Wedding Fever. Kim Gruenenfelder

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ that he knew that I was Indian (you’d be amazed how many Americans think I’m black, Asian, or related to Tiger Woods), but that he knew that my name was wrong. I smiled at him, immediately smitten. “I had parents who fell in love despite themselves. How do you know so much about India?”

      “Took a trip there last year. I was dabbling in watercolors, trying to become less postmodern. More classic.” Scott looked over at his piece and said in an easy, self-deprecating tone, “Clearly I failed.”

      I tried to backpedal. “You know, it’s not bad at all. I was just trying to be clever.”

      Scott seemed amused. “Never apologize for your opinion. All notes are legitimate.” Then he winked at me and said breezily, “Just promise me that you can love the artist, even if you don’t understand his art.”

      That statement was the first of hundreds of flirtatious remarks Scott makes that to this day throw me off my game.

      That night, I wasn’t sure if Scott hated me or saw me as a worthy adversary to be conquered.

      But I did know that I could have been conquered.

      I stared at him off and on all night, and we ran into each other a few more times. Maybe he was hitting on me? I’m still not sure. His stunningly beautiful model date never allowed me to find out— she hung all over him for most of the evening, then dragged him home early.

      At my behest, Scott and I exchanged cards and began meeting for lunch to talk about work. Lunch eventually led to drinks, which led to dinners, late-night games of pool or darts, and finally middle of the night phone calls.

      But no make-out sessions, and no sex.

      You see, our timing has always been off. By the time he was done dating the model, I had moved on to a very nice guy named Conrad. Who turned out to be a jerk, which I couldn’t wait to tell Scott one night, only to discover he had started dating a sitcom writer. By the time he broke up with her, I was with Alan, who I dated until last week. And now that I’m free from Alan, it sounds like Scott might be dating again.

      Sigh.

      Despite our poor timing, I think a few times we’ve come damn close to a Love Connection.

      Maybe.

      I’m not sure.

      Times like when we were in the kitchen at a party and just started staring at each other, and I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t. Or one of the many nights when we would order takeout, watch a Blu-ray, hug a bit, and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Hugs good night that lasted forever. Kisses hello that might have lingered a half second too long.

      Or maybe this is all my imagination. Who the fuck knows?

      And it doesn’t help that he constantly says stuff that could be interpreted a million different ways. Things like:

      Date not bad. She’s pretty cool actually. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Have drinks ready, ; )

      Love ya!

      I stare at the text. “Have drinks ready.” What does that mean? Let’s get drunk so that I can take advantage of you?

      I’m being silly. Scott is crucial to my life. With Nic engaged and living with Jason, and Mel almost engaged and living with Fred, Scott’s the only single friend I still have left to play with. He’s the one who can go out on a Saturday night at a moment’s notice. He’s the one I can call after 10:00 P.M. without a lecture from the other side of the king-size bed.

      And lately, he’s the one I want to call when I have news. Any kind of news: good, bad, big, small. Anything from booking a hundred-thousand-dollar donation to my finally finding that vanilla-bean porter from that local brewery in bottles.

      He’s the one I called right after my grandmother died. (It was 2:45 in the morning. I didn’t want to bother the girls.) He’s the one who dragged his ass out of bed to pick me up in the middle of the night, drove me up to San Francisco, then stayed with me while I dealt with my crazy family during her Indian funeral. He’s the one who listened to me as I talked through tears about this gold bell that she had on her mantle, and why it meant the world to me. At one point, I was crying so hard, Scott pulled the car over, took me in his arms, and let me sob until I started heaving.

      I think back to that moment when I was just a big pit of needs, and he was there for me unconditionally, unquestioningly, and unwaveringly.

      I take a deep breath.

      Right.

      When I’m being lusty, I forget about what’s really important. You don’t find guys like him every day. Why would I want to jeopardize that unconditional love and support just for a one-night stand, no matter how fun and tempting it might be at the time?

      I delete Scott’s text. “I’m being silly,” I say aloud to the girls. “Scott is a good friend. I love him. If something was supposed to happen, it would have by now.”

      “You’re not being silly,” Nic assures me with a look of determination. “What you need is a chili pepper.”

      I furrow my brow at her. “Please tell me that’s not something else I’m supposed to mix with champagne.”

      “No. It’s the charm you’re going to pull,” Nic tells me in a firm voice. “I’m telling you, this is going to change your life.”

      Chapter Two

      Nicole

      I can tell Seema is suppressing an urge to roll her eyes at me.

      “Don’t give me that look,” I tell her. “The first time I was ever at a cake pull, I pulled the silver heart, which meant I’d be the next woman to fall in love. I met Jason that night.”

      Mel looks up from her melon tray. “What’s a cake pull? What are we talking about?”

      “Glad you asked,” I say, beaming, as I walk to Seema’s refrigerator. As I open the door, I hear a loud pop of a champagne cork. I turn to see Seema opening a bottle of Taltarni Brut Taché, my favorite sparkling wine.

      “Ah,” Mel says happily. “I love that sound.”

      Seema pours some champagne into flutes for us. “Good. You’ll need booze to hear this.”

      “Stop that,” I say sternly, as I pull a large circular cake with white frosting out of the refrigerator and place it in the middle of Seema’s kitchen table. Radiating from the cake are twenty-four white satin ribboned loops, evenly spaced around the circumference.

      “Okay now, you see these ribbons?” I ask Mel.

      “Yes,” Mel says, taking a sip of champagne as she fingers one of the ribbons.

      “Each ribbon is attached to a sterling silver charm, which gets pulled out before we eat the cake.” I continue. “I stuck twenty-four charms in here, one for each woman at the party. Some of the most common charms include the engagement ring, the heart, the baby carriage, the money bag, the hot air balloon, and the wishing well. The charms are like fortune cookies. What ever charm you pull, that’s the next stage in your life coming up.”

      “How СКАЧАТЬ