Rom-Com Collection

“Hi,” I said, and he started.

“Hi,” he said, not looking at me. “I’m sorry, I forgot the Lanacane. Come on in.”

I followed him into the office and waited while he disappeared down the hall. A few seconds later he was back, his suit jacket and tie over his arm, the tube of cream in his hand. His face was tight, and he didn’t look at me.

“Everything okay, Ian?” I asked gently.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I offered.

“No.”

“Okay. Well, I appreciate the cream. Noah will, too.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched, and he managed to cut his eyes to me, then looked away once more. “She’s getting married.”

I bit my lip. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I knew already … she wrote to me about a month ago. I just haven’t seen her for a while.” He paused. “They should get married. They’re … right for each other.” He shrugged unconvincingly. “Let’s go.”

Angie came the nanosecond she was called, jumping into the way back of Ian’s Subaru, where there was a dog bed for her comfort. I got in the passenger door. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, buckling my seat belt.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for today. It was very nice.”

I could tell his mind was elsewhere. For a change, I managed to keep my mouth shut as we drove home. Autumn was here, brilliant and blazing. The fields glowed with good health, and black-and-white cows lined the fence at the edge of the road at the Valasquez farm. But my heart hurt for Ian.

When we pulled into Noah’s Arks, Ian spoke again, though he stared straight ahead. “Callie,” he began, taking a deep breath. He didn’t continue, just exhaled slowly.

“Yes, Ian?” I prodded (gently, I thought).

“Laura wants me to come to her wedding.” He turned to look at me.

“Ah,” I said. He didn’t say anything else. “Well, do you want to go?”

“No,” he answered. “But I probably will.” He dropped his gaze to his hands.

“And how do you feel about going?” I asked, trying for armchair psychologist.

“Really crappy, Callie.”

I gave a little laugh, almost surprised at the honest answer. “I would, too,” I said.

“It’s next weekend.”

“That’s … soon.”

He took another deep breath, then seemed to grit his teeth. “Will you come with me?”

Lordy! I certainly didn’t see that coming. Well, of course he’d want a date! Especially (not to toot my own horn) but especially one as pretty and charming and in possession of such fabulous shoes as I was. “Sure, I’ll come!” I said. I could see it already. I’d flirt with him, be utterly gorgeous, we could dance, everyone could see that he’d moved on … “You can say I’m your girlfriend, I’m a great date, Ian, and I’ll—”

“No!” he blurted, looking stricken. “I don’t want you to pretend to be my girlfriend,” he said more calmly. “I … I don’t even want you to come as my date.”

“Oh,” I said, deflating. There went that plan. What did he want, a driver?

“Just come as my … friend.” He turned to look at me, his eyes steady.

My heart seemed to stop beating for a second. Oh. Somehow, coming from this man, the word was huge. His friend. “Okay,” I whispered. “I’d be honored.”

Ian reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded up piece of paper, handing it to me. “It’s just outside Montpelier,” he said. “We’ll have to stay overnight, but I’ll pay for your room.”

“Or we could bunk together,” I said, glancing at the invitation. “Save some money. We could have a slumber party. Order room service, watch movies, jump on the beds.”

“I’ll pay for your room,” he repeated, but there it was, that little smile in his eyes.

I opened the car door. “Okay. See you next week.”

“It’s black tie, by the way.”

“Oh, I love black tie!” I exclaimed. “I have the best dress! How cool! This will be so much fun, Ian!” Then, remembering that Ian’s poor heart was probably breaking and his wife was in love with another man, I hastily added, “Actually, this is going to suck, and it won’t be any fun at all.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “I know I’m going to regret this,” he murmured.

I got out of the car and pointed at him. “You won’t, Ian. I’ll make sure of it.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“BRONTE, TELL YOUR aunt why you got sent to the principal’s office,” Hester said on Wednesday. Hes and I were being summoned to Elements … third and final stop on the Tour of Whores … and I’d offered to pick my sister up, since she hated to drive at night.

Bronte sighed and slumped in her chair. “I told Shannon Dell I was Barack Obama’s love child. And when she didn’t believe me, I told her the Secret Service had, like, already tapped her lines and knew she was a snot who should totally mind her own business.” She glanced up at me. “I also swore.”

Hester raised an eyebrow at me.

“You could do a lot worse than the President,” I said to my niece, putting my hands on her shoulders. “Though I was fond of the Morgan Freeman version myself.”

“Callie!” Hester barked.

“It’s very wrong to lie,” I hastily amended. “Tsk, tsk, Bronte.” She grinned up at me. From upstairs came the sound of Josephine singing another age-inappropriate song … Shakira’s wholesome little ditty, “She-Wolf.” “Shouldn’t we censor Josephine’s songs?” I suggested.

“I figure she’ll outgrow it,” Hester said. “All that Baby Einstein’s gotta kick in sometime. God knows I spent thousands of dollars on those fricking DVDs.”

“So are you two meeting one of Poppy’s girlfriends?” Bronte asked, casually studying her nails. Hester, who’d just taken a sip of water, sputtered.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I eavesdrop and spy,” she answered.

“My admiration continues to grow,” I murmured. “Yes, we are. Speaking of that, let’s get going, Hester. I’ll need a drink first.” I glanced at my niece. “Just one glass of wine, as I would never drive while intoxicated. Ever. And nor would you.”