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 na**d 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 cle**age—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 cle**age. “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.”