We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (3 page)

I introduced everyone, and it only took little Kyle all of thirty seconds to say something Kyle-like.

Kyle tilted his head up in that cute way only a seven-year-old can and said, “Are you Peepee's boyfriend?”

Dalton did a double-take. “Peepee? I don't know anyone by that name.”

“Kyle!” I admonished. “Don't call me that, you little turd monkey.”

“I'm a future old friend of Peepee’s,” Dalton said, shaking Kyle's hand.

“You're taller than my dad,” Kyle said. “Can I sit on your shoulders? I want to see everything.”

In response, Dalton knelt down like a trained circus horse and let Kyle climb on top his shoulders.

My mother caught my eye and loudly whispered, “He's so handsome, Peachy.” (Most people call me Peaches, but Mom calls me Peachy, or Petra if she’s annoyed.)

I glanced over at Dalton, running up and down the chapel steps with Kyle squealing on his shoulders.

“Is he?” I said, smirking. “I hadn't noticed, Mom. I'm not shallow like you, marrying Dad for his good looks.”

At this, my father beamed, and I felt a wave of gratitude for all my riches. My family is not perfect, and we have our fights and secrets, but most of us genuinely
like
each other, and that's just as important as love.

~

I kept expecting Dalton to disappear the way a too-good dream evaporates upon waking, but he instructed his driver take us over to the dance hall where the rest of the celebration was happening. I got out of the fancy car, which wasn’t quite as long as either of the two limousines in town people rent for special occasions, but it did have a glass separation between us and the driver.

I thought Dalton was stepping out to say goodbye, but he actually nodded toward the door, so we walked up together. Like he really was my date, and not the worst kind of Torture Bite.*

*When someone is eating a delicious dessert, they always try to make you take one bite, out of what? Cruelty? This is the worst of all nibbles, because if it’s good (and it’s always good) then you have to sit and suffer while they eat the rest. The taste is all up inside your mouth, tantalizing you with the torture of pleasure denied.

Dalton Deangelo holding me in his arms had been my tasty bite, and now I wanted more.

We walked into the dance hall and started mingling. He had his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks, and he looked as comfortable as any of the other men in attendance.

He asked me a bunch of questions, about everything from the plastic carnation decorations to the projection screen showing James and Marita’s engagement photos.

“Why are they posing like depressed catalog models in front of a brick wall?” he asked.

“It’s just what people in Beaverdale do.”

“Why are there so many photos? Oh, here they are in a field. Okay, well, I like that one. That’s a good one.”

Marita was lying amongst wildflowers with her head in James’s lap, gazing skyward.

“That is a good one,” I agreed.

“You and she both have a woodsy look. Natural. Like you’d be right at home running naked through the woods.”

“Shut up! You’re making fun of me.”

His handsome dark brown eyebrows rose, so thick and expressive. “Oh, am I?”

We were standing near the bar, he with a light beer and me with a glass of sparkling white wine, plus the giddy sensation one gets at her first family function where she’s legally allowed to drink.

“Don’t tease,” I said.

“You say that now…”

I sipped my wine as he tore my dress off with his gaze. I know you’re supposed to hate your bridesmaid dress and complain bitterly about having to wear it, but I liked mine. The bodice was cut to frame my chest demurely, with just a hint of naughty cleavage—or at least that’s how it started out. The heat of my body had loosened up the fabric on the straps somehow, and now the front was dipping down, anything but demure.

“Stop teasing me,” I said softly, almost whispering.

His eyes locked onto my cleavage. “Speaking of teasing, a guy could drink champagne from there.”

I snorted and tugged the bodice up. “Don’t be silly. It would drain right through.”

“Only one way to find out.” He turned back toward the bar and raised his fingers to call for the bartender. “Bottle of your best champ—”

I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him away from the bar before he created a huge spectacle. A few of Marita’s other bridesmaids were already staring, mostly at Dalton. Correction: they were staring mostly at Dalton’s ass, which was round with muscles and practically cried “grab me” in those tight gray trousers.

The Master of Ceremony tapped a microphone to get everyone’s attention.

One of my uncles, not Mayor Stephen Monroe, but his brother John, was acting as the MC that night. He made a few remarks as we all found our assigned tables, and he introduced the out-of-town guests.

I thought Dalton would be bored senseless by the stories about people he’d never met until that day, but he seemed fascinated.

My stomach grumbled for dinner, my nose having caught the scent of the food in the chafing dishes being set up by the caterers.

Uncle John pulled something out of his pocket and said, “Twelve.”

People all around us booed their disappointment, pretending to be outraged.

Dalton seemed genuinely horrified. He leaned over and asked me, “What's going on?”

The people at Table Twelve got up and made their way over to the buffet, cheering. Dalton and I were sitting at Table Seven, with a bunch of people I barely knew.

I'd been relieved of my auxiliary bridesmaid duties and shuffled to the Misfits Table, full of tipsy spinsters, people who didn't speak English, and one miserable teenaged boy, trying to sneak the adults' punch with the boozy fruit.

“Where are those people going?” Dalton asked.

“To get dinner. We'll go when our number gets called,” I explained.

“Is this a religious thing?”

I laughed and put my hand on his bicep, like we were already lovers, and I just groped his
surprisingly hard
biceps all the time.

Wow. His arm felt like a really nice meatloaf, well done, and here I was touching it. Maybe it was low blood sugar, but I was feeling more comfortable around him by the minute. The glass of white wine hadn’t hurt, either. I stopped laughing, shocked by how hard and big his arm felt under my fingertips. My goodness. More food comparisons came to mind. Was I more hungry or horny? I couldn’t tell.

“Going up by table number is just what people do,” I said. “I guess at fancy hotel weddings, the waiters bring out the food all at once. But whenever you have a buffet, people go up in tables. I can't believe you've never been to a wedding. The Monroes are a big family, as you can see, and I've probably been to twenty weddings, mostly cousins.”

He grinned down at my hand, which was still groping his bicep.
Oh, you naughty hand
, I thought, but I didn't exactly stop the frisking.

“You like what you're grabbing?” he asked.

Emboldened by the wine, I squeezed that harder-than-aged-cheddar bicep and gave him a coy look. “Just bein' friendly,” I said. “That’s how we get to be future old friends.”

“Keep doing that and I'll have to kiss you.”

I yanked my hand back, alarmed by the intensely sexual look in his eyes.

Around us, people started tapping their cutlery on glasses and chanting, “Kiss, kiss!”

Dalton leaned in toward me.

My eyes widened, and I pulled way back. “That chanting is for the bride and groom,” I said. “Another tradition.”

He wiggled his shoulders as if swimming, and moved in, leaning into my space with his clean-smelling cologne, and flashing his eyes at me. Oh, those eyes. I was in danger, oh, yes, I was. Seeing him on my TV screen made my woowoo smile. Smelling him in person made my woowoo jump up and down doing a rain dance.

I leaned back so hard, I fell right out of my chair.

Lucky for me, everyone was busy tapping their glasses and paying attention to lady-cougar Marita and sweet baby James, posing for pictures as they kissed for everyone. I landed right on my ass, which didn’t hurt too bad, on account of the naturally cushiony material there. My woowoo got excited, thinking this was foreplay.

Dalton held out his hand. “Sorry about that,” he said. “You don't actually have to kiss me.”

I got back onto my chair and looked around for the evil wedding photographer, who was obsessed with catching people in “spontaneous” moments just like this. He'd already gotten a few pictures of me stuffing enormous sushi rolls in my mouth.

Dalton's hand landed on my knee.

Hand-on-knee alert!

The hand lingered on my knee, sending delicious heat into my body, including the zesty taco zone.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I was coming on too strong, wasn't I? I can be dramatic sometimes. Hazard of my career, I suppose. At least I'm not on a cop show, or I'd probably interrogate you or put you in handcuffs.”

I swallowed hard at the idea of handcuffs. “I'm not entirely against the idea of kissing you, but if you're going to do it, just do it. Don't tell me you're going to—”

He moved swiftly, hooking one arm behind my back so I couldn't fall off my chair or get away. His lips were on my mouth, his face in my face, and the kiss felt as right as anything had ever felt right in my life.

Fireworks.

He gathered my lower lip between his and gently sucked as his breath warmed my face. People were still tapping silverware on glasses and encouraging people to kiss. The room swam around me, and it seemed like everyone was kissing, in the beautifully-decorated banquet room, with soft music playing and the scent of flowers and fresh bread in the air. How could you not kiss in a room like that?

Dalton pulled away, quickly looking down, as if embarrassed.

I looked at his hand on my knee and found my own hand on top of his, squeezing his thick fingers. I loosened my grip, and at the same time, he flipped his hand to be palm up, holding my hand tenderly.

His voice husky, he leaned in toward me and said, “Thanks for letting me tag along with you today.”

“Thanks for running into my bookstore. Why were you running, anyway?”

He winced. “Stupid reporters.”

“Was it just the usual Hollywood stuff, or did you do something scandalous?”

“You mean like crash someone's wedding?”

“I guess you don't have to tell me.” I squeezed his hand and reached over with my free hand to take a sip from my second glass of wine. “I am a woman, though. And we're curious. Why don't you just tell me what's happening, so I don't have to sneak off to the ladies' room and scan through the gossip sources on my phone?”

He looked away, gazing at the newlyweds while displaying a breathtaking profile. Strong jawline, thick dark hair. That chin dimple was probably insured for a million bucks. Ugh. Even his ears were the cutest things ever, with all his cartilage folds being a thousand times more handsome than the ears of regular folks.

Where was that evil photographer? Why was he not getting more evidence of my once-in-a-lifetime handsome actor date?

I took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh—audible by accident.

Dalton turned to me with an intense look, the kind I'd seen him do on TV about a thousand times, right before he delivers a bombshell of a line.

Those gorgeous lips of his began to move. “Let's just be two souls tonight. Two souls who are made of stardust, and found their way back to each other, the way they were destined to.”

Gulp. “And?”

“Let's wait for our table number to be called, go stand in line for roast beef, and never let each other go.” He squeezed my fingers.

The way he was looking at me. The effect he was having on my whole body, from my swollen ladylumps to my actual freakin’ heart. Two souls made of stardust? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I reached for my wine and tossed it back.

Nodding, I said, “Tonight, we are two souls.”

To my relief, our table was called next.

Dalton jumped up and threw his hands in the air. “Table Seven gets lucky!”

The non-English-speaking gentleman at our table gave him a high five.

I turned and looked for my mother at a nearby table, and she gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. She had her suitcase-sized purse open and was showing Aunt Gracie some pages torn from a magazine. Was she redecorating again? This did not bode well for Dad’s beloved recliner.

Dalton grabbed my hand, and we got in line for the buffet.

“This is just like crafty,” he said. “Craft services. That's the on-set catering. Here's a tip, in case you're ever working on a production: make friends with whoever's in charge of craft services. They'll give you advance notice when they're putting out the jelly beans, so you can get to them before the grips.”

“Grips?”

“Yes. They're the biggest guys on a production, and they ransack the table like Vikings.”

I handed Dalton a plate and started filling mine with salad, keenly aware that all the women at the buffet were staring at Dalton and all the men were giving him the manly version of side-eye.

Well, of course they were staring. The man was magnificent, like a racehorse, and as he loaded up his plate, I fantasized about brushing his hair. His hair wasn't very long, but it was thick and slightly wavy. The last guy I'd dated had been a balding cop with a shaved head, and I used to have these strange dreams about him suddenly sprouting long, bushy hair. I'm ashamed of how shallow that makes me sound, but it is what it is, and
I like me some thick hair to grab onto.
To run my fingers through. To…

He was staring at me. Oh crap. He knew I was fantasizing about his hair. I gave him a big smile, even as I guiltily wondered what the curly bushes around his hot dog stand felt like.

“Those bread rolls look so good,” he moaned. “Oh, they're killing me. Seriously, just… Peaches, could you get between me and those rolls before I do something I regret?”

He reached for the rolls in slow motion.

“You’re allergic to bread?”

Eyes wide, he said, “Slap my hand away. Do it!”

I wasn't sure what was going on, and had the suspicion he was making fun of me, but I slapped his hand anyway.