Blame It on the Bachelor

“What’s that?”

His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a dazzling smile. “Well, I’d like your phone number, of course.”

She froze for a moment, then shook her head decisively as the smile dropped off his face. “Oh, no, no, no. No offense—you were great—but I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”

And Kylie bolted out of the supply closet, once again leaving him speechless.

4

OUTSIDE, DEV SUCKED HARD on his Marlboro Red and squinted at the duck in front of him. It tilted its head and stared at him out of black eyes that would have been menacing on any other creature.

“You want bread. I want a phone number. Life sucks, buddy. That’s all I can tell you.” Dev blew smoke out of his mouth and nostrils, feeling like a disgruntled animal himself—some sort of hairy, two-legged dragon.

The duck opened its beak and expelled a hiss of displeasure before turning its tail feathers on him and waddling to the edge of a man-made pond.

A couple of smaller ducks bobbed on the surface of the water. Big Duck sailed toward them grumpily, then without notice flapped his wings and climbed onto one of the others, shoving her half under the water. Rustling and squawking ensued. It took Dev a minute to clue in.

“Dude,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s just wrong.” At least his woman had been willing. “And you could, at a minimum, buy her dinner first.”

After the unromantic, er, ducking, the female emerged outraged and shook herself off, clearly wanting nothing further to do with Big Duck.

“Feeling used?” Dev asked. “Me, too.” He finished his cigarette and left the butt in the sand on top of a trash receptacle. “Except you’re not stupid enough to want his phone number after that kind of treatment.”

It did occur to him that cosmic payback was a bitch. That women all over the city of Miami—and probably the whole state of Florida—would find his predicament funny and satisfying.

The leather pants stuck to his legs in the humidity, and he again cursed himself for wearing them. But he didn’t own a suit and the two pairs of dress slacks he did own were dirty. Dev shoved his aviators up his nose and reluctantly went inside to join the party, damp patches and all.

Kylie sat cool and elegant at a table three away from his, looking like a modern Grace Kelly. Not a soul in the room would believe he’d had her moaning in a utility closet. He almost didn’t believe it himself.

He glowered at her from behind the aviators as he seated himself with Adam and Pete and the other groomsmen, but she didn’t spare him a glance.

“What’s with the shades?” their old college friend Jay asked. “Did I miss the paparazzi?”

“He’s crying,” Pete suggested. “He crashed and burned with the hot blonde over there.”

Dev snatched the sunglasses off his face and shoved them into the breast pocket of his blazer. He turned his scowl onto Pete. “I did not crash and burn.”

“Devon, I saw her walk away from you. I saw your mouth hanging open like a guppy’s. So just admit it—you’ve lost your touch.”

“Along with some of his hair,” Adam added.

The table of guys erupted into laughter.

“Go to hell,” Dev said, grinning and, in spite of himself, putting a hand up to his head. Still bristling with frolicking follicles, thank God. “You’re just bitter.”

“Bitter, he claims!” Pete waved his fork. “Why, because in college, the Gig used to leave no women standing for the rest of us?”

The Gig. His old college nickname was very unwelcome right now. Dev ignored the hot slab of beef on his plate—it felt too much like a brother. He went to work battling the almond slivers that had slyly infiltrated the perfectly good green beans. Then he uprooted the parsley encroaching on his potatoes.

“I wasn’t under the impression you wanted the women standing,” he retorted. “So I left them on their backs for you.”

Silence ensued.

“The sheer arrogance of that statement takes my breath away,” Jay marveled. He was the writer among them.

“Good. ‘Cause we don’t want no stinkin’ poetry out of your mouth, Shakespeare.” Dev squinted at him much as he had at the duck.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re skillfully leading us away from the main topic,” Pete pointed out. “Which is that you went down in flames with that woman.”

More like up in flames. But Dev stayed silent. Why, he didn’t know. He didn’t owe her anything, not even privacy. But he kept his mouth closed.

Unfortunately every groomsman at the table simultaneously looked over at Kylie to evaluate the one female immune to the great Gig’s seductive powers.

And she noticed.

Oh, hell.

She also heard the male laughter erupt once again, and saw them ribbing him. Judging by her frosty, disdainful expression, she assumed the worst: that he was giving them all a detailed description of the encounter in the utility closet—and that he was doing so as some sort of payback for her not dishing out her phone number.

Dev slid down a few inches in his chair. Then he snagged a passing waiter and requested a gravy boat full of rum for his Coke.

RAGE PULSED THROUGH every nerve ending Kylie possessed as she sliced her filet mignon into ribbons. It was surprisingly tender, and she dragged each slice through a hearty lake of portobello/red-wine sauce before consuming it a little too ferociously.

Her sister Jocelyn and her husband Richard didn’t notice, having eyes only for their son and his bride, and Mark’s little sister Melinda seemed withdrawn and preoccupied.

Across the table, Aunt Mildred lifted a penciled-on eyebrow, but Kylie barely noticed. Through Mildred’s beautifully swirled, spidery cone of hair, she saw Devon McKee guiltily avert his gaze from hers.

So Dev had initiated a regular Penthouse Forum over there at his table, had he? Why should she be surprised? She’d chosen him for his stud qualities, not for his maturity, diplomatic or social skills.

Still … for some reason, she’d expected better of him, maybe because he’d been man enough to apologize for his earlier comments. But clearly man did not equate to gentleman.

Mmm. And you’ve been such the lady this evening, yourself.

Kylie, unable to refute her conscience, simply worked herself into a greater rage. But it felt better than the depressive slump she’d been in lately.

“You’re looking a little feverish, my darling,” Aunt Mildred suggested. “Are you feeling quite all right?”

“I’m fine,” Kylie growled, stabbing a forkful of green beans. The slivered almond on top jumped to its death onto the plate in the face of her fury.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Tell me about your cruise, Auntie.”

Mildred brightened as she fumbled in her purse with something that rattled. “It was lovely, just lovely. We sailed out of Barcelona, as you know, and the next stop was Marseille where I purchased this darling little French sailor’s hat, which would probably look better on you than it does on me.” Mildred extended her bony hand and took Kylie’s, forcing her to release her grip on her steak knife.

“What—”

Mildred released two small pills into her palm. “These will help with the cramps,” she said in a stage whisper.