Love Everlasting Page 2

  “Word,” Darby said. “This is me, saying the word, in capitals. He sounds like our best bet, but it’s a big ask, even for such a worthwhile cause. How on earth would we convince him to donate his time, let alone the cost of fabrics?”

  Kaitlyn smiled smugly. “Reid’s not the only one with mad skills. As part of my secondary job of publicity officer, I contacted MacKenna. She’s agreed to donate the necessary fabrics. In exchange, Next Stop, Vegas gets publicly acknowledged as a sponsor, plus we agreed that the main cast would wear their costumes to the fundraising ball for official media publicity.”

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” Darby grinned and reached over to hug Kaitlyn.

  “‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ right back atcha, Wonder Woman,” Kaitlyn said, rubbing her back. “It’s you and your friends that have begun organizing the ball in record time.”

  A ball where all the funds raised would be donated to reroofing Sunflower House, a six-bedroom property near Invercargill’s hospital where out-of-town cancer patients could stay in comfort while receiving lifesaving treatment. A portion of ticket sales for Cinderella would also go to Sunflower House.

  “But back to this Reid guy,” Darby said.

  “Leave it to me.”

  In the front row, Sally stood up and waved an arm at them.

  “Wish me luck and fairy dust.” Kaitlyn stood and edged her way past the chairs to the aisle.

  “Break a leg.” Darby relaxed into the theater chair, preparing to watch Kaitlyn’s audition.

  With any luck, some of Kaitlyn’s fairy dust would spread to Darby and razzle-dazzle her friend Reid into helping them. She huffed a sigh and crossed her ankles. Given her lack of success with impressing men lately, any sparkly fairy dust she tried to sprinkle around would probably only make him sneeze.

  Chapter 2

  While not as cynical as his best friend, MacKenna, used to be about weddings, Reid Hudson had never needed tissues while the bride and groom exchanged their vows. And as a newly minted thirty-year-old, he was happier being the mastermind bachelor organizing the event, rather than the sucker in a tux at the end of the aisle.

  Okay.

  Maybe he was a little more cynical than he cared to admit.

  Point in case, Reid stood at the cash bar and people-watched the guests who currently weren’t wearing any jewelry on their left hands. They smiled and laughed, and in some cases, outrageously hit on each other. Weddings for singletons—heaven or hell, depending on who you asked.

  He sipped his merlot and glanced around the large reception room. The Myers-Turnbull wedding was a reasonably small one with 110 guests. Once the sit-down meal had been served and the speeches were over with, those guests had spread throughout the turn-of-the-century Collins homestead and onto the wide verandas that overlooked the Oreti River.

  He’d managed to slip away from his assigned seat after the last speech. Stuck between the bride’s aunt who bitched about the lack of gluten-free options, and the groom’s cousin whose only interests seemed to be beer and Dungeons and Dragons, the bridal couple had their revenge on Reid. He’d suffered for the hours he’d spent forcing them to pick between pink blush orchids and yellow roses, and vanilla and red velvet wedding cake.

  “Friend of the bride or groom?” a slurred feminine voice said beside him.

  He turned his head and saw nothing but dark pink helium balloons secured to a nearby pillar, then dropped his gaze to chest level of his six-foot-three height. A flush-cheeked blonde with NSFW cleavage spilling out of an electric-blue dress leaned against the bar, her champagne-brightened gaze fixed on his ass. Then her gaze crawled up past his suit jacket to settle on his mouth. She slowly licked blood-red lips and angled her chin to meet his eyes.

  “Both,” Reid said. “And you?”

  He resisted the urge to scrub the back of his hand across his lips in case the linen napkin hadn’t removed the last of the crème brûlée he’d eaten for dessert. If he did still sport a caramel mustache, it wasn’t complete vanity to think that this woman had plans to lick it off.

  “The bride. I’m her cousin, Rhiannon. Like the Fleetwood Mac song. You know—who will be her lover.” She sang the last bit with a huskiness to her voice that was either caused by a head cold or a plan to flirt him into submission.

  “Nice to meet you.” He tried to inject the same pleasant neutrality into his words as he had earlier when introducing himself to the D&D boy and the gluten-intolerant aunt. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  The woman raised her plucked-to-the-nth-degree eyebrows, her lips puckering into a fish pout in what she probably thought was a seductive leer. “I’d enjoy it a lot more if we went for a walk to the gazebo outside. It’s more private.”

  There was enough wine warming his veins to give the invitation brief consideration, but enough sense still in his brain to dampen the notion. Even though he was in the middle of a dry spell, hooking up with wedding guests in his line of business, in a city small enough that word got around, was a douche move.

  “Thanks, Rhiannon, but I’ll have to pass,” he said as gently as he could.

  Her nose scrunched up and she leaned exaggeratedly to the side to see around him. “You got a wife here somewhere? Is that her?”

  Reid followed the direction of her gaze to a short-haired woman in an A-line teal sheath dress. He barely had to dip his chin as she was tall but curvaceous in a way that reminded him of a fifties pinup model like Jayne Mansfield. The woman froze on the spot, swapping an are you talking about me? glance between him and Rhiannon. Then she sidestepped away to the tray of filled champagne glasses waiting on the bar.

  “No. I’m not married.” Though the short-haired woman’s dress was constructed in such a way to skim over her hips and thighs rather than cling to it, Reid had a hard time dragging his gaze away.

  “Girlfriend, then?” Rhiannon demanded.

  “It’s not that—” He turned toward her, scrambling to come up with an excuse that wouldn’t piss her off more than being available and not interested apparently had.

  Her eyes narrowed and his gut went into free fall.

  “I get it. You’re gay, aren’t you?” The fish pout returned with a downward twist. “Just my luck. All the good-looking guys are.”

  Cliché or not, he guessed he should be flattered by the backhanded compliment. And it was a refreshing change for a woman to jump to conclusions about his sexuality before he’d even mentioned what he did for a living.

  “Sorry.” Easier to cough up an ambiguous apology than risk a scene.

  “Your loss,” she muttered. She swayed over to join a gathering of chatting women forming a semicircle in front of the bar, waiting for Maisy to toss her bouquet.

  “If that bouquet gets thrown in her direction, she’ll end up falling on her ass trying to catch it,” said a voice beside him. “Not that I’m judging, since I probably would, too.”

  The woman in the teal dress had joined him, champagne glass in her hand. He crooked an eyebrow. “You don’t appear to be drunk.”

  “I’m sober enough to notice you narrowly escaped Rhiannon having her way with you,” she said. “Good call playing the I’m gay card, by the way.”

  He took a sip of his merlot and swallowed a grin along with it. The smile and the wine led a warm trail down to his gut. “Who says I’m not into guys?”

  “The fact you sneaked more than the socially appropriate two peeks at Rhiannon’s rack tipped me off.” Her nose gave the cutest little crinkle as she tilted her head to give him a sidelong glance. “You’re a boob man?”

  His jaw sagged, and if he’d been mid swallow of his wine he probably would’ve choked on it. The woman’s eyes were a deep shade of blue that reminded Reid of the cobalt chiffon bridesmaids’ dresses he’d helped sew a couple of months back. They were clear, and warm, and full of wicked humor. For the first time this evening, he wasn’t in any hurry for the wedding to draw to an end. He was, however, fighting off his Neanderthal instincts
to run his gaze over the rest of her, including her rack.

  “I’m an equal-opportunist boob, leg, and bum man,” he said. “I don’t discriminate.”

  “Good to know.” She nodded and faced forward again, watching as Rhiannon elbowed her way to the front of the group of women. “I gotta give her props for being brave enough to come and talk to you.” She leaned in, the warmth of her bare arm brushing his, giving him a pleasurable little jolt. He caught a trace of her citrus-scented shampoo, a hint of some spicily exotic eau de sexy perfume, and beneath that the faintest undertone of…dog. Strangely, this was more of a turn-on than the impeccable but cloying scent of most of the female guests he’d met this evening. Mystery woman had obviously cuddled a canine friend in the near past.

  “Let alone propose a quickie in the gazebo,” she added.

  “You heard that, huh?”

  The woman’s mouth gave a little twitch in the corner. “She wasn’t exactly using an inside voice.”

  “Why was she brave to talk to me?”

  She gave a soft snort, meeting his gaze again. “Well, you’re not like the other single guys here who’re chugging beer and wearing dress pants and a shirt with a badly knotted tie. You’ve got that whole sex appeal in a thousand dollar suit thing going on, plus”—the mouth twitch turned into a flash of a smile—“women dig that lone wolf surveys his prey kinda vibe you give off.”

  That surprised a laugh out of him. “I’ve never been called a lone wolf before. Gay, yeah. Predatory, no.”

  Her smile expanded until her soft pink lips stretched into what he imagined a wolf’s smile would look like. “That was a pretty cheesy analogy, I guess.” A self-deprecating chuckle slipped from her mouth. “Maybe you were just taking a breather from all the schmaltzy happy-ever-after glitter sprinkled on the tables. I swear I’ll be picking that stuff out of my hair for days.”

  She fluffed up her short hair, which in the explosion of fairy lights above them was hard to tell whether it was brown or coppery red. Whatever the color, it suited her. As did the feathery layered cut which made her look a little like a pixie. A very tall pixie, but one with the same sense of fun about her. Sexy fun, he amended with another sneaky glance at her cupid’s-bow-shaped mouth.

  Squeals of excitement erupted around them, and Reid looked away from the woman in time to see a bouquet hurtling toward them. A floral bomb of orchids smacked into his hand and sent the contents of his glass splashing onto his new acquaintance. Wine immediately soaked the front of her dress, the majority of the liquid splattering over her feet. The woman inhaled on a squeak and stepped back. Reid, swearing under his breath, lunged for some napkins on the bar.

  Meanwhile, two women had pounced on the bouquet and were having a game of tug-of-war, laughing though their eyes said, Give it up, bitch. By the time Reid found the wet woman, she’d stripped off her white suede kitten-heeled slingbacks—he wasn’t gay, but working in the wedding industry he knew all the terminology—which were, oh shit, stained with dark red blotches.

  He opened his mouth to apologize and snapped it shut when the woman snatched the napkins out of his hand and shoved her shoes into them. His fingers closed instinctively on the heel straps.

  “Hold these while I try to save the dress,” she instructed. “I’ll worry about the shoes later.”

  “I’m happy to pay…”

  But she’d already whirled around on bare feet, maneuvring through the crowd in the direction of the restrooms. He returned to the bar for a cloth and wiped up the remains of his wine spilled on the floor, never letting go of the shoes. He was pretty sure they were beyond saving, but he’d at least apologize properly when she returned for them and offer to buy her a new pair.

  And—his mouth curved into a smile—it’d be the perfect excuse to see…the smile slipped. Damn. He didn’t even know her name. He headed for the hallway, pausing outside the door to the ladies’ restroom. It swung open and a woman strolled out. She did a double take when she saw him towering near the entrance.

  “Can you tell the woman in there trying to get red wine out of her dress that I’ve still got her shoes?” he asked.

  “There’s no one in there. Sorry.” Then, giving him a suspicious look, she ducked around him and hurried back into the reception.

  Reid glanced over his shoulder. There was no way his red wine victim had come back into the reception hall without him spotting her. Which left the wide open villa doors leading out onto the front veranda. He strode over to them and stepped out into the crisp evening air. Across the parking lot came a double flash of red as a car braked at the end of the villa’s driveway and signaled to turn left.

  Well, hell.

  Mystery woman had ditched the idiot left holding her shoes.

  After a long day of bridezilla bullshit, Reid stretched out on his couch with a cold beer, trying to find a happy place uninhabited by demanding females. A bridezilla-in-the-making had been his last appointment of the day. That she’d arrived at Next Stop, Vegas with a painstakingly composed fifty-page scrapbook of her dream wedding was the first sign that things were about to go pear-shaped.

  His phone buzzed with an incoming text. He glanced at the message and laughed.

  * * *

  Kaitlyn: Lily puked after being dared to eat a garden worm by her brother. Don’t laugh, this is my life now. Sorry won’t be able to make it. K.

  * * *

  Kaitlyn was MacKenna’s childhood friend, who by association was also his friend, since Mac was the closest thing he had to a sister. Didn’t mean both women weren’t a pain in his ass most of the time. Like Kaitlyn’s brief text yesterday to ask if she could stop by for a short chat. In his experience, Kaitlyn’s chats were never short, and in the past eighteen months since her divorce was finalized they’d often strayed into relationship and parenting TMI. Both things he knew little about.

  Looked as if he were off the hook.

  He sent her a reply.

  * * *

  Reid: No worries. Did Lily puke before or after eating the worm?

  * * *

  Kaitlyn: After.

  * * *

  He grinned as he tapped out a response. Kaitlyn’s eight-year-old twins were a handful.

  * * *

  Reid: That’s my badass girl.

  * * *

  A few moments ticked past before a reply came.

  * * *

  Kaitlyn: Forgot to mention one of my theater friends was coming with me. Told her to come see you anyway. She’s due there any minute. Ciao, bella.

  * * *

  One of Kaitlyn’s OTT theater groupies who enunciated every syllable of a word while they overprojected their voices to a deafening level was due here any minute? Not enough beer in the world for that tonight.

  Reid’s fingers flew over the touch screen, demanding Kaitlyn contact her friend and call her off. He hit send, took a deep sip of beer, and waited.

  Nothing but radio silence. Dammit, Kaitlyn. Forgot to mention, his ass.

  He rolled off his couch and stalked through the big airy room that encompassed both his king-sized bed and a small living area. His bedroom was a sectioned-off part of the ground floor of a small industrial building redesigned and repurposed into a three-bedroom residence with a workroom. It was owned by MacKenna, and she, Reid, and Mac’s other friend, Laura Manning, had lived together for years until Mac moved to Stewart Island to marry Joe Whelan.

  Stepping into the darkened workroom, Reid swiped his hand down one of the switches next to the door and a light blazed on overhead, spilling across the floor. Against one wall were the industrial sewing machines and overlockers that had once been part of his daily job when he’d worked as MacKenna’s lead machinist. Across from that loomed a huge table used for drafting patterns and cutting into the expensive fabrics that created the most important dress in a woman’s life. Or so he’d been told.

  Farther into the workroom, as he hauled ass toward the staircase leading to the second-floor living space, were the dre
ssmaker’s dummies, on one of which their latest employee who’d taken over a lot of the sewing detail had begun blocking out a cotton mock-up gown for the Bergman-Taylor wedding.

  Reid raced up the stairs and into the open-plan living room and kitchen. Being an A-rated roommate, he’d left a table lamp on for Laura when he’d raided the fridge for beer earlier. Knowing her dedication to MacKenna and her job as manager of their bridal boutique, she wouldn’t leave until she’d neatly checked off everything on her to-do list—which meant Laura probably wouldn’t be home for another hour.

  Too late to save him from Kaitlyn’s theater friend.

  God help Kaitlyn if she was trying to fix him up with some Shakespeare-quoting soap-queen wannabe. He’d stuff worms down her throat until they wriggled out her dainty little nose.

  Reid switched off the lamp and flew back downstairs. He’d shut the drapes over his exterior glass doors, then he’d become one with his couch and his cold beer, pretending he wasn’t home. He killed the workshop lights, stepped into his darkened bedroom, and crossed over to the sliding doors—coming face-to-face with a bug-eyed woman in a striped beanie.

  She’d materialized out of the shadows, raising her fist to knock. Her mouth yawned open and a sound like a cross between an attacking kung-fu master and a seagull sliced through the double-glazed glass. She stumbled backward, pinwheeling her arms and stumbling over her feet, landing on one of his Adirondack patio chairs.

  The security lights came on, and with his heart donkey-kicking his breastbone, he unlocked the door and slid it open.

  “Screw me sideways,” the woman said in lieu of greeting, gripping the chair’s armrests so tightly her knuckles were white-tipped hills and valleys. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, her chest a rapid rise and fall beneath a bright turquoise puffer jacket. “You gave me a helluva fright, creeping around like the Grim Reaper.”