Man of My Dreams (26 page)

I can’t help but smile at that last comment. Even while I was away at college, studying my butt off, Grace and I found a way to get in a cheesy, smutty book here and there. Declan didn’t even know about our secret reading club, nor did he know some of my most seductive moves in bed came from reading those sexy pages.
Oh, God, the Pope is looking at me again!

Grace uncaps the lipstick and gestures with her own glossy lips for me to pucker mine. I oblige as she continues her attempt to calm me down. “Just because you get married doesn’t mean you have to grow up. Um, have you met my parents? Married almost thirty years with two grown kids and my dad still plays basketball with his buddies every Saturday morning and Mom and Cindy go on their girl’s get-a-way weekend every year. If that’s what you’re worried about, you’re being silly.”

I press my lips together, smearing the lipstick around. I nod in response to what she’s just said. It sounds about right, but something still weighs on me.

Grace wrinkles her brow, her expression becoming more concerned. “Is that it, Mia? Or is it something else? Do you not love him? You can’t go through with it if you don’t. It’s not fair to either of you.” She gets up and starts pacing.

Great!
I’ve even managed to unhinge my voice of reason. I shake away the discerning stare of the Pope and try to explain my innermost fears to Grace. “I love him. It’s not about that. I’m just scared of settling in so young. What if I haven’t experience enough? What if
Declan
hasn’t experience enough?” I glance back at the Pope, then at the large crucifix hanging nearby. I choose to whisper the rest. “He was a virgin when he met me. He’s only been with me. What if I’m not enough, one day?”

Grace huddles in close to me, mindful of why I’m whispering. “Then keep reading those books! You’re a wild one, Mi. I’ve heard it. He’d be a moron to try and find better.”

I slap Grace’s hand. I can’t believe she’s brought this up, in church.
One time!
One damn time we went away for a weekend and got adjoining rooms. I haven’t been able to live that night down since. But it’s time to be serious. “Grace, I’m serious. Do you think I’m making a mistake?”

I scan her for the slightest bit of hesitation, but she doesn’t even pause long enough to hint doubt. “No. You’re not making a mistake. I wouldn’t be standing here in this hideous, Barney-purple dress if I didn’t think you should do this.”

“Hey! You said you loved the dress!”

“I’m your best friend and this is your wedding. I would wear a clown suit if that’s what you wanted. But just wait until my day. I’m going with bonnets, parasols and a whole seventies inspired theme. You’re screwed.”

The two of us laugh together, like so many times before. It’s crazy how Grace had the ability to make the nerves just vanish. I was moments from a panic attack, now I’m ready to conquer the world. Well, I’m ready to take
this
plunge. I’m sure I’ll need Grace in the future to talk me off many marriage related ledges. Like having kids. Thank God, that’s a looooong way off!

“You know how much I love you, Grace?” I pinch her cheek and tap her nose.

“Probably not as much as I love you.” She brings me in for a careful hug, not wanting to wrinkle my dress. When she backs away there are tears in her eyes. “You’re gorgeous, Mia. Are you ready to wow everyone out there?”

I take another deep breath in. This time, once I close my eyes, I envision my handsome fiancé standing at the altar, waiting for me, and I feel the air fill my lungs and invigorate my being. He makes me happy. I make him happy. That’s all that matters. How could I have had any doubts? I am about to start the beginning of our happily ever after.

“I’m ready now.” I pick up my bouquet, and smooth down my dress.

Grace wipes her tears, checks herself in the mirror and unlocks the door.

Outside, my father stands strumming his fingers nervously against his tuxedoed thigh. When the door swings open, he looks at me and smiles. “You ready, kid?”

I exhale through my pink-glazed mouth. “I’m ready, Daddy. Are you?”

He walks closer to me, taking my hand in his. Is he having the same memory right now? Father daughter dance 1988. I was eight and he was so proud, escorting me to the gymnasium with a wrist corsage. Back then, as little as I was, I thought about my wedding day—Daddy giving me away. Today, I wish I was that little girl again. I’m sure he does too.

“What are you thinking about, Daddy?”

“Memories, sweet pea. And we have so many more to make. Save a dance for me later?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re the first man I’ve ever loved. Declan has some crazy big shoes to fill.”

Dad places the blusher over my face, an undeniable glisten of tears in his baby blue eyes. Grace returns with my mother and my bridal party lines up the way the wedding planner showed us at the rehearsal. Dad hooks his arm in mine and intertwines his fingers with mine.

“I may be giving you away, but I’m never letting go. I love you.” He clears his throat, and swallows back what has to be a lump.

My own lump has formed, making it hard to respond. “And I may grow up, but I’ll always be your little girl.”

Dad tightens his grip on my hand.

The procession starts and Dad and I inch a little closer to the doors at the back of the church. We stand together, waiting to be revealed to the crowd, to Declan, to my future.

The music changes from
Canon in D
to the
Wedding March
. “That’s our cue, sweet pea. You ready?”

The doors open, I catch a glimpse of Declan, Connor next to him, with his hands folded in front of him. Every single doubt is washed away the second I see him smile. He looks…breathtaking. A little nervous, but stunning all the same. He turns to Connor quickly and I can read his lips as he says, “my girl’s beautiful.”

Connor nods with wide eyes.

I make my way down the aisle, wanting nothing more than to bypass all the guests and skip down this white runner to kiss my almost husband. Crazy how I was contemplating divorce rates just a few moments ago. This is the happiest day of my life. The beginning of forever. It’s us against the world from here on out.

“I’m stuffed.” I stop myself from licking my lips like a dog that’s just devoured a juicy steak, and instead, I stand up to clear the table.

“Sit, Mia. I’ll take care of this. What kind of guy would I be to have his date clean up after dinner?” His hand covers mine now, keeping me in place. His eyes are locked on me, traveling to my lips.

I pray I don’t have anything on my face, like a big glob of hollandaise sauce. Guess not, because he leans closer and plants a soft kiss on my lips. A hint of butter and lemon lingers, reminding me to compliment the chef on a very tasty dinner.

“Noah, that was delicious. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal—well one that I haven’t prepared for myself—in years. You’re quite the chef.”

He smiles, but it’s shady. “Can I make a confession?”

I nod, curiously.

“I can’t even boil water. I had it catered from my favorite restaurant and my housekeeper came to warm it up while I was on my way to get you.” Noah winces, gritting a beautiful, white smile.

I ball up my napkin and throw it at him. “I knew you were too good to be true. But the gesture was sweet. You didn’t have to go through all the trouble for me. Pizza would’ve been fine.”

“Pizza? On our first date? No way. I’ve waited a long time for this. You deserve...better.”

Is that a subtle innuendo? Is he already trying to play himself up against Declan? I push the unsettling image of a love-triangle aside. I don’t need a reminder of the oddness of my situation. I want to treat this as I would any other first date, give it the regard it deserves. I focus on the part of the conversation that really grabbed my attention and made me giddy. “You’ve been waiting for this for a long time?”

His grin is boyish now, divulging a hidden agenda. “Mmhmm.” He tilts my chin up with his fingers, leaning in for another tiny, but powerful peck. “Ready for dessert?”

Please let him mean lemon meringue and not a cute little nickname for something sexual!
“Um, actually, not yet.” I let it slip out as coolly as possible. That should cover both bases; I’m too stuffed to eat another morsel, even if it
is
lemon meringue. And even though this man does crazy things to my insides, I’m not ready to take this...whatever it is...to the next level.

“How ‘bout another glass of wine, then?” He asks, as he brings our empty plates to the sink.

“There’s always room for that.” I get up to help, making my way to the center island with the platters of leftover food. His kitchen is a dream. I imagine myself maneuvering around it effortlessly. Sure, my own kitchen was custom built to mine and Declan’s likings, but this is right out of a staged Food Network episode.

“Are you sure you don’t cook? Your kitchen is Rachel Ray’s dream come true.”

He laughs, loading the top-of-the line dishwasher that can probably complete its cycle in four minutes, silently. “I swear. I don’t even know how to use half of this stuff. But when I designed the kitchen, I had a certain someone in mind.”

“Oh. Mind me asking who?”

“My wife.” He says it so plainly, as if I should have known what he meant before he said it.

I’m taken aback, completely confused. “But you said you’d never been married before.”

He laughs again, this time filling my glass with the delicious burgundy wine we drank with dinner. “I meant it figuratively, Mia. I built the kitchen to be every domestic woman’s fantasy. Problem is, I haven’t been able to snag my very own domestic goddess...just yet. I love this house. I poured my heart and soul into it and, one day, I want to share it with my future wife.”

Why, oh why, does he choose this moment to stare at my ring finger? You know, the one that is still covered by the rings from Declan, my husband. The ones that scream out “taken, married, unavailable,
not supposed to be on a date
!” Embarrassed, I pull my hand behind my back, leaning up against the island.

“Come on. We’re done in here. Let me show you the rest of the house.” He must sense my sudden apprehension and drops the subject of marriage and the future. “We can relax in the game room.”

I nod; a game room sounds innocent enough. I take my wine glass in one hand and Noah places his hand around the other. He entangles his thick, rough fingers in mine as he guides me on the tour of his house. I walk around gaping at his impeccable, and very eclectic, decorating taste. He’s managed to make me feel as if I’ve traveled around the world by visiting the rooms of his home. I’ve gotten a taste of Tuscany, Morocco, and Greece all in a matter of minutes.

But the game room is totally All-American. Sports memorabilia lines the walls. I walk over to a floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet filled with autographed baseballs. As I try to read the names off the bruised, dinged-up balls, Noah comes up behind me, resting both hands at my hips. It surprises me how comfortable this feels already.

“Amongst your man-treasures there must be at least one signed by Mickey Mantle or Babe Ruth. Am I right?” At this moment, I wish I knew more about baseball. That was his thing. It’s obviously
still
his thing. When I’d go watch Noah and the team play in high school, I wasn’t paying attention to the rules of the sport. I went to those games for the view, not for the love of the game.

His body envelops mine and he leans down, resting his head on my shoulder. “I wish.” He says against my ear. “There’s some impressive stuff in there, but nothing like the Babe. I’m working on it though.” His hands move from my hips to splay across my stomach. Yeah, he’s working on it. Working on getting me all hot and bothered.

I close my eyes to calm my nerves, which feel a lot like Mexican jumping beans right now, and when I reopen them I spot the jukebox on the opposite end of the room. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. It’s large and colorful, its neon lights illuminating part of the ping pong table in front of it.

I break free of Noah’s warm embrace and dart over to it. “You have a jukebox? Oh my God, this is like the one at...”

“The Room. I know. That’s why I got it. I loved that place when we were kids. Lots of good memories.”

I wonder if he’s talking about that time we ran into each other there. Was that a good memory for him?

I stand in front of the machine with my face practically pushed up against the glass. “What’ve you got in here? Anything good? Or is it filled with the typical doo-wop and fifties crap?”

Noah takes a sip of his wine, licking a drop from his lips. I get distracted watching his tongue, and turn away abruptly. That tongue is unnerving. He comes over to me and uses his denim-clad ass to playfully push me aside.

“No doo-wop, just some exceptionally excellent music.”

I look over his shoulder to find out exactly what his ‘exceptionally excellent music’ consists of.
Damn!
He wasn’t playing around. I recognize album covers from Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers and even some Monster Ballads. His fingers punch in a series of four digit numbers too quickly for me to read.