Chapter Seven Rehearsal Dinner
I do my best not to think about Douglas Wickstaff—and it’s surprisingly easy.
I mean, when your entire clan descends on your town, you’re helping with the catering, and you’re in the wedding party—it’s pretty easy.
But I do notice that he’s not around. And maybe I do ask some of the older women in the clan a few vague questions, and I get a lot of gossip.
Nicola Wickstaff was the most gorgeous Orc in her clan. She was a late matcher. Talented painter. Had beautiful red-gold hair. Was an expert in all things wildcraft and fiercely independent.
Some say she died fishing early one morning, others say she died swimming late at night. Water was involved and drowning was the cause.
Douglas hasn’t been the same since. He’s become a reclusive, bitter, silent man who avoids most clan gatherings, lost in his grief.
My heart aches in two ways. I’m full of genuine sadness for his loss. I can’t imagine falling in love and losing the one true love of your life so soon after finding them.
And then I have a heaping helping of selfishness, too. I’m pretty enough, but no great Orc beauty. I make a mean frappuccino and have a decent smattering of herbal and spatial magic (thanks, Mom), but no one would call me a wildcrafting goddess. I learned to hunt, fish, skin, and survive (thanks, Dad), but I’m probably not really “Orc” enough to try to resuscitate the wounded heart of that delicious widowed Orc warrior. Okay, accountant—but as someone who has been juggling the books, payroll, supply invoices, overhead, and the front of house for years, I will tell you that the struggle is real.
Real enough that my thighs clenched when I realized my green Highlander with a silvery streak in his dark hair was an accountant by trade.
I’m supposed to be folding the wedding programs before we go to the rehearsal dinner, and instead I’m frozen, pretty cream-colored paper in my hand as I picture Douglas flattening me onto my cluttered desk, sweeping the loan papers and quarterly water and sewer bills to the floor, and pounding into me.
God...
I need a man.
Or a man substitute.
I want to go home after this rehearsal dinner and have some serious quality time with something smooth and buzzing.
Is it pathetic that I’ve always kept my choices of battery-powered boyfriends on the small side, even though my insides are built for much more? I guess I want to feel the real thing when it’s actually the “real” thing.
“Maybe that ship has sailed.” I finish folding the last program and put it in the box with the others. I pick up the fluttery blue dress I’ve picked for tonight’s rehearsal dinner. It’s pretty enough for church and flirty enough to attract someone’s attention.
I pause, holding the dress to my body. Tonight isn’t about me. It’s definitely not about attracting attention.
Doesn’t matter. He’s not going to notice me, anyway. Might not even show up.
I shove any thoughts of my own romance back into the corner of my mind where they were living peacefully until a few months ago. All-Business Georgia is back.
PASTOR IGNATIUS FORTNUM sings a silly little song instead of actual wedding vows. He claims that if he’s not careful, he’d accidentally marry Georgie and Claire ahead of schedule, and then he’d never be invited over for dinner again. Everyone laughs, and the bridal couple practices their exit. All of us follow them over to The River House for the rehearsal dinner. The entire restaurant is closed, and the restaurant owners are giving the dinner at just a tiny bit above cost. Claire worked for them when she first moved here, and even though she is going to be working full-time at her own business now, Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson still think of her as family. After this, we’re going back to White Pines to make sure everything is ready in the ballroom for tomorrow night—and I have a feeling it will become another party, all of us dancing in the ballroom, just because we can.
“Don’t even need music to have a good time,” I whisper.
We’re special like that in this town.
“You okay?” Diana, the waitress at our shop and one of my very best friends, leans over to me. “You barely grinned.”
“I’m tired.”
“You should go to bed as early as you can.”
Bed. Early. A gorgeous graying Orc hammering away between my thighs as I sink into the mattress under his weight.
Shit.
Down, girl.
“I’ll do that.”
“Come on!” Cindy and Cathy, two other waitresses at The River House (one of whom will be Claire’s full-time assistant in the bakery once she’s back from her honeymoon) go squealing past me.
Everyone around me is wild with joy. I feel muted—and that’s not fair. “That’s no way to get this party started!” I suddenly shout, forcing all my energy reserves to the front. I grab Diana around the waist and shove her in front of me. “Come on, Dad! Mom! Great-Uncle Herbie and Great-Aunt Ida! Conga line!”
SHE’S A brILLIANT SHIMMERING sapphire. Vivacious, charming, the life of the party. Georgia doesn’t stop moving during the rehearsal dinner. The only time she stands still is to make a sweet, short toast to her brother and future sister-in-law that leaves multiple people blinking away tears. After that, she’s a blonde and blue blur, bouncing around the room to visit each aged relative, each townie well-wisher.
Everyone but me. She gives me a smile and a wave in passing and then keeps moving at top speed.
Billy Joel’s Blonde over Blue starts playing in my head, and I can’t turn it off.
I need her inspiration tonight.
No. I don’t. I need nothing. I’ll be gone on Sunday morning. The meeting went well, and I’ve got Neilson’s goodwill stored firmly in my pocket. With any luck, they won’t ask me to come back to this country for another decade.
Surely I’ll forget about my silly fantasies by then. Right?
When the party at the restaurant breaks up, most of the guests go back to their homes and hotels. The wedding party, their partners, and a few close friends (or maybe just those who are close to the White Pines) head to the beautiful 1920s mansion to ensure the grand ballroom is in readiness for tomorrow.
I try to scoot away, but suddenly, my hired car is following Georgie and Claire in their catering van up a windy road in the May moonlight.
I guess I’m going to the after-party after all.
GLORIA AND WESLEY, the owners of White Pines, have everything in readiness. Gloria’s my best friend, even though she is a ghost (like that would matter around here). She clearly wants to flex her ghostess hostess with the mostess skills. With a flick of her fingers, the chandeliers strobe, and the grand piano and the old phonograph start playing upbeat swing music. How can you say no to an invitation like that?
“Hi. You look stunning, Georgia.”
I turn. It’s Jasper Wainwright, the weatherman who is gorgeous enough to melt the camera—as long as he doesn’t have to cover the eleven o’clock news on the night of a full moon.
“Hi, Jas.”
“Dance?”
“Sure.” I close my eyes and lean on his shoulder, two-stepping around the room to something from the 1940s. Jasper’s a history buff and a science nerd (I went to school with him, so I remember Mr. I Won The Science Fair Four Years In A Row.) “Can’t you just picture all the WACS and soldiers dancing to this in some smoky USO hall?” I sigh.
“Mm. And the band plays a slow song before the G.I.s have to go back to base.”
“Or the frontlines.” I hug into him. “I’m glad you’re safe. You, collectively. As in the men that would be fighting if this were actually 1940,” I explain hastily.
“I understand. And I’m glad you’re not waving farewell as your sweetheart marches off.” Jasper clears his throat. “No sweetheart yet?”
“No.” I pull back enough to look into his eyes. Tall, dark, and handsome, like a toothy Clark Kent.
I could do worse.
I try not to think about making love with a werewolf. The stamina. The scent. The thrill of making love in multiple forms—yes, you can do that with the right charms and potions.
Jasper’s nostrils twitch. “What’s that perfume, Georgia?”
“Oh. Uh. I think it’s probably lemon meringue,” I laugh.
The song ends and another upbeat number comes on. My parents are out there “cutting a rug” as my dad would say. Calder, the local kraken, is taking up a whole corner of the floor as his tentacles tap and twirl.
“Mind if I cut in?”
I smile up at someone—King Silverbow.
Maybe it’s a sign—of my stupidity.
King pulls me around the floor, green musclebound, hockey-playing body surprisingly light and rhythmic with the music.
It would be fine if he kept his mouth shut and focused on dancing, but he doesn’t. King smiles at me, flashing teeth and tusks before saying, “Georgia... Why do we fight it?”
“Huh?”
“ You’re looking for a mate. I’m looking for a mate. We’re the only two single Orcs in Pine Ridge. It’s fate. Why do we fight it? You’re beautiful. I’m handsome. You make the box lunches for the Lumberjack games—I win them. We’re already a winning team, baby.”
“Oh, gosh. King, that’s very— Who said I was looking for a mate?” I demand, stopping in mid-twirl.
King’s stronger than me. He twirls me anyway. “No one needs to say it, Georgia. It’s obvious. Plus...” His nose is suddenly in my neck, startling me as we sway into a dark corner behind the piano, “You don’t need to say it when your body is screaming it. The way you smell tonight is begging for me to claim you.”
I push his shoulder and glare. “Have you lost your damn mind? Claim me? We never even had coffee. You’re what—twenty?”
“Twenty-three! I like an older woman. Especially one with the mind of an Orc but the body of a supermodel.” King puts his hands on my hips.
Okay, I’ll admit it. For one second, the line about the supermodel body made me think with my vanity, not my brain. But like I said, it was only one second. The next second, I poked him square in the middle of his forehead. One of our brains should be awake in this conversation, I thought as I smothered a groan. “Look, it’s just lemon meringue pie that you’re smelling. Chef Ferguson makes one hell of a dessert selection. If she and my brother ever go head-to-head, Pine Ridge could single-handedly support Weight Watchers for a year.”
King laughs. “Pie? Well, it could lead to a ‘cream pie,’ gorgeous, but I thought maybe we’d dance a little bit more first.”
My cheeks flush. I get it. I suddenly get it. I smell like desire. Arousal—but it’s not for any of the locals.
Stupid fantasies. Stupid Orc eye candy in his sexy kilt with his killer calf muscles. I glance over toward the French windows where I last saw Douglas Wickstaff. He’s not there.
“I’m not interested,” I tell the overeager Orc as politely as I can manage.
King’s hand glides from my hip to my buttock, squeezing gently. His voice is low and rumbly, a gentle purr that surprises me. “Are you sure? I bet I could make you happy, Georgia. Give me a chance. After all—I could be the last one you’ll get.”
“I THINK I NEED TO GO . Things are messing with my head.”
I’m not trying to eavesdrop.
Oh, hell. Yes, I am. It’s bad manners, I know, but I can’t help it. It stops me from looking at Georgia.
“Jasper? What’s wrong? Do you want me to drive you home?” Mr. Minegold, the nice vampire I met the other night, is suddenly clasping a fatherly arm around a handsome young man in a pristine gray suit. (He looks like Clark Kent, but happy.)
“It’s not just him,” a towering black gargoyle is whispering in the huddle that’s soon joined by a minotaur and a few humans. He jerks his square chin to the spot where Georgia and a handsome young Orc are slow dancing behind the piano.
I try not to roar in a jealous rage.
The gargoyle shrugs. “I’m not interested in humans, but even I can smell it. Don’t feel bad, Jasper.”
“Shh. Where are your manners?” Minegold hisses, eyes briefly flashing red.
“Is it affecting every unmated male?” the one called Jasper asks hopefully.
“Well. It’s an obvious scent when you get close. It’s not an invitation,” Minegold says with a delicate frown, picking imaginary lint off his immaculate black jacket.
“What are you guys talking about?” The minotaur demands.
“Georgia.”
My ears prick up. They are talking about her. And her scent.
“You wouldn’t smell it, Milo. But imagine Libby waiting at home for you after a long week apart,” Jasper sighs, a look of longing on his face. “This is torture. I need a mate. Or to get the hell out of here.”
“I’ll go with you.” The gargoyle flares his wings back.
“We should all go. The bridal party needs rest.” Mr. Minegold narrows his eyes and stares into the corner. “Since when does Georgia like young King Silverbow?”
“Liking has nothing to do with it. It’s all biology, at least to him,” Jasper snorts.
“Aye. All tusks and trousers, that one” says the gargoyle.
That’s all I need to hear.
I put down the whiskey Gloria’s husband (a human) was kind enough to provide and walk through the scattered crowd. I don’t feel like I’m moving fast but I hear a rapid tapping—and it’s my shoes on the polished floor.
My woman is in trouble.
No, she’s not. Not in trouble. Not my woman.
I try to stop myself and instead leap over a stray tentacle and startle a kraken in mid-snog with his sweetheart.
“Even if we’re not compatible, don’t you ever just want to scratch an itch?” The handsome young Orc has his fingers embedded in Georgia’s hips.
Sweet, slender little hips. She’d weld herself to me like a second skin. My blood is boiling in anger and desire, and as I reach the corner, I realize just what a dangerous combination it is. I’ve never felt it before.
This woman does things to me.
I’m trying not to like it. At the same time, I’m trying not to take the arrogant young bawbag who has his hands on her and fling him through the windows.
Stop! My rational brain makes a futile attempt to derail my progress.
Fuck off.
Yes. Well. So much for that.
Georgia’s voice is firm, but there’s a little sparkle of mirth in it as she pushes the man’s hands from her body. “The only thing that will be itching is your throat after I put some pricklewort in your next to-go order.”
“Geez, Georgia. Don’t blame me. You’re the one who smells like sex in a little blue dress.”
“The lady will blame you as much as she sees fit.” My voice rolls out like the lowest notes of the piano they’re behind, so dark and deep you feel the words as well as hear them. “Your olfactory senses are not an invitation. Now, clear off.”
“Hey!” Georgia looks startled as she realizes there’s an audience to their little spat. “King wasn’t doing anything creepy—well, he was being kind of obnoxiously forward, but not creepy.”
“That’s no way to treat a woman.”
“True.” Georgia concedes. She turns back to King and glares. “Now, go. And you might not see your team discount for a while, buster.” She shoves the hockey player lightly.
King shoots me a dirty look and ducks his head in apology to Georgia. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean... Sorry. I misunderstood.”
“It’s okay,” Georgia tells him with a beautiful, blushing smile, the anger dropping from her features.
I always fancied women with green skin, but her pink cheeks are so pretty, even in the dark.
When King leaves, I turn to follow him. I pretend I don’t smell the scent that’s turning me hard and raising serious concerns about wearing a kilt.
It’s like sex and peaches. I’ve never wanted to pull a woman close to me and lick her neck, just to see if she tastes as good as she smells.
Guilt sharpens its knife and plunges in again. I kissed and adored every piece of Nicola when we made love, hoping something would click and unlock and sex would feel... deep. Soulful. Like it was more than good fun.
But I never, ever wanted to haul her over and just swipe my tongue down the pulsing vein in her throat and sink my teeth into her shoulder to hear her moan for me.
That’s all I’m thinking about now, but of course, Georgia is the star of my show.
“That was sweet of you. Thanks.” Georgia’s hand on my arm halts me. “Don’t think too badly of him. He’s young and lonely. I get it. I’m single, too. There aren’t a lot of Orcs in the area.” She gives me a sweet smile and pulls her hand back quickly as I turn to her.
I know my face is rigid and unsmiling. It’s the only thing I can do to stop from panting and slavering like some beast in heat. “Why an Orc? There are a dozen interspecies couples here. It seems your town and your family are accepting.”
Georgia stares at me, blue eyes that are brighter than the dark, shimmering material of her dress seem to swallow me whole without even trying. “Not that I need to justify it to anyone, but I’m Half-Orc, despite my outside appearance. I grew up watching an Orc husband and father treat his wife like a queen. I mean that in the way that a knight is loyal to his queen and knows she can rule the world with the right tools—but also spoils her and pampers with love and attention, lives to make her happy. My mother treated my father the same. Their bond was— is —beautiful. I see it in other Orc men. The way my brother has changed for Claire... Oh, he was a good guy before, don’t get me wrong. But now? He’s happily devoted. There’s a part of him that was always lonely and angry before. It’s gone now. It’s mutual. Whatever empty spots Claire had in her heart are filled up because of Georgie.” Her eyes shift away, uncomfortable. “Sorry. I know talking about marriage is probably hard for you.”
“Aye.” But not for the reasons you think, my beautiful temptress. You pluck my heartstrings and don’t even realize you’re holding them in your pretty little hands.
“So. Yeah. I grew up celebrating both sides of my culture. I know what I’m attracted to. I wouldn’t rule out the right guy if he was another species, but it’s not where I’m starting my search.”
I nod. She’s right. It’s none of my business.
And with every word she says, the more I’m convinced she’s right for me and I’m all wrong for her. I never treated Nicola like my queen. I suppose I tried, but I failed. Kept doing it wrong.
Why don’t I walk off? I’m just standing here, in front of her. Blocking her path like a cow in the road. (Something that happens daily where I live.)
Georgia tucks a strand of thick, wavy blonde hair back behind her ear. “I know what you’re thinking.”
Fear freezes my throat shut. God, I hope not. My eyebrows arch in surprise and answer for me.
“You’re thinking I’m leaving it late to ‘start’ my search. I agree with you, but for the early part of my adult life, I was focused on getting the shop up and turning a profit.” Another shrug, this one with a long sigh and her head tilted back, showing off that beautiful honey-cream throat.
I’m turning into a vampire by proxy. All I can think about are the sounds she’d make if I kissed her there, if my tusks scraped the skin just right to make her shudder and moan while her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging me to her.
“It’s late.” I make a sudden bow and back away.
Her face ripples in confusion and settles into a bemused frown. “I just said that.”
“Oh! No. At night. You have a fair few things to do tomorrow, don’t you? As the sister of the groom and being a bridesmaid?” I fumble and freeze to the spot again, rooted like an oak.
“Oh. That kind of late. Yeah. I have to get to bed—or insert a caffeine drip. I mean, coffee is my business.”
Her smile is crooked. A wry smile, they’d call it. Entrancing is a better word. “And excellent coffee it is. I can’t stop thinking about it when I suck down the burnt muddy water they give me at the hotel.”
She winces and we share a laugh, a little smidgen of a laugh, but it feels like someone’s lit the gas under my heart. It speeds up and starts to heat. I just hope the blood rushes all throughout my system and doesn’t jump down to a certain location.
“Burnt muddy water. That’s a crime against coffee. The shop is closed tomorrow, but you come by on Sunday, and I’ll fix you up with one of our to-go carafes.”
“I’d love to take you up on that. Sadly, I fly out early Sunday morning. Your coffee will just have to be a happy memory.”
“Shame.”
In more ways than she’ll ever know. Even though my jaw hurts from clenching and every word feels like I’m walking across a rotted bridge with raging waters underneath, I have to tell her something. One more thing. “About your search, Georgia? You’re better off searching long and late than settling when everyone else tells you it’s high time. You’ll know if it’s right. You’ll feel it.”
She stares for the longest seconds of my life. Her tongue licks her bottom lip, and I want to feel it licking against my lips. My anything.
“What if I feel it and he doesn’t?”
Oh, fuck. No. She can’t.
We can’t.
It’s pity on her part. I’m sure of it. Or a mistake on mine.
“Then he’s a fool. You’re better off without him.” Another bow, another turn, and this time I keep walking.
At least I told her the truth.