“Thanks,” she sighs, her minty-sweet breath caressing my lips. All I’d have to do is lean down a few inches, and our lips would be touching.
The loud sound of someone clearing his throat makes us jump apart. “I thought you might all need a round of shots after Warren’s performance,” Dean announces to the room. The women giggle at his use of the words “Warren’s performance.” The only ones who don’t seem amused by it are me and Dean’s brother, Dawson, who is spending more time scanning the room for a specific person than passing out the free shots Dean promised.
The moment Dawson’s eyes land on Esme, his whole face changes, a huge smile spreads across his face, and he looks like a love-struck fool. And I should know, I see that look in the mirror staring back at me when I think of Marigold.
Turning my attention back to Marigold, I grab a shot glass from Dean’s tray and raise my hand, saying, “Here’s to Marigold forbeing the best damn book club leader ever.” I softly clink my shot glass to Marigold’s before we both swallow our shots in one go. The sweet butterscotch coats my tongue, and all I can think about is tasting it off Marigold's tongue, belly button, nipples, or pussy—wherever she’ll let me taste it from.
The crowd of women raises their glasses in a toast, all yelling, "Hear, hear."
Marigold’s face turns a lovely shade of pink as she thanks everyone for the toast. “Now, let’s get back to the suggestion box.” The crowd quiets down as Dawson and Dean clear the shot glasses from all the tables, with Dawson lingering around Esme’s table a little longer than necessary. “Okay, the first suggestion is.” Marigold reaches into the small cardboard box on the table in front of her, designated the suggestion box, and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. Unfolding the paper, she scans the words before reading them. Instead of reading the words out loud, she rolls her eyes, “No, Mrs. Klein, Warren isn’t going to take off his shirt the next time it’s his turn to read again.”
Mrs. Klein, who is at least eighty years old, shakes her cane in the air and starts booing Marigold. “The men on the book covers don’t wear shirts, why should he?”
“Because this is a book club, not a strip club,” Marigold says, trying to maintain a stern expression, but I see the start of a small smile trying to curve up her lips.
“He’s built like some of those male strippers.” Mrs. Fenmore, who is just as old as Mrs. Klein, joins the conversation.
"Ladies," I interject, attempting to defuse the tension. “No one will be seeing me without my shirt on.” I look at Marigold, hoping to see relief on her face at having calmed the crowd, but instead she seems disappointed.
“It’s probably time to call it a night,” Marigold says. Surprisingly, the crowd begins to disperse, leaving only Marigold and me in the back room.
“Are you okay?” I start to reach for Marigold’s arm before dropping my hand to my side.
“I’m fine.” She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. “We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. We should probably both get some sleep.” I hold her gaze, searching her eyes for the sadness behind her words.
Deciding to let the matter go for now, I help her with her coat and walk her the three blocks to her house before returning to the bar parking lot to get my truck. The lonely drive up the mountain to my cabin taunts me—if I were brave enough to ask Marigold out on a date, she would be sitting next to me, keeping me company right now. Instead, I’m stuck with myself, and I’m piss-poor company at best.
three
Marigold
“Oh, my gosh. Comein, come in.” Clover ushers Warren and me into the viewing room of her family-run bridal shop. Clover is the designer, while the rest of her sisters have other roles within the company. “Take a seat. I’m so sorry, Rue was supposed to model Aspen’s dress for you today, but Austin stopped by, and now they’re in her office for who knows how long.”
Hmm, so it’s not just Dean’s office these horny mountain men use.
“We can always come back later.” I offer not wanting to be a bother to Rue and Austin’s little afternoon delight.
“No, it’s fine, Marigold.” Clover waves her hand toward the backroom. “Honestly, with those two, it could be days before they come up for air. Actually,” Clover takes my hand and spins me around in a circle. “You and Aspen are about the same size. Why don’t you try on the dress?”
“Me?” I snap my gaze to Warren. The thought of wearing a wedding gown in front of him makes me press my thighs together, chasing the ripple of pleasure pulsing there.
“Why not?” Clover shrugs. “We just need a visual of how the fabric will hang. Aspen can do the final fitting in a few weeks.” Before I can answer, Clover pulls me with her to the dressing room. “Here, try this on.” I strip down to my bra and panties and reach for the gown. “Take your bra off, too. The dress is strapless, your bra will just be in the way.” Clover says, unconcerned that I’ll be standing in front of Warren only in a wedding dress and panties. Clover laces up the back of the dress,creating an hourglass figure that makes my breasts almost spill out at the top, my waist tighten, and the skirt flare at my hips. “You look gorgeous.” Clover spins me around, pointing me in the direction of a full-length mirror.
“Is that really me?” I place a hand on my stomach, the expensive lace soft against my touch.
“Yup.” Clover squeezes my shoulders. I knew she was a miracle worker, making gowns for plus-sized, curvy women, but this feels magical. I’ve never felt so beautiful in my life. “Now let’s go show that man out there how beautiful you look.” She takes my hand and leads me back to the viewing room, where, surprisingly, Austin is sitting on the couch talking to Warren while Rue is standing on the platform in a wedding dress.
Warren stands when he sees me, his eyes taking in every detail as they roam up and down my body. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Why is Marigold wearing that dress?” Rue steps down from the platform, holding up the train of her wedding gown. “That’s not Aspen’s gown—mine is.”
“Shoot.” Clover looks thoroughly confused. “It must be the pregnancy brain.”
“What?” Rue screeches. “You’re pregnant? How far along are you? Does Bale know? Of course, he knows, he’s the baby daddy.” Rue answers her own question.
“Yes, I’m pregnant. I’m twelve weeks along. We were going to wait a little longer before telling anyone. Yes, Bale knows. And please stop calling him my baby daddy—we’re married, he’s my husband.”
