Actually, telling Clint Eastwood that she’d wanted to pursue a career in wedding planning was a big fat lie. When the dot-com she’d been working for went belly up, she’d tried to get another job in the tech industry, along with everyone else and all their mothers—it felt like hundreds were competing for the same few openings.
Weeks went by without a nibble, and her unemployment status at last led to her greatest humiliation yet—having to move home with Mom and Dad. But she hadn’t had a choice—she couldn’t pay her rent and she couldn’t pay her credit card bills, which were, she was embarrassed to note, pretty damn high. Honestly, she’d not realized how large she’d been living on her humongous dot-com salary before the company tanked.
So after about three weeks with Mom and Dad, when Marnie was contemplating living under a bridge on the Santa Monica Freeway, she’d seen the ad for the wedding planner certification class.
Wedding planner. The term had sort of circled around and tickled her thoughts for a while. It actually sounded fun. Who didn’t like a wedding?
So she’d taken the class. At the very least, it got her out of the house and away from the TV, and Mom and Dad, and Mom’s book club. And though she’d never really envisioned herself a wedding planner, once she got into it, she was sucked in by all the beautiful white dresses and lovely cakes and flowers and fancy china—not to mention all the fabulous high-heeled shoes.
And she suppressed a shudder of delight just thinking about the sparkly wedding shoes Olivia Dagwood would wear on her third walk down the aisle. Or was it her fourth? She’d have to check E! Online.
The Lincoln turned again, and she had the sensation they were traveling up and around. Then the car slowed and made a sharp left. Eli lowered his window. They were at a security box. He punched in a code, then raised the window as the driver eased the car forward, through the gate, coasting down a hill and stopping in a small parking lot.
Eli lowered the back windows; the driver stopped the Lincoln and got out. “Wait here,” he said to Marnie as the driver opened his door. “I’ll be back for you in a minute or two.”
“Where are we?” Marnie asked.
He got out, stuck his head back inside, and said, with a sexy, lopsided grin, “We’re here,” and shut the door.
“Thanks for the info, Chuckles,” Marnie muttered as he walked in front of the Lincoln in a pair of faded Levi’s— which looked damn good on his butt—and disappeared into what looked like a garden path or something.
Marnie sighed, looked down at her hat, her melon, and the straw bag full of giant oranges, then leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and mentally reviewed her best selling points.
Purchase your copy of Wedding Survivor now
AMERICAN DIVA
She smiled, yanked it out of his reach, scrolled to ‘shuffle’ and selected that as she dislodged herself from the chaise. She put out her hand to Jack. “Come on, stranger. Dance with me.”
His gaze traveled her body—she could almost feel it leave a mark—and he finally hoisted himself from the chaise . . . all six foot three, maybe four inches of him . . . and took her hand. When Audrey tried to lead him to the beach, he pulled back, forcing her to look at him. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, and put his hand out, palm up, for the iPod.
Audrey deposited the iPod in his hand. He untangled the earbuds and winked at her as he stuffed one bud into her ear, the other into his. He hit the play button, tucked the iPod in the pocket of his shorts, and slipped his hand around Audrey’s bare back.
Oh hell that was nice. His hand was big and warm on her back, and the other, closed tightly around her hand, felt like a soft baseball mitt. She felt small and breakable in his arms, but strangely safe. It was odd, she thought, how perceptions cropped up like lilies after a rain. Perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that she felt completely mellow—the heavy and warm moist air, the salty scent in the air . . . was there a sexier setting or a more perfect end to a harrowing weekend?
Audrey closed her eyes as Michael Bublé sang “You Don’t Know Me” in her ear, and she leaned into Jack so that her lips were only a moment from his shoulder. He moved smooth and slow, turning her around in a tight little circle, the sand cool and wet beneath her feet.
As they turned lazily on that beach, he brought her hand that he held into his shoulder, tucking it in beneath his chin as he pulled her closer to his body, holding her tighter.