A Wedding at the Blue Moon Cafe (12 page)

The funny feeling persisted, but was it worth starving to avoid Dylan?
Hm, a toss-up
. Somehow, she lost her appetite around him, her belly filling with flutters instead. Which made zero sense. She wasn’t attracted to him. Sure, he was handsome. A killer smile. Teeth model-white and even. A freaking Ken doll come to life.

But I’m no Barbie
.

At the ring of the wall phone, she swung over to reach for it. In the instant before lifting the receiver, the caller ID made her stop. A 609 area code. Home.

She fumbled the phone back onto its cradle and jerked away. Why would anyone from home call? Neither of her parents had bothered for years.

The phone rang again.
Must be Mom
. Her father wouldn’t persist in hounding her.

No freaking way was her mother going to ruin her mood, not with the wedding tomorrow. Clarissa grabbed her messenger bag and left the safety of her little house. No sooner had she approached the FarmStand Marfa pavilion than she spotted Dylan watching four guys acting out scripts they held. Other groups of actors practiced their plays outside the pavilion to prepare for the festival that night. She veered in another direction but glanced back to see him closing the distance between them.

He jogged up and fell into step with her. “Hey.”

She gripped the strap of her bag tighter. “Hey. Are you following me again?”

“I always end up doing that, don’t I? I’m not usually a stalker type. I only want a chance to talk to you.”

She had no sarcastic response to his sincerity. Her defenses crumbled. “What’s so important?” God, he looked like a lost little boy. A teenager about to ask a girl on a first date.
Oh no
. And she’d say yes. Mistake of the century.

“You keep avoiding me. I want you to understand I’m not the frat-boy bastard you met that first night. Or thought you met. Because I’m not him.”

“Then exactly who are you, Dylan Wall? Because I have no idea.” He reminded her of herself when she’d first come to Marfa. Uncertain of her place in the world. It made no sense for Dylan, a successful business guy, to have such insecurities. Or was he so used to spinning images that he’d made himself into a chameleon who blended into every crowd?

His smile bordered on desperate. “I’m a regular guy, that’s all.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“What do you want, a laundry list of my personal traits? Quirks? I work hard. I like movies. I like art. I like to sleep in late on weekends.”

“Wow, you’ve just described about ninety-five percent of the population.”

He choked on whatever argument he’d mustered.

Disappointment flustered her. “I don’t think you know who you are. You bury your passion in your work and leave none for any other part of your life. What do you do for sheer pleasure? Anything beyond trolling bars for cute girls?”

His entire body tightened, his eyes shone brighter. “You’re right. I do bury myself in my work. You’re no better. You hide behind all your tattoos.”

Whoa, time for a reality check
. “My ink is an outer expression of my soul. If you had one, you’d understand.”

“No, I have no plans to disfigure myself that way.”

She groaned. “You missed the point, as usual.”

He relaxed. “Then what was your point?”

“You’re soulless.” She headed for the fruit section.

He strode beside her. “You have no idea what I am.”

Why is he still on my ass? And why so desperate?
She picked up her pace.

“You use art as an excuse not to grow the hell up.”

She ground to a halt. “What would you possibly know about art? Do you even recognize beauty when you see it?”

“Of course. Sometimes. Well, occasionally.”

“Name the last thing so achingly beautiful that it stopped you in your tracks so you could stand there and let the sight wash over you.”

His stare turned moony-eyed. “This moment. Now.”

She blinked hard.
Is he serious?
“Very funny.” Not only her neck hairs stood on end. Her whole body seemed to have caught some electrical vibe, enough to jolt her into walking again. So long as her bones didn’t melt, she’d be fine.

He kept pace with her. “It isn’t a joke.”

“Shut up.”

“Not a mature response, Clarissa.”

Agreeing with him would only extend this conversation. She needed him to go away so she could think. “I think you try to piss me off on purpose.”

“Yeah, maybe sometimes I do. You’re even more adorable with your eyes so bright, your cheeks flushed.”

He admits it?
Her brain flailed when she dredged its depths for a response. Nada. Zip. Zero. “Leave me alone.”

He opened his arms. “I can’t.”

Can’t. Sure, repeating her argument. Except she didn’t buy it. “Yes, you can.” And he would, in a few days. Was that what stopped her? She didn’t want to get involved because he’d soon go home?

“Okay then, I don’t want to. There’s something between us, Clarissa. Tell me you don’t feel it.”

“Oh, there’s something all right. Something that makes me want to….” Hit him. Sock him hard like the first night they’d met. Her brother used to joke about her physical reaction to boys she liked in grade school; the more she hit them, the better she liked them. When her cheeks got hot, she ducked her head.

He bent low to peer at her. “You can’t deny the chemistry between us.”

She averted her gaze. “It’s too volatile.”

“Maybe slightly combustible. But a little fire can be a good thing.”

“I don’t like to get burned.” How strange. She hadn’t been afraid of any guy hurting her in so long. She never let herself fall for anyone because she always kept a certain distance. Dylan somehow invaded that space.

“We wouldn’t. I’ll prove it to you if you’ll let me.”

“Oh God, Dylan.” Why couldn’t he leave it alone? Why go there now? In a few days, he’d fly back to Pittsburgh.

“Clarissa.” He drew her into his arms.

All her resistance ebbed away in the warmth of his embrace. His breath ragged, he kissed her hair, whispering, “It’s gonna be good. I promise.”

She drew back to search his face.
The same thing Brad used to say
. Had Dylan found out somehow? No, how could he, when she’d never told anyone?

Applause erupted around them, startling her. She scanned the faces of clapping people. “Wonderful,” said one woman. “So powerful,” said a guy. Another guy tapped his watch. “But a little short of seven minutes.”

Seven minutes? Oh good Lord, the theater festival. “They think it’s a play.” With overkill on the drama.

Dylan chuckled. “Yeah, we’ll work on it.”

She withdrew from him. “No problem. We have plenty of material.”

An actor pointed. “What was that last little bit? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Yeah,” another said. “Project your voice louder for it. What did you say to her again?”

No, she couldn’t let him repeat it. Not to them. “This is too much.” One last look at Dylan, and she fled.

***

So close. Dylan had been so close to a breakthrough with Clarissa yesterday. He looped his tie around his neck, knotted it, and reached for his suit jacket before ducking past the yurt’s flap and striding toward the rental car. Driving toward Marfa, he cursed the faulty convertible mechanism. And for once, he wished Jeff and Amy hadn’t gone the traditional route. If Amy had opted for a sari and Jeff a Nehru jacket, it might have surprised him less than formal wear. In late summer Texas heat? Good thing the church and the café had air-conditioning.

Enough to keep him cool near Clarissa? If only those actors hadn’t overheard their conversation. Why did she freak out when he told her everything would be fine? Who did that?

And why couldn’t he let it go? Rather than lessening, the friction between them had multiplied. Which only made him want to see her more. Find out why he made her so nervous.

After pulling up to the adobe church, he climbed out and strode inside. Cool air made him conscious of the sweat on his brow. A quick stop in the tiny restroom to splash water on his face helped. He slipped out inside again. At the front, a man played an acoustic version of “Stairway to Heaven.”

Mr. Smiley approached. “Oh good, you’re here. Jeff’s been a little anxious.”

“Has he?” Not like Jeff. Mr. Easygoing, Take-It-All-in-Stride.

“The usual wedding jitters. He’s in the room behind the altar.” Mr. Smiley gestured and led the way.

Dylan followed down the side aisle, down a narrow corridor, and into a small room.

Jeff halted his pacing. “Dylan. Thank God.”

“What’s wrong?”

An apologetic smile crossed Jeff’s face so fast, it was almost nonexistent. “I worried you might be late or something.”

“On your wedding day? No chance.”

Jeff clasped his hands. “You remembered the rings?”

“Got them right….” Dylan patted his pocket and feigned surprise but couldn’t go through with the prank when Jeff paled and looked like his knees might give out. “Right here, man. Take it easy.”

Jeff’s suit seemed the only thing holding him together. “Not funny. Not today.”

Dylan couldn’t help laughing. “It’s going to be fine. What are you worried about?”

Pacing again, Jeff raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe Amy figured out I’m a schmuck. Maybe she decided marrying me would be a huge mistake.”

Better let him walk it out. Talk it out. “Didn’t you see her this morning?”

“Yeah.” Jeff’s long legs got him to the other side of the small room too fast. Four strides, and he did a one eighty.

“Did she seem worried?” In the short time Dylan had known her, Amy always wore a smile, her gracious manner unwavering. Practically a female Jeff. No wonder they seemed so at ease around each other.

Still walking, Jeff shook his head. “Not really.”

“Then you shouldn’t either.” Dylan did his best to keep his tone upbeat.

“I know. I just… love her so much.” Jeff slowed his pace. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t want to screw this up.” He stopped in front of Dylan, everything about him pleading.

Dylan had never seen a guy so messed up. Or so in love. “Then go marry her.” He patted Jeff’s cheek a little harder than warranted.

A knock at the door, and the minister poked her head in. “Ready?”

Jeff broke from his stupor and nodded. “I am. I do.”

The minister laughed. “Not yet. Wait for the prompt.” She crooked a finger. “Don’t keep your bride waiting.”

Dylan clasped Jeff’s shoulder and guided him to the altar. When they took their positions, Jeff tugged down his jacket. Tossed his hair back. Cleared his throat.

Dylan scanned the small church, only half-filled but all eyes were on them. He sent them a reassuring smile. Fake as hell, until the minister nodded to the guitarist, who began “Wedding March.”

Movement behind the stained glass panels at the rear of the church caught Dylan’s attention. A statuesque blonde stepped to the center of the aisle. Black lace fitted to her torso, a ribbon of lilac silk wound around her small waist and down the knee-length skirt of lilac chiffon swishing as she sauntered forward. Demure, but sexy as hell. Blond waves fell in soft layers, a lilac flower tucked in her hair. Black outline made her blue-green eyes appear even larger.

Clarissa. Holy shit
. Each step stole Dylan’s breath. Contoured calves on long legs that stretched forever.

Once she reached the front, she turned in what seemed like slow motion. Head bowed, she raised her gaze to meet Dylan’s.

More powerful than her right hook. It hit him so hard, he had to shift his feet to remain standing. Dazzled, he couldn’t look away even after she angled to watch Amy’s walk down the aisle. Though she smiled, Clarissa’s eyes teared.

He wished he could hug her, erase whatever sadness had overcome her.
Sad, at a wedding?

Finally, he glanced at Amy. Stunning in her sleek silk gown, the bride radiated happiness, her gaze riveted to Jeff, who’d apparently been stricken. Awestruck, hopefully not too dumbstruck to recite his vows, Jeff roused enough to offer Amy his hand when she reached his side. She beamed up at him and entwined her fingers with his. They looked like kids, innocent and happy. And freakishly tall.

The ceremony, short and sweet, ended quickly. Jeff bumbled one line, but his sincerity more than made up for it. When the minister declared them married, Amy cupped her hands on Jeff’s face and kissed him.

Dylan stole a look at Clarissa. Again, a strange mix of sadness and happiness complicated her expression, and he stared longer than he intended. Her face blanked when she noticed, and she squared her shoulders.

The newlyweds swept down the aisle. Dylan extended his elbow to Clarissa. To his surprise, she slipped her hand around his arm. They stayed a distance behind Jeff and Amy while the photographer snapped away.

“Nice ceremony.” Dylan risked a quick glance at her.

“Yes.” Clarissa’s smile stayed the same magnitude, her gaze trained ahead.

“Better save your smile muscles for the photos.”

Her gaze flicked to him and away, its intensity matching its briefness. A warning to shut up. He did. Even during the short ride to the reception at the café, though it nearly killed him. He smiled but remained silent as they entered the café, camera flashes blinding him momentarily. Then she broke away into the crowd.

He trudged to the line at the bar.

The girl in front of him turned. “Dylan!”

“Bethany.”
Fuck
.

“You clean up very well.” She practically groaned the words.

The girl could imitate a fake orgasm on a sex tape. “You look nice, too.” Hopefully the seams of her lilac dress held through the night; already they looked stressed.

He endured her recap of the ceremony, nodding when appropriate, all the while wishing the bartender would hurry the hell up. After they finally reached the counter, she asked for a white wine and before leaving, poked a finger into Dylan’s chest. “Save me a dance.”

“You got it.” Tempted to ask for something stronger, he asked the bartender for a beer. He had to keep his head tonight. He tucked a few dollars into the tip jar and wandered away.