Always A Bridesmaid

She rolled her eyes. “Are you always like this?”

“You’re going to break down and laugh sooner or later. You may as well give in to the inevitable.”

She turned to him at the top of the stairs. “And that is?”

He gazed down into those whiskey-gold eyes. “I’ll let you know.”

And suddenly, as she stared back at him, the joking slipped away and something else flashed in its place, a hard, deep pulse of wanting that momentarily banished everything else. Something hummed between them, like a subsonic vibration that he could neither hear nor see, but only feel.

And the flicker in her eyes told him she felt it, too.

“About time you showed,” a voice drawled from behind him and Alan walked up.

Gil blinked and the moment was gone. He turned to the tall Texan. “Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said as they shook.

“And here I thought you were a pretty sorry specimen already,” Alan said. “Glad to see you finally found the place.”

“You made it,” Lisa said, stepping up alongside Alan.

“I did,” Gil said. Instead of shaking her hand, he bowed down to kiss it. “I really apologize for missing the rehearsal. Major screwup. You’ve got a lot to worry about right now and the last thing you need is more grief from me.”

“Hey, no putting the moves on my fiancée,” Alan protested.

“Especially,” Gil went on, ignoring Alan, “since you’re going to have plenty of grief, already, with marrying this guy off.”

Lisa laughed delightedly and pressed a kiss to Gil’s cheek. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Alan can tell you where you’re supposed to stand tomorrow and I’m sure you can figure out the rest. Why don’t you come meet everybody and have some champagne? Dinner’s just starting.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gil noticed Jillian drift off to her seat.

Probably just as well, he thought. As an editor at the Gazette, the last thing he needed was to get anything going with Jillian Logan. He’d already been warned.

So he met the rest of the party, laughing, joking, shaking hands. And did his best to forget that strange snap of connection at the top of the stairs.

“This is Ariel, Lisa’s good friend,” Alan said, bringing him to the last table.

“And best chick,” Ariel added.

“Maid of honor,” Alan translated. “And you already know Jillian, here.”

“Informally,” Gil said. He extended his hand. “Gil Reynolds, meter caddy.”

“Jillian Logan, usher wrangler.” She reached out.

Her hand was soft and cool in his. It felt fragile but he’d been right about the strength that underlaid it. He’d expected that.

He hadn’t expected it to be trembling.

In surprise, his gaze shot to hers and he saw her eyes widen before she glanced away. She tugged her hand to free it from his. Some perverseness made him hold on a moment longer than necessary, though, until she looked at him.

And he saw the gold of her eyes had darkened to deep amber.

Then he released her to nod down at the empty place setting at her side, the last one left. “Well, how about that? Looks like this is my seat.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, Jillian thought with a mixture of giddiness and alarm as she concentrated on taking slow breaths to try to quiet her system. It was supposed to have been a smile on the street, a quick experiment, a little change—emphasis on little. It wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. It definitely wasn’t supposed to last the entire evening. And it certainly wasn’t supposed to make her world feel as though it had tilted on its axis.

Surreptitiously, she rubbed at her right hand where it was hidden in her lap.

Forget about the quick, impersonal eye contact she’d perfected to keep people at a distance. Gil Reynolds’s gaze had drilled right through her, right into her. And now he was sitting just inches away and she was supposed to be able to hold a conversation as if nothing had happened?

Nothing had, she reminded herself. He’d only been playing games.

Gil picked up the beer that the waiter brought him with the salad course and grinned. “To the happy couple,” he said to Jillian.

She tapped his glass with her champagne flute. “To the happy couple,” she said coolly.

“Come on, I apologized. See? I’m not a complete creep.”

“I never said you were.”

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

Jillian eyed him over the top of her glass. “I don’t know. Should you be?”

Gil broke out laughing. “You’re a tough case,” he said. “Lisa forgave me.”

“That’s because you went all Continental and started kissing her hand.”

“I’d be happy to kiss yours, too,” he offered, a gleam in his eyes.

“No fair using the same trick twice,” she objected, moving her hand hastily away. “Think up something else. Come on, you’re a smart guy.”

He eyed her. “This isn’t going to be one of those quest things where I’ve got to go bring back a hair from the beard of the Great Chan, is it? Or find the Golden Fleece?”

“How about cleaning the stables of all the Budweiser Clydesdales in a single day? Of course, then you’d mess up that nice suit.”

“Come on, cut me some slack. I’m a working schlemiel. Why do you think I was late?”

“What do you do?”

His mouth curved. “Make trouble.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Her voice was dry. “And where do you make trouble?”

His grin widened. “Anywhere I can. No throwing things,” he added quickly, as she reached for the basket of bread.

“That wasn’t my intention,” she said with dignity. “Although, now that you mention it…”

“Okay, okay. Blazon Media,” he said, relenting.