The Wedding Bargain

She rested her forearms on the bar and leaned on them, shifting her weight to one foot and trying to wriggle the toes of the other. “The cabernet, I guess.”

“Of course.” The bartender eyed the front of her dress, and she quickly straightened.

While he poured the wine, she surveyed the bottles of Scotch lined up on a glass shelf. She should have gone with her first instinct. These were much better quality than the brands she could afford to stock at the Whiskey Sour.

“The merlot would have been a better choice,” a deep male voice said over her shoulder.

She didn’t have to turn around to know it was him, the man who’d been amused by her struggle with the strapless wonder. When she did turn to face him, her heart rate sped up. She had been wrong about the Mediterranean connection. His eyes were blue and he had no hint of an accent.

“You’re an expert?” she asked.

He shrugged slightly. “I know a little. Would you like to dance?”

“Oh, thanks, but…” How to graciously sidestep his offer? “My feet are killing me.” Which was true. “And I’m not a very good dancer.” Also true.

“I am,” he said. “Just follow my lead.”

“But my drink—”

“It’ll keep.” His smile was self-assured without being overconfident, and Jess had the impression he wasn’t accustomed to taking no for an answer. And before she had a chance to reinforce hers with a firm thanks-but-no-thanks, her hand was in his, and he was leading her onto the dance floor.

“Are you always this pushy?” she asked as he guided her into a simple box step.

“All I did was ask you to dance.”

“And I said no.”

He smiled again, a perfect smile that now held just a hint of arrogance. “And yet here you are.”

His touch was light and he held her hand high as he moved them across the dance floor as gracefully as her ridiculously high-heeled shoes and lack of ability permitted. She rested her other hand on his shoulder, and she swore she could feel the dress slipping down her torso. She glanced down, relieved to see that her important parts, including the underwired push-up bra Rory had coerced her into buying, were still covered.

He lowered his head till his lips almost touched her ear. “You are too self-conscious,” he said. “The dress isn’t going anywhere.”

He had that right. The dress was definitely not going anywhere with him. “I see your expertise with women extends beyond dancing.”

He laughed, apparently unaffected by her sarcasm. “And you are a much better dancer than you let on.”

Oh, please. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“I’m sorry. Did that sound like a come-on? It was meant to be a compliment.”

She wasn’t used to getting compliments, or come-ons for that matter, so it was difficult to tell the difference. And how did he know what she was thinking?

“We should start over,” he said. “My name is Michael. The mother of the bride is a business associate of mine.”

That surprised her. Rory’s mother was an artist, so maybe he ran an art gallery or something. “I figured you worked here at the hotel.”

His turn to be surprised. “What gave you that idea?”

“You weren’t here earlier.”

“Are you sure?”

Yes. I would have noticed. But he didn’t need to know that. “I’m Jess,” she said instead. “I’m one of Rory’s bridesmaids.”

Duh. As if he hadn’t already figured that out.

In an abrupt move he drew her closer but only, it turned out, to maneuver them off their collision course with the bride’s parents. Sam Borland and Copper Pennington were divorced—twice—but according to Rory they were back on speaking terms. Judging by the way they were gazing at each other, oblivious to everything and everyone around them, they had more than talking in mind. She was delighted for Rory, of course, but more than a little envious, too. Jess heard from her mother only when she was broke and between loser boyfriends.

Roxanne Bennett’s last plea for help had been six weeks ago, and Jess had sent her two hundred of her hard-earned dollars because that was easier than putting up with a barrage of desperate phone calls. Besides, by the time Roxanne had frittered away the money, she’d have yet another loser in her life and she’d be mooching from him.

Nicola and Jonathan swung by. Wow! Nic mouthed after doing an approving double take when she caught a glimpse of Jess’s dancing partner.

Fortunately, Michael didn’t seem to notice. “Do you live in San Francisco?” he asked.

“I do. And you?”

“I’m a little north of the city, but I spend a lot of time here on business.”

“I see.” She wasn’t used to making small talk when it wasn’t required for work.

He had no trouble with it at all. “What do you do?”

“I own a little bar in the South of Market neighborhood.”

That seemed to interest him more than she would have expected. “SoMa’s an up-and-coming area. What’s the name of your place?”

“The Whiskey Sour.”

“Interesting.”

But he clearly didn’t think it was, and she could tell he’d never heard of it. Problem was, neither had anyone else.

“It came with the name.” And a small clientele. Emphasis on small. A reality she was determined to change as soon as she scraped together enough cash or convinced the bank to lend her some so she could renovate the place.

“How long have you been in business?”

“The bar has been there since my grandfather opened it in the fifties. I took over when he died two years ago.”

“I’ll have to come by for a drink sometime.”

“Oh. Sure, that’d be great.” She could use the business, but she could not picture this man, wearing this suit, sitting in her bar. No one but health inspectors and bill collectors ever showed up at the Whiskey Sour wearing a suit.

She caught a glimpse of Paige and her date entering the ballroom. Hard to miss Paige’s purple gown. She and Andy were holding hands. Jess smiled. Paige insisted they were just friends, but those two were so close to hooking up, it wasn’t even funny.

The band stopped playing and announced they were taking a short break.

Michael let her hand go, but kept his other hand on her back.