this in Boston. There, it was a rush, rush place. You only went out if you needed something. If you shopped, it was at a mall.

  Allison’s wedding was behind her. She and Paul had one more week of their honeymoon and Mac had apparently returned to Washington. All vestiges of that day had been removed from the Grier house and Cinnamon had disposed of the wilted bouquet.

  She approached Amanda’s Bridal and Tuxedo Shoppe. The gown in the window was gorgeous, a white dress with Belgian lace. Cinnamon thought of the purple gown in her closet, the one that had caused such a problem. It was just as beautiful in its own way, but it would remain there. Wesley Garner had called that morning and broken their date. He wasn’t going to be able to escort her to the party in Boston. He was being transferred to a job in England and would be gone before Mary Ellen’s party. Cinnamon was disappointed but wished him well.

  “Cinnamon.”

  She heard her name and turned around. “Hello, Amanda.”

  “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for the dress mix-up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cinnamon said. She hoped that every time she saw Amanda, the dress shop owner would not apologize for the mix-up. It was over and, hopefully, done with. “I hear you’re going to be a local celebrity tonight.” Cinnamon changed the subject.

  Amanda blushed. “I won’t be usurping Mac’s seat, but I am a little excited about it.”

  According to the Indian Falls Weekly, a complimentary paper delivered every Thursday, Amanda was to appear on a local cable-television station that night to discuss the state of weddings.

  “Are you going to watch?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. In fact, several of us have decided to watch it together.”

  “At Zahara’s house?”

  “How did you know?”

  “She often had the neighbors in. It was just something she did. It became sort of a tradition. I’m surprised people haven’t dropped by before this. Maybe with Mac no longer living there, it might be a little awkward.”

  Cinnamon knew Mac had stayed in the house, but each time someone brought it up, her blood seemed to heat up at the thought of him freely walking through the rooms. She hadn’t figured out which bedroom was his, but she was sure she could feel his presence if she went into the extra rooms. Which she hadn’t.

  “That hasn’t kept them away,” Cinnamon told the bridal shop owner. “Several of the neighbors have come by to introduce themselves and tell me stories about my grandmother.”

  “She was a wonder. You’ll have to see the collection she donated to the library.”

  “Library? I haven’t heard about that.”

  “Drop by, it’s a great collection.”

  “I will,” Cinnamon promised.

  “I am so nervous,” Amanda said. “I don’t know how I’m going to be when I’m actually in front of the cameras.” She’d reverted back to the previous conversation.

  “You’ll be fine,” Cinnamon assured her.

  “I think it’ll give the store a boost,” Amanda whispered, conspiratorially.

  “I’m sure it will.”

  Cinnamon continued to think that as she waited for Amanda’s performance that night. Her television room was full of people. Cinnamon served coffee and the local bakery owner had supplied the pastries. The room was quiet as the program started. The doorbell rang and Cinnamon moved toward it. She didn’t know how many people would show up. Fletcher Caton was closer to the door and he opened it.

  Cinnamon’s mouth dropped when she saw Mac come in. He smiled and shook hands with Fletcher.

  “Hey, Mac,” Fletcher said. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it this time.”

  “Traffic was heavy,” he said.

  Cinnamon stood mute. Mac was the last person she expected. He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

  “Come on in,” she said hospitably. “The program is just beginning. Can I get you something?”

  “Coffee, if you have any.”

  She’d set up an urn in the dining room. She moved toward it.

  “I’ll get it,” Mac said.

  He moved past her, going straight to the machine and getting a cup. Cinnamon thought how he moved quickly and easily to the dining room, as if he’d done it a hundred times.

  Cinnamon went back to her seat, which was as far as she could get from him. What was he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be in D.C.?

  The cordial greetings of her neighbors ceased as Amanda was introduced. She smiled from the big screen. Cinnamon glanced at Mac. She seemed drawn to him. Despite what she’d said to Samara, Mac was like a magnet drawing her to him.

  Amanda was poised in front of the camera. She answered the questions with only a few “ands” and “uhs.” Her audience in the room listened attentively, nodding now and then or agreeing with some of her comments. Time seemed to drag for Cinnamon. She couldn’t concentrate. Each time she looked up, she met Mac’s eyes. Finally the interview was nearly over. She stared at the television screen, willing herself to listen to Amanda and her host.

  “Amanda, you must see and hear many unusual things about weddings,” the host said. “People who want to make their day a little different, a bit more special than any of the previous traditions. Could you tell our audience some of the more unique bridal stories that you’ve helped make a reality?”

  “One recent story comes to mind,” Amanda said, playing to the camera, and with no hesitation. “This happened to someone who wasn’t the bride.”

  To Cinnamon’s horror, Amanda went on to relate the story of the wrong gown. The room laughed at each sentence she finished. Cinnamon would probably be laughing, too, if Mac hadn’t been glaring at her. Amanda never mentioned their names, but everyone in the room knew exactly who she meant and thought it was hilarious. When she finished, the group looked from one of them to the other as if they were at a tennis match watching a ball being volleyed back and forth.

  Whatever the host said to end the program, Cinnamon never heard. Several minutes later, her guests began to drift out. Most were still laughing as they filed out the door. Mac wasn’t laughing and he wasn’t leaving. She wondered why until the two of them were alone in the room.

  “You think this is funny?” Mac began.

  “Don’t you have someplace to be?” Cinnamon picked up several cups and headed for the kitchen.

  “Not at the present.” Mac grabbed a few cups and followed her.

  “Yes, I think there is some humor in it. Otherwise those people who just left should be committed.” She went back to the dining room and returned with a stack of saucers.

  “This is not funny,” Mac emphasized. “I have a reputation to maintain and I don’t like being described as a raving lunatic.”

  “I don’t think Amanda mentioned raving.” Cinnamon was enjoying his discomfort.

  Mac stepped in front of her as she tried to leave the kitchen.

  “Mac, let it go. It’s a cable station in a town with less than 3,500 people. The air
waves aren’t strong enough to reach the nation’s capital. Your secret is safe.”

  He seemed to understand. His shoulders dropped. “Maybe I am blowing this up a little.”

  “Not used to being the butt of the joke?” She moved around him and retrieved more dishes. Cinnamon understood that position all too well. In Boston she was often on the receiving end of someone’s practical joke or snide remark. But she’d learned to laugh at a lot of them. If she didn’t, they would continue and get worse.

  Mac was stacking dishes in the dishwasher when she came back. “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  He glanced at the dishwasher. “I used to do this when I lived here.”

  Cinnamon put the dishes down. She felt as if she were going to drop them. “I forgot. You did used to live here. Why?”

  “Why did I live here?”

  Cinnamon nodded.

  Mac turned back to the dishwasher and continued stacking the saucers. “The official answer is I needed a quiet place to work when I was here.”

  “And the unofficial answer?”

  “Do you have any food? I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.”

  Cinnamon had made a meatloaf for dinner. She went to the refrigerator and took it out. In minutes, he was seated at the table with a plate of her leftover meal.

  “Aren’t you having any?”

  “I’ve already eaten and had some pastry.” She glanced toward the dining room which still held a decent amount of pastries.

  “Now, the unofficial answer as to why I lived here is that Paul and my sister were constantly together. They didn’t actually live together in the beginning. But more and more he was there. They made a lot of noise, laughing, talking. It was hard to concentrate. I felt like a fifth wheel. Zahara allowed me to use a room here. When I worked late into the night, I’d fall asleep on the bed in the room next to yours. When Zahara gave me a room here, Paul took to staying with Allison.”

  Cinnamon nearly gasped at the room he mentioned.

  “One morning when I came down, she made me breakfast and left a door key next to my plate. Zahara said it was for when I needed it.”

  “And you never left?”

  “I left after the will was read.”