A Man for the Summer (17 page)

“Griff.” Junior spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “We are not going to any wedding. Even if you were, I am not about to crash a wedding uninvited when—”

“You are invited,” Griff interrupted. I talked to my aunt last night. Betsy’s mom.”

“You called the bride’s mother in the middle of the night before her daughter’s wedding?”

“Yeah. She didn’t mind.”

“Didn’t… mind? Griff Ross,” Junior breathed, incredulously. “I have two things to say to you. One, you don’t know the first thing about women. And two—two –

“Aw, hell,” she said. There was no two. At least Junior couldn’t think of it. And so she stalked out, and up the stairs.

Griff watched her go, beginning to shake only when he heard her feet on the stairs.

He was a fool, a damn fool with two days’ growth of beard, a hell of a mess under his feet, and an even bigger mess ahead of him.

For some reason even that thought couldn’t keep a smile from making its way onto his face.

She was coming with him.

CHAPTER NINE

The place made her feel small, and Junior was not accustomed to feeling small.

It wasn’t like she’d never been in a loft before, one of these overpriced overdone-up high-ceilinged city lofts carved out of old factories. She’d done her time, cocktail parties and first dates in places like these, back when she thought the city held the answers for her, back before she’d remembered where her home was.

But this place belonged to him.

Junior snuck a glance at Griff, but he was carrying their luggage to the bedroom, no expression at all on his face.

Just like on the drive to the airport. Just like on the plane, when she pretended to read a magazine next to him. Just like in the cab on the way here, as the highway from O’Hare gave way to the neighborhoods and then the city itself, the traffic and tall buildings and grey skies.

“Your place is great,” she said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. “You’ve got great taste.”

Griff turned and smiled back, and she could see that he was just as uncertain as she. He came across the room to her, and after hesitating just a little too long, wrapped her in his arms and squeezed gently.

“I don’t know about that. It suits me. But don’t go pretending to like it when you and I both know you hate it.”

“I don’t
hate
it,” Junior protested--

“It’s okay,” Griff said, and tucked her head under his chin. “Being with you has made me develop a thick skin. It’ll take a lot more than insulting my taste to get rid of me.”

He’d said more, and less, than he meant. It seemed to be happening to them more and more, and Junior felt him stiffen and pull away from her. Reluctantly, she let him go, and then she was left standing there awkwardly with nowhere to put her arms, feeling bereft.

“Look, we have a few hours before we need to go,” he said, not looking at her. “I’m going to crash, if you don’t mind. Get me up at five. I, uh, have cable, the clicker’s on the TV. If you need to, you know, get ready or whatever, why don’t you take the guest room. It has its own bathroom.”

Junior forced a smile. “You’ve been living in my house, Griff. You ought to know by now that I get ready quicker than you do.”

That, of all things, made him blush, and she relented.

“Okay, maybe I’ll do something a little special for tonight.”

He smiled at her, a tired smile, but edged with a hint of contentment.

For some reason, she couldn’t resist.

“I brought this one pair of stockings, it has a seam up the legs and some rhinestones at the ankle. Cost me a bundle, too, which is funny because the darn things don’t even have a crotch.”

Griff froze, except for his eyes, which got wider and wider. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

“Kidding!” Junior whooped. “Geez, lighten up. Go take your nap, like a good boy, and I promise I’ll deck myself out respectably, okay?”

Griff just shook his head dazedly, and then disappeared into the bedroom.

He left the door open, though, which Junior thought was a good sign, even as the apartment seemed to close in around her.

He’d been dreaming, a nice dream. Junior was wearing one of her long, flowing dresses, but it had been made of something utterly transparent, so he saw the gentle swirl it made as she spun and danced, and underneath, the pale perfection of her body.

Just as he’d been about to go to her in the dream, to reach for her hand and draw her closer, she smiled at him, and parted her lovely lips.

“It’s five o’clock,” she said. “Get your ass out of bed.”

He groaned, and pulled his pillow over his head.

“Go away,” he said. “Unless you want to come in here and finish off this dream in person.”

“Huh?”

“You were in my dream—never mind. Is it really five?”

“Yup.”

“Did you leave me any hot water?”

She giggled, and he heard something unfamiliar in her voice. Uncertainty. Nerves.

Curious, he rolled over and experimentally opened one eye, then the other.

Junior was perched on the side of his bed, wearing one of his oversized towels around her body, another on her head, turban-style. Her face was bare of makeup, and she smelled wonderful, her usual spicy-flowery smell mixed with soap. And she was biting her lip and smiling at the same time.

He liked it.

“C’mere,” he growled, reaching for her, but she was too quick and jumped out of the way.

“Uh-uh. The bride’s mother already probably thinks I’m—I’m—whatever. Because you called her in the middle of the night, like a jerk. We’re not about to be late on top of it.”

Griff rolled his eyes and lay back down, sighing. Women! He would never understand the subtle feinting and parrying that complicated their relationships. But it was clear who was the boss in this situation.

“Okay. I’ll get up. But you owe me one, y’hear? And I mean to collect.”

Junior wrinkled her nose at him, and smiled.

“You’re starting to sound like a real hick, you know that?” She backed out of the room, grinning triumphantly.

Damn, he thought, as he threw off the covers and stripped, letting his tee shirt and underwear fall to the floor. She was right. Funny how the little phrases and words and even that slow, syrupy hint of an accent could creep in if you weren’t careful.

He smiled as he brushed his teeth and splashed his face with cold water and went about getting dressed. It was sort of funny to think of his family, gathering even now on the steps of Saint Xavier downtown, pressing the flesh and baring their white teeth in smiles designed to be recorded for the society pages. How those smiles would falter if he showed up and started talking like the guy that ran the motel or the women from the café, any number of Poplar Bluff residents.

“We need rain,” he could say conversationally. “This dry weather’s hell on the soy beans.”

Of course, he wouldn’t say anything of the sort, because was that they wouldn’t ever get it. His mother would just look at him like she always did, her smile fixed on her face despite the disapproval clear in her eyes. Once again, she would telegraph loud and clear, you have let me down.

And at this wedding there would be lots of other people who’d turned out a lot more to her liking than he had.

Why can’t you be still, like Billy?

Why can’t you learn to hold a fork, like Margaret?

Why can’t you run a comb through your hair? This is the club, for heaven’s sake, not some roadhouse.

Why can’t you call your cousin Drake? I’m sure he could get you an interview at the bank.

Griff shook his head, willing his mother’s face out of his thoughts. She was not going to ruin this for him. He’d brought Junior all the way to Chicago, and he was going to make sure she had a good time.

He took the tuxedo, cleaned and pressed, from his closet, pausing a moment to look at the neat row of hangers. Black. A lot of black. Griff shook his head in chagrin as he realized he’d spent most of the last couple of weeks in borrowed tee-shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts that were work-worn beyond any resemblance of their former selves.

Griff slipped into the well-made clothes, thinking how strange it was that their custom-tailored fit no longer felt as good as it once had. He gave the bow tie a good yank, grateful for the first time in his life that he’d had to suffer through cotillion in high school, if only so he’d learned how to put on a tux.

“You look nice.”

He spun around, following the low, throaty, vaguely amused sound of her door.

And nearly kept on spinning. Right into orbit, maybe, sent flying by the sight of her.

She did, as it turned out, own a proper dress.

It was navy, dark as a summer night, and fit her like a second skin. It wasn’t revealing—oh, no, her hips and her waist and her breasts were covered exquisitely by the inky, silky fabric, which draped at her collarbones in some sort of neckline that stopped short of her shoulders and made the long, creamy stretch of her neck seem even longer and more elegant.

“What…”

Griff’s voice cracked, like a teenager’s, and he cleared his throat as Junior grinned at him. She was enjoying herself, he could see, and that made her look about a hundred times more delicious. She shifted slightly on her feet, and Griff gulped and let his gaze travel down to where the dress skimmed the top of her knees. Her legs continued on for about a hundred curvy miles and then…

“You own a pair of ladies’ shoes, I see,” Griff managed to get out.

Hell, the truth was that these shoes didn’t belong on just any lady. They were heels, serious heels, the kind of heels that would probably make her taller than him and he didn’t even care. Shiny blue satin fabric twisted across her foot and wound elegantly around.

“Yup.”

Reluctantly, Griff tore his gaze away from those inviting shoes and back to the bauble that had caught his eye.

“And…what is that, exactly, around your neck?”

Junior fingered the strange choker, which appeared to be made of plastic beads, fake jewels, pipe-cleaners, and…what really looked like a feather. A bright pink feather.

“The twins made me this,” she said. “In kindergarten.”

“I see.”

“Do you like my hair? I fixed it as conservatively as I could.”

Now, it was clear, she was baiting him. Toying with him. Griff felt his insides begin to melt as he examined her hair. It was swept up in a red-glinting sort of pile on top of her head, but it wouldn’t be entirely accurate to call it conservative. Not with the little curls that had escaped and swooped their way about her face, grazing her chin and the nape of her neck. The whole thing was begging to be unpinned, in his opinion, and set free to cascade around her on the pillow as he –

“You’re turning purple,” Junior observed. “Shall I call an ambulance, or can we go now?”

It wasn’t just the dress, or the event, or the last of the sun slanting down on the steps of the cathedral as their taxi pulled up out front, Junior reflected. Griff was treating her differently. Doors held open. Hand at her back. His arm offered, and as she tried to step up to the curb, suddenly felt herself being almost picked up and re-deposited as gently as if she were made of glass.

He was treating her, she realized, with care. Protecting her. Protecting her secret.

Junior took a deep breath and took a tighter hold on his arm. No. She was not going to think about that, not tonight. The baby would be there tomorrow, and there would be plenty of time to deal with it—with him or her—later.

“This ought to be quite the event,” Griff said, echoing her thoughts. “Here, let’s go in here—maybe we can avoid a few of the vultures.”

He led her through a side door, away from the gaily-dressed throng clustered in the main doors.

Inside it was dim, and it took her a few seconds to accustom herself to the light. When she did, she drew in her breath in amazement.

The beautiful old cathedral was lit by candles. Each pew was festooned with white silk ribbon and white roses and white candles, and the shadows danced on the arched ceilings and the old stained glass windows.

“Hey, stranger, I didn’t know you were coming!”

A big, burly usher approached and playfully punched Griff on the arm. He caught sight of Junior and his eyes shot up as he stared openly.

“Hi, Drake. This is Junior Atkinson.”

The usher smiled at her, a smile that was a little too close to a leer. As he took her hand and leaned closer, she could smell that he’d been into the champagne already.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said neutrally, then tugged her hand back.

“You too,” he grinned. “Interesting name.”

“Her friends call her Junior Ass-Kicker,” Griff said, throwing an arm around her shoulder and squeezing. Junior grinned widely, and stepped carefully on her heels to keep from falling over.