I don’t get it.
“Miss Stetson.” Looking over my shoulder, I find Bonnie, the receptionist, smiling brightly at me. Not sure how she does it…it’s like plastered there because I never see hernotsmiling. “Bobby’s here for you.”
Excitement coils through me as if I just summoned him out of thin air. I’ve barely seen him this week and, with thewedding in four days, I’ve been overwhelmed with last-minute details and his mother’s constant phone calls. The only time we’re within the same vicinity is when we’re sleeping next to each other for a few hours.
Shoving my chair away from the table, I push my Bingo card in Richard’s direction. “Here. Play mine.”
“Why?” he presses, boring disgust into my barely stamped card. “You’re not gonna win.”
Jerk.
I give him a withering glare that barely registers as anything, and follow Bonnie to the lobby.
I’m about to step inside when Miss Aniston stops me by one of the Christmas trees.
“Meirna, darling,” she coos, fiddling with a circular gold ornament between long red fingernails. “I thought we were doing silver this year.”
No.
The people voted, and they voted gold.
She knows that, but she didn’t participate in the voting process because she took a nap.
Then a shower.
Then ate dinner.
Then read a book.
Then talked to Mrs. Monty for two hours and, before you know it, it was the next day and voting was closed.
“Gold won the vote, Miss Aniston,” I remind her. “Maybe next year.”
I make a move for the front again when she holds me captive with, “We’ve done gold two years in a row.”
So?
Be nice, Meirna. She’s particular about decor. She was an interior designer after all.
“I think we should add some more trees in the dining room,” I suggest. “Would you like to do silver there?” She makes a face atthat, wrinkles crunched up together when I don’t hear her offering any solutions. “I’ll be back in just a minute. We can talk more about it then?”
She nods, still not looking happy about the holiday decor, but I have a six-foot-one fiancé out here waiting for me, and I’m not going to stand here for the next hour and waste time.
I find him immediately near Bonnie’s desk, decked out in a perfectly tailored black suit with a white undershirt, definitelynothis normal attire. Bobby is usually seen in a polo sweater or a button-up shirt, casual and non-formal.
However, the man standing in front of me reeks of GQ vibes, sex appeal and a panty-melting stare.
Bobby Kennedy Harding.
If that name doesn’t tell you anything, read a history book.
“Hey,” I immediately greet him with a smile, having his gaze slice over to me. “Didn’t you have an important meeting today? How did you find the time to come here?”
It’s three in the afternoon, and Bobby should be having his head crammed with financial plans and conference calls.
However, when he looks at me, it’s like he’s registering or soaking me back into memory—it’s been that long we’ve stood in front of each other without the other one sleeping—and I step into his familiar body and wrap my arms around his waist.
“Bad day?”
