“Why the hell not?”
“My corset is too tight… Good Lord!” Her southern drawl rose. “I’ve done it up good this time. I can’t believe it…” she continued with her now familiar litany.
John began thinking that helping Georgeanne was not the best idea. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor, propelling the Corvette across a bridge spanning a narrow strip of the Puget Sound, quickly leaving Bainbridge Island behind. Shades of green sped past as the Corvette chewed up highway 305.
“Sissy is never going to forgive me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about your friend,” he said, somewhat disappointed to find that the woman in his car was as flaky as a croissant. “Virgil will buy her something nice, and she’ll forget all about it.”
A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“Sure he will,” John argued. “He’ll probably take her someplace real expensive, too.”
“But Sissy doesn’t like Virgil. She thinks he’s a lecherous old leprechaun.”
A real bad feeling tweaked the back of John’s neck. “Isn’t Sissy the bride?”
She stared at him with her big green eyes and shook her head. “I am.”
“That’s not even funny, Georgeanne.”
“I know,” she wailed. “I can’t believe I left Virgil at the altar!”
The tweak in John’s neck shot to his head, reminding him of his hangover. He stomped on the brake as the Corvette swerved to the right and stopped on the side of the highway. Georgeanne fell against the door and grasped the handle with both hands.
“Jesus H. Christ!” John shoved the car into park and reached for the sunglasses on his face. “Tell me you’re joking!” he demanded, tossing the Ray-Bans on the dash. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he were caught with Virgil’s runaway bride. But then, he really didn’t have to think about it too hard, he knew what would happen. He knew he’d find himself traded to a losing team faster than he could clear out his locker. He liked playing for the Chinook organization. He liked living in Seattle. The last thing he wanted was a trade.
Georgeanne straightened and shook her head.
“But you’re not wearing a wedding dress.” He felt tricked and pointed an accusing finger at her. “What kind of bride doesn’t wear a damn wedding dress?”
“This is a wedding dress.” She grasped the hem and tried to yank it modestly down her thighs. But the dress hadn’t been made for modesty. The more she tugged it toward her knees, the farther it slid down her breasts. “It’s just not a traditional wedding dress,” she explained as she grabbed the big white bow and pulled the bodice back up. “After all, Virgil has been married five times, and he thought a white gown would be tacky.”
Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He had to get rid of her-fast. “You live south of Tacoma, right?”
“No. I’m from McKinney-McKinney, Texas. Until three days ago, I’d never been north of Oklahoma City.”
“This just keeps getting better.” He laughed without humor and turned to look at her sitting there as if she’d been gift wrapped just for him. “Your family is here for the wedding, right?”
Again she shook her head.
John frowned. “Naturally.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Jumping out of the car, John ran to the other side. If she was going to vomit, he’d prefer she didn’t do it in his new classic ‘vette. He opened her door and grabbed her around the waist, and even though John was six foot five, weighed two twenty-five in his birthday suit, and could easily body-check any player against the boards, hauling Georgeanne Howard from his car was no easy task. She was heavier than she looked, and beneath his hands, she felt like she’d sealed herself up in a soup can. “Are you going to puke?” he asked the part in the top of her head.
“I don’t think so,” she answered, and looked up at him with pleading eyes. He’d been around enough women to spot a house cat when one landed in his lap. He recognized the “love me, feed me, take care of me” breed. They purred and rubbed, and other than making a man yowl, weren’t good for anything else. He’d help her get where she needed to go, but the last thing he wanted was the care and feeding of the woman who’d jilted Virgil Duffy. “Where can I drop you off?”
Georgeanne felt like she’d swallowed dozens of butterflies and had difficulty catching her breath. She’d cinched herself into a dress two sizes too small and could only suck air into the top of her lungs. She looked way up into dark blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes and knew she’d rather slit her wrists with a butter knife than get sick in front of a man so outrageously good-looking. His thick lashes and full mouth should have made him look a little feminine, but didn’t. The man exuded too much masculinity to be confused for anything bu
t one hundred percent heterosexual male. Georgeanne, who stood five ten and weighed one hundred forty-on good days when she wasn’t retaining water-felt almost small next to him.
“Where can I drop you off, Georgie?” he asked her again. A lock of rich brown hair curved over his forehead, drawing her attention to a thin white scar running through his left brow.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. For months now she’d lived with a horrible heaviness in her chest. A weight she’d been so sure a man like Virgil could make go away. With Virgil, she would have never had to dodge bill collectors or angry landlords again. She was twenty-two and had tried to take care of herself, but as with most things in her life, she’d failed-miserably. She’d always been a failure. She’d failed in school and at every job she’d ever had, and she’d failed to convince herself that she could love Virgil Duffy. That afternoon, as she’d stood before the cheval mirror studying her reflection, studying the wedding dress he’d chosen for her, the heaviness in her chest threatened to choke her and she’d known she couldn’t marry Virgil. Not even for all that wonderful money could she go to bed with a man who reminded her of H. Ross Perot.
“Where’s your family?”