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“Really?”
“Really. You don’t belong here anymore. I know it. You know it.”
“What about…”
“Yeah, the cancer,” Rosemary says. “Now that the ice is broken, you’ll come back more often. We’ll see each other more. And we’ll figure that part out, moment by moment. Step by step.”
“Okay.” He sighs and shuffles the deck.
“I like Evie a lot,” his mom says. “Do you think you found the right girl?”
Woah.
“Not for you to worry about, Mom.” He cuts the stack. “High card wins.”
“What are we betting on?” she asks.
“You decide.”
“I win, Dylan, you go for broke on Evie. Don’t play half-assed for her. Play smart. When the time is right, put all your money on the table. Don’t lose her.” She grabs his hand, squeezing it.
“I will, Mom. I will once you are squared away.”
God, I hope she’s squared away soon. Wait-wait – does this mean Dylan and I have a future together?
“I win, you don’t wait for me.” she says. “Dreams have a way of getting away from you if you let them sit by themselves for too long. People do that too.”
The tears are coming and I can’t screw up my wedding date by showing up with smeared makeup. I walk quietly past the kitchen, open the front door, and see my driver already waiting at the end of the long driveway.
The driver drops me just inside the gates at Sycamore Springs Country Club. It’s a three story L-shaped red brick building surrounded by sweeping manicured green lawns. A brook winds around the grounds, with small, picturesque walking bridges spanning its width.
A Rolls Royce is parked at the club’s entrance, where a tuxedoed twenty-something groom is helping the beaming bride out of the back seat. Coiffed women in designer cocktail dresses and suited men make way for the newlyweds. There’s a smattering of applause and a few chants of “Kiss the bride!” The cute couple look at each other, laugh, and oblige their fans.
“Evelyn.” A meaty hand slides down my bare shoulder and I wince when it lands possessively at my elbow. “So glad you could make it.” A shiver runs through me because I know this man’s voice. It’s Glenn, the Fast Food King. Dylan’s poker rival. The portly, sweaty man with the skinny tongue who can’t help but lick his lips when he sees a young, attractive woman. Even worse? He’s doing it now.
It’s all I can do not to make a run for it. I could bolt past the guard at the front gates and squeeze out. Oh man, fuck Madame Marchand for doing this to me. But leaving will just seal my fate. I’ll definitely be out of a job. I won’t be putting a dent in Ruby’s tuition, let alone paying for Mom’s medicals in a month from now. I need to bite the bullet and just get this done. “Glenn,” I say, and force a smile. “What a nice surprise. How do you know the bride and groom?”
“Dallas Historical Society.” He escorts me, one fat hand on the small of my back, inside the richly upholstered lobby. Beet red and gold foiled flecked wallpaper line the lodge; beet red like Glenn’s corpulent cheeks. “I’m on the board with the groom’s parents,” he says. “Imagine my surprise when I contacted Ma Maison and found out you were in town. It almost seems like kismet, Evie.”
“Evelyn,” I say.
“Evie, Evelyn, Whatever. At five K for the evening at least I didn’t call you late for dinner. No wonder McAlister walks around looking like the cat who ate the canary. No puns intended, darling. I’m sure the favor is reciprocal.”
I throw up a little in my mouth as we make our way down the hall to the ballroom. The building’s air conditioned and yet his palm pressed into the small of my back is slick and sweaty, just like his face. Tiny waves of nausea slop around inside me. I remind myself I don’t have to let this guy kiss me, let alone sleep with me.
“What’s my old pal, Dylan McAlister up to lately?” He squeezes my shoulder and slides his hand down my arm, his thick gold pinkie ring scraping my skin. He twines fat fingers between mine and I remind myself that for the five thousand dollars he’s paying Ma Maison for tonight’s date, he’s allowed to hold my hand.
“Don’t know, Glenn. You tell me.” He hired me to be his wedding date. He’s probably expecting more, but he’s not entitled to more, and I will guarantee you he’s not getting it. How bad can this be? How long can a wedding last? How long can I be nauseated and not throw up?
He stops at a small round table in the hallway and peers at the folded cards until he spots the one with his name on it. “Glenn Reynolds & Guest, Table 15. Oh, honey, they must have forgotten to put your name on it.”
Just when I think it can’t get worse it does.
“Amy?”
Aw crap, I remember the last women to call me “Amy.” I turn and see Becky Littlefield, blood red fingernails matching her lips and her cocktail dress. Gold earrings, gold watch, gold bracelets. She matches perfectly with this country club’s décor.
“Hi Becky,” I say cheerfully, well aware Glenn is still clutching my hand.
