Bailey's Irish Dream (2 page)

Before she could turn away, he set the mug down and said, “If I were you I’d stop by the drugstore on my way home and get me some of that Pepto-Bismol.  Unless your stomach’s made of cast iron.”  He ran his eyes down the front of her, as if to check out her stomach.  Like he could tell by looking at her.  “There was this one time I had one of Quinn’s spicy dishes--Cajun something or other.  I didn’t think I was gonna make it home.”  He shook his head.  “That was pretty scary.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, not realizing she’d said it aloud. 

Quinn appeared with two large bowls of jambalaya and set them down in front of her and Gwen.  “Pete, quit trying to scare off my customers.  Let the ladies enjoy their lunch.”

“Oh, sorry.  I didn’t mean to bother you none, ma’am,” Pete said.  “You go ahead and eat, and if you need something for your stomach afterwards, I have some antacids in my pocket.  I always carry some just in case.”

“Pete,” Quinn said, narrowing his eyes at the man.  “How about if I get you another beer?  On the house.”

“Well, sure.  I’d appreciate that.  I’m no fool.  I don’t turn down free beer.  Nosirree.”  Pete chugged down the rest of his beer and handed the empty mug to Quinn.  “You ladies enjoy your lunch now.”

“Thank you,” Bailey said, placing her napkin on her lap and picking up her spoon.  She eyed the meaty dish appreciatively, thought briefly about Pete’s warning, and took a small bite.  It was spicy all right, but it was also the best jambalaya she’d ever tasted.

“I didn’t think that man was ever going to shut up,” Gwen whispered in Bailey’s ear.  “What a moron.”

Bailey took another bite and shrugged her shoulder.  “I think he’s kind of sweet,” she said. 

Gwen rolled her eyes and picked up her spoon.  They ate without talking, listening to the voices surrounding them.  In order for her and Gwen to hear one another, they practically had to yell anyway.  Better to wait until some of the lunch crowd cleared, then they’d be able to chat.

As soon as Quinn cleared away their dishes, Gwen said, “So, have you told your parents yet?”

Just thinking about telling her parents Stanley had dumped her made Bailey shudder.  “No.  I didn’t want to ruin their trip.  Right now, they’re in Chicago visiting with Kaitlyn, Mark and the kids, and they’re all driving in tomorrow.  My sister hates to fly,” she explained.

“Well, what are you going to tell them when they get here expecting a wedding, and you have no fiancé?  Again,” Gwen added, tapping a red manicured fingernail on the bar in time to the music.

Bailey sighed.  “I don’t know.  I just don’t know.  They’re going to be so disappointed.”

“Yeah.”  Suddenly Gwen’s face grew radiant.  “Hey, I have an idea.  Why can’t you tell them Stanley died?  You can’t marry a dead guy.”

“Gwen! I can’t believe you said that!  And besides, I couldn’t lie to my parents about something like that.”

“Sorry.”  But Gwen didn’t look the least bit sorry.  Smiling, she went on.  “What would happen if your parents met Stanley, and they didn’t like him?  They’d be begging you not to marry the jerk.”  She seemed to be contemplating her next words.  “Seems to me that would be the best solution.”

“I told you Stanley’s out of the country, for God only knows how long.  Besides, they would have adored Stanley.  Everyone does.  Except you.”  Bailey sighed again.  “This is such a mess.  I guess I have no choice but to tell them the truth.  What scares me is how my mother reacted when Byron left me standing at the altar.  Remember how she fainted and broke her arm when she fell against the pew?”

Gwen snickered.  “How could I forget?  And after Graham dumped you, didn’t your mom consult a psychic to see if someone had put a curse on you or something?” 

Bailey lifted her eyes and sighed.  “I’d almost forgotten about that.”

“Being that this is the third time this has happened, I can see why they’re going to start thinking there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

Gwen wasn’t helping matters.  “Thanks a lot.  You’re my best friend, and you’re supposed to be making me feel better, not worse.”

Gwen grinned.  “Hey, I was only kidding.”  She elbowed Bailey in the arm again.  “But I was serious about them not liking Stanley.  If they disapproved of him, they’d be only too happy to have you stay single--at least for awhile.”

“Well, like I said, there’s no way they’re going to meet Stanley.”

Pulling a compact and lipstick from her purse, Gwen touched up her lips, giving them a fresh coat of red.  “Why couldn’t you find someone to pose as Stanley?  Someone your parents wouldn’t approve of.  Someone they would loathe.  And then they’d be happy when you told them the wedding was off.  You could even say it was your idea.”

“That sounds like it would work.”  This from Pete, who Bailey hadn’t realized was listening to their conversation.  Their
private
conversation. 

Bailey looked his way and grimaced, wondering what else he’d heard. 

“Let’s see,” Gwen said.  “We need someone intimidating, obnoxious and rude.  Maybe someone who can’t keep his hands off you.  Parents hate guys who maul their daughters.”

“Lots of people loathe me,” Pete said.  “And I used to maul all the girls I dated in high school.  I can be intimidating, obnoxious and rude too.”  His gray eyes lit up.  “Hell, I’ll do it.”

“This is ridiculous.  I’m not going to lie to my parents.”

“Why not?  It’s not as if you’ve never lied to them before.  In fact, I can remember plenty of times--”  She stopped mid sentence and snickered.  “Remember when we were eleven and we snuck out of your house.  Kaitlyn locked all the doors to teach us a lesson, and we had to break a window to get in.  You told your parents we’d been abducted by aliens.”  Gwen giggled, remembering.

“That was different.  I’m an adult now.”

“Fine, then.  Call them at your sister’s house as soon as you get home and tell them the truth.”  Gwen looked at her watch.  “Oh, darn.  I have to run.  I’m supposed to show a house in five minutes, and I’m going to be late, as usual.”  She pulled her cell phone from her handbag and started punching numbers. 

“I’ll take care of the check,” Bailey offered, but Gwen didn’t pay her any mind.  She was already heading for the door, speaking into the phone. 

“You’re welcome,” Bailey murmured.  Reaching for her purse, she dug out her credit card, and drank the last sip of wine from her glass while she waited for Quinn to bring the check. 

“I think your friend had a good idea,” Pete said.  “And like I said, I’d be happy to pose as your fiancé.  Just say the word.  I’ll make your parents absolutely sick.  I promise.”

“That’s nice of you, but I don’t think that would work.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re too old for her,” Quinn snapped, butting in.  “And besides, I don’t think your wife would appreciate it.” 

How had
he
known what they’d been talking about? Bailey wondered.  She supposed they’d been a little loud, trying to be heard over the lunch crowd and the music, but still.

“I suppose you think you’d make a better fiancé than me,” Pete said, challenging Quinn and cracking his knuckles at the same time, as if he were getting ready to take a swing at the man.

“You got that right.”  Quinn turned her way and winked, and Bailey felt her face flush.  She felt like such a fool.  She didn’t even know these two men, and here they were discussing her problems like they knew all about her.  “But I’m not interested in pretending to be her fiancé, or anyone’s fiancé for that matter.  You wouldn’t get me to do something that crazy for all the money in the world.”  With that he picked up Bailey’s credit card and took it to the register.

Bailey stared at Quinn’s back with her mouth hanging open. 
Like she’d ask him to do something like that!  A complete stranger, for God’s sake!
  She glanced at Pete and shrugged her shoulder slightly, feeling even more foolish. 

Quinn brought the receipt and a pen and set them in front of her. 

“Hey,” Pete said.  “We never discussed money.  Just how much were you planning on paying this pretend fiancé of yours?”

“I’m not paying him anything,” Bailey said, lifting her head, her eyes shifting from one man to the other.  “Because I wouldn’t do something as underhanded as that.  Why, the whole thing is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pete agreed, “but let’s just say you were thinking seriously about it.  How much would you be willing to pay?  Fifty?  A hundred?  Two hundred?”

Since the whole thing was preposterous, she said simply, “I don’t know.  I have no idea what the going rate is for a job like that.”  Bailey signed the credit card slip, took the bottom copy and handed the top copy and the pen to Quinn. 

“Uh, huh,” Pete went on.  “Hypothetically speaking, if the guy was to do a good job making your parents hate him and all, do you think a hundred would be fair?”  He seemed obsessed with wanting an answer. 

Bailey shook her head, shrugged and decided to agree with him just to get him to drop the subject.  “I suppose one hundred thousand dollars would seem fair if I was desperate enough.” 
Which I am. 

“But--wha--I--” Pete began, but it was hard for him to talk with his mouth hanging open. 

“You did say hypothetically, right?” 

Pete’s jaw moved up and down, but not a sound escaped this time.  What the heck was wrong with him? Bailey wondered.   

Quinn just stared at her, his eyes unreadable.  Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Bailey slid from the stool.  “Well, I have to be going.  It was nice meeting you both.”  With that she headed for the door. 

As soon as she’d gone, Pete slapped his hand on the bar.  “Whoooheee!  Did you hear that? 
A hundred thousand dollars
, just for posing as her fiancé.”

Quinn rolled his eyes at Pete.  “The lady was jerking our chains.” 

Pete looked surprised, then nodded in glum agreement.  “I hate when women do that.”  He picked up his mug and drained his beer.  “If I had a hundred thousand dollars I’d buy me one of them Harleys and take off.  Maybe drive to Bermuda or Hawaii or one of them places.  I might even take up surfing.  You think Marilyn would like surfing?” 

Quinn tried not to laugh.  Picturing Pete on a Harley was bad enough, but
surfing
? 

“What would
you
do if you had a hundred grand, Quinn?”

Quinn knew what he’d do with the money.  He’d save his bar.  But it didn’t make sense wasting time thinking about something that wasn’t going to happen.  One hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money, but like he’d told Pete; the lady had been jerking their chains.

* * * * * * * * * *

Quinn had just finished wiping down the bar and was about to call it a night when he heard the front door open.  He looked up to see Bailey Maguire making her way toward him. 

She’d changed clothes.  Instead of the all black outfit she’d worn earlier, she had on a low-cut, bright green, halter-style dress that showed off the creamy mounds of flesh just above her small breasts.  The short skirt gave him a nice view of her shapely bare legs.  Her rich, glowing auburn hair hung loosely at her shoulders, and her lips were painted a pretty shade of coral.    

“Where is everyone?” she asked, sliding onto a bar stool, her kaleidoscope eyes blazing and glowing.  She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous like her friend Gwen Peterson, but she was pretty in a subtle kind of way, and her creamy white skin showed off pale freckles on her chest, arms and dainty nose.

“Monday’s our slow night,” he said.  “I was just getting ready to close.  You should come around on a Wednesday or a Friday--karaoke nights.  And Thursdays and Saturdays, we usually have a live band.  Can I get you something?  Chardonnay?”

She laid a small white handbag on top of the bar.  “No, thanks.  I think I’ll be daring and try the Bahama Mama.  If it’s not too much trouble,” she added.

Quinn stared at her a moment before moving away.  “No trouble at all,” he lied.  He’d already torn the bar down for the night, but he didn’t want to get a reputation for turning away business.  Besides, he found her interesting--in an odd sort of way.  And he had sort of a perverse desire to find out what had made three fiancés dump her.  He busied himself making her drink, all the while keeping an eye on her. 

“You meeting someone?” he asked, trying to make small talk.

“No.  I came to see you.”

Quinn raised a brow.  “Yeah, what about?”

Successfully disarming him with her saucy smile, she said, “You’re probably going to think I’m crazy.” 

He watched as she fidgeted in the chair.  “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”

She looked at her manicured nails, then back at him.

Since she seemed nervous, Quinn prompted her again.  “When I’m behind the bar, people confide in me about all sorts of things.  Sometimes, I think maybe I should have been a psychiatrist.”

That made her laugh.  Her face and neck turned a pretty shade of pink.  She brought a hand to her hair, smoothing it away from her face.  “Like I said, you’re probably going to think I’m crazy, but do you remember earlier when I was here, and we were sort of joking around about someone posing as my fiancé?”