Just In Time: An Alaskan Nights Novel (3 page)

Through what could only amount to years of quick saves, Mort placed one hand on his wife’s arm while offering up a wide smile. “Why don’t we meet for breakfast? I’ll take you over to the rink after and we can work out a schedule.”

“Sounds good.”

Roman’s ire faded along with Myrtle’s slightly tipsy totter on her three-inch red heels. He needed to get a grip on this pervasive streak of annoyance that lay just under his skin now that he was back home. While he enjoyed the relative anonymity of living in New York, he’d been missing Indigo for some time. Coming home with the temperament of a wild boar wasn’t going to get him very far.

So why couldn’t he shake the sense that these people he’d known since he was a child really didn’t know him at all?

“You look like you want to punch something.” Mick sidled up to him, his distracted gaze roving the room until it alighted on Grier. Just like that, his shoulders relaxed and he shifted his focus 100 percent to their conversation.

“Myrtle.”

“Since Walker utters that single word a minimum of eight times a day, you’re going to need to give me some context.”

Roman glanced down into his glass and shook the ice. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not an asshole, am I?”

“You’re fairly likable most of the time.” Mick took a casual sip of his beer before adding, “What prompted what I can only assume was a rhetorical question?”

“Nothing, it’s stupid.” Roman scrubbed a hand over his cheeks, sorry he’d even brought it up.

“No, it’s not. What happened?”

“It was just something Myrtle said. She’s half lit on margaritas. It’s nothing.”

“But it
was
something.”

“Mort asked me to help out with the kids’ hockey team. Running drills and teaching a few days a week since the kids’ coach left town. And I said I’d do it and then Myrtle made a stupid crack about getting away while I was still saying yes.”

“People don’t have much sense when they drink. Case in point: Sloan’s uncle laid a hand on Grier’s ass, which I’m still trying to calm down about.”

“Is that who you were giving shit to over at the bar?”

“It was a quietly worded suggestion as I got him a Coke to sober up.”

“Suggestion?”

“I told him if he didn’t keep his hands to himself I knew a cold, remote place on Denali I could drop him so no one would be any wiser.”

“I can’t imagine Grier was too happy about that?”

“Since he’s still babying his instep from where her heel accidentally slipped on it, I’d say he got the message.”

“I love a woman who’s not afraid to use her stiletto.”

“And seeing as how I love that
particular
woman and her best friend, I figured a quietly worded statement would be much preferred over a physical battle.” Mick shook his head as the uncle with dubious morals zeroed in on one of the town’s divorcees of a more appropriate age. “So summing up my original point, people make bad choices when they drink.”

“The problem is, I think Myrtle would have said the same thing stone-cold sober.”

“And you’re taking her word as gospel?”

It was dumb to bring it up—even dumber to give it more than a passing thought—so Roman held off on saying anything further. He knew Mick was only trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t helping. And try as he might to ignore it, the truth was more than evident.

No one in Indigo had any sense of who he was anymore.

But they would.

A
very fought the urge to order another glass of wine and made the game-time decision to switch to a ginger ale instead. As she turned to look at the room, midway through another eighties dance hit, she had to give credit to Sloan and Walker. Despite some initial concerns that the two families wouldn’t have anything in common, four hours later the bride and groom could consider the day a wild success.

Sloan and Walker had originally planned to spring the wedding on Sloan’s mother to avoid her involvement with the planning, but Winnie had steamrolled straight through their surprise attack. To avoid the embarrassment of canceling the lavish wedding her mother was intent on setting up at the Plaza, Sloan had come clean and told her what they were planning and how they really wanted to celebrate their day.

The fact that the change had then necessitated transporting roughly sixty guests up to Indigo from New York had kept them all hopping over the past six months. Avery had even gotten into the act from Ireland, helping to coordinate transportation.

“The ‘Y.M.C.A.’ does it every damn time.” Grier moved up next to her at one of the makeshift bars and reached for her soda before Avery could even take a sip.

“What?”

“The ‘Y.M.C.A.’ It’s like a wedding drug. Start playing that and everyone’s on their feet and dancing. Whether they’re from Scarsdale or Indigo, it’s like they’ve known each other for a lifetime.”

“I’m sure the open bar and the wine served with dinner didn’t hurt.”

Grier shook her head and guzzled another sip of the ginger ale. “Nope. It’s the sweet, magical voices of the Village People. The DJ played that first and now look at everyone a mere three hours later. Dancing like it’s their job.”

“How much wine have you had?”

“Enough that I did the Macarena with Chooch.”

“I saw that.”

“And, I’ll have you know, I was sharp enough to keep Mick from kicking Sloan’s uncle’s ass.”

“Nice.”

“Which is why I deserve another glass of that delicious Cabernet.” Grier gestured at the line of bottles at the back of the bar with the now-empty ginger ale.

“But you will like yourself far better tomorrow morning if you have another soda and get me one in the process.”

Grier nodded, a small moue pursing her lips. “You’re a spoilsport, but you’re absolutely right.”

“Why do you think I ordered myself a soda?”

“So you won’t lose your head and put that bridesmaid dress to good use with Roman?”

“I’m not putting anything to good use with Roman.”

“Shame.” Grier sniffed as she caught the bartender’s attention and ordered two more sodas.

Avery refused to let Grier’s words ruffle her. The knowing glances she and Roman had both received all day had grown tedious, but she refused to give in. It would only give everyone’s not so subtle winks and exaggerated eye raises credence.

“No, it’s not a shame. In fact, like these sodas we’re selecting, it’s damn smart.”

Grier lifted one of the glasses the bartender set down and handed the other to Avery. “I still say it’s a shame.”

“Do not tell me you’re as gaga as the rest of them.”

“Nah, I just want my dear, bestest friend to have some good lovin’.” Grier’s expression had a distinct, philosophical—overlaid with alcohol—bent to it as she scanned the room. “And if you’re going to ignore the very insightful suggestion of cuddling up with Roman, perhaps you’ll finally put Ronnie out of his misery and jump the poor man. His eyes follow you around like a pound puppy.”

“I am so not going down that path with you again. I used to
babysit
him.” When Grier just continued to stare at her—a careless shrug added for good measure—Avery enunciated further. “I changed him into his pj’s. It’s just creepy.”

“You can’t deny he’s completely hot and adorable.”

Avery refused to look across the room, well-aware of the googly-eyed stare from their town bartender she’d get in return. “Of course not. And he needs someone who is completely hot, adorable and age appropriate for him.”

“Your loss.”

“No, someone else’s gain.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun. I’m just not cheap and easy. There is a difference.”

Unwilling to discuss it any longer, Avery waved a hand to the room at large. “You really don’t want this sort of thing for your wedding?”

“Nope. This isn’t me.” Grier took a sip of her new soda before moving them toward a small table at the edge of the room. “I really would have been happy with Vegas, but I know Mick wants to get married in front of his family.”

They both took seats, and Avery didn’t miss the dreamy look that suffused Grier’s face. “And funny enough, once I heard him talk about standing up in front of his grandmother in church, I realized I like what he sees in his head. I like the idea of something small and personal, but still public. And I like the idea of doing it in my new hometown.”

Avery knew Grier had had a rough go of it at first. Indigo’s residents were less than enthusiastic about her arrival the previous November. How glad she was that everyone had come around and seen exactly what she’d seen.

A bright, warm woman with love to give and an easy way about her that invited people in.

Even if she’d suddenly turned into the love police, bound and determined to make everyone around her as happy as she was.

Mick, spotted them and crossed the room. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not.” Avery gestured to one of the open chairs. “We were just talking about you, as a matter of fact.”

“Should I be scared? Or blushing?” he added as an afterthought.

“Neither. Grier just mentioned what an inspired idea you had to get married in a quiet, intimate ceremony here in town.”

Mick laid his hand over Grier’s. The gesture was small, but the intimacy struck Avery as incredibly sweet.

His blue eyes darkened as he looked at Grier. “The guys think I’m nuts to skip Vegas.”

Avery took a sip of her soda. “Well, I think it’s romantic.”

“I believe that’s their underlying point. I seem to be ruining an opportunity to live every man’s dream wedding and instead, feeding the female wedding beast.”

A quick glance across the room to where Walker and Sloan danced in each other’s arms had her smiling. “I hardly think Walker’s complaining.”

Mick’s gaze followed hers. “I don’t think so.”

Strains of Etta James streamed from the speakers as Avery pointed toward the floor. “You two should go dance. This is a good one.”

Grier took another sip of her soda. “We’re talking.”

“Well you should be dancing.” Avery waved toward the dance floor. “Go on.” Within moments, the two were in each other’s arms, moving to the thick, sensual strains of the music.

The fleeting thought that she should be jealous hummed somewhere in the back of her mind, but no matter how many ways she looked at it, she couldn’t muster up the emotion.

Would she like to have a relationship, too? Yes, no doubt. Would she begrudge her friends for having it?

No way.

“Care to dance?”

The deep voice pulled her up short, along with the realization she’d stopped paying attention to her immediate surroundings.

“Um, I can’t.”

Roman looked down at her, his half-quirked smile rapidly fading as he pulled his hand back. “Since when don’t you like Etta James?”

“I love Etta. We just don’t need to put ourselves on display by dancing like this. And especially not to a song with a title as full of innuendo as ‘At Last.’”

“Right. Because all these people need a specific, innuendo-fueled reason to stare at us?” Roman took Mick’s recently vacated chair. “Ignore them.”

“You’ve had a lot of practice ignoring people staring at you. I can’t say the same.”

“It’s easy, Ave. Just look somewhere around the top of their heads, your smile firmly intact.”

Her heart rumbled in her chest at the endearment he’d used since they were young. Ignoring it—just as she’d tried to ignore him all day—she offered up a small smile instead. “You don’t have any perspective anymore. The great unwashed masses of us don’t know what it’s like to be stared at all the time. And we don’t like it much, either.”

“It’s a necessary evil of what I do.” He paused and pondered his glass. “And I never said I liked it.”

“Oh please. You’ve posed nude for pictures, with nothing but a towel. That does not scream, ‘I’m shy and retiring, please don’t look at me.’”

Whatever somber thought had been behind his last comment fled as his smile spread. He leaned in, his grin almost wolfish in the soft, muted glow of the room’s twinkle lights. “You liked that one, did you?”

The gleam in those gorgeous green depths had her heart pounding again. Damn it, how did she get herself into these things? She had no business discussing nude photos with her ex. Especially when those photos were of him.

Forcing a bored note into her voice, she gave him the same generous smile she reserved for his grandmother. “You’ve got an amazing body, Roman. Everyone who looked at it liked that picture.”

The ploy obviously worked, because he leaned back in his chair, his smile falling. As the moment grew tense once more—the normal state between the two of them—Avery fought the momentary urge to apologize.

It was all about self-preservation. And when faced with the impact of Roman Forsyth in the flesh, a woman needed a full suit of emotional body armor.

Satisfied hers was back in place, she shifted the conversation. “It’s been a beautiful wedding. Sloan and Walker will look back on this and know they pulled off a winner.”

“Everyone has gotten along.”

“Grier thinks it’s solely a result of the ‘Y.M.C.A.’”

“That song is the great equalizer. No one can be all uppity and pompous while throwing their hands in the air and spelling letters over and over again.”

“So it’s got nothing to do with everyone making an effort?”

One dark eyebrow lifted at her assessment. “Did you somehow miss how chilly last night’s rehearsal dinner was?”

Avery had to give him points for honesty. “It wasn’t the most rocking evening I’ve ever attended.”

“I’ve sat through postgame screaming matches from the coach that were more enjoyable than last night.”

“Maybe that’s why Sloan was nervous all morning. She almost flipped out when Grier let her know Sophie was taking her mother to task.”

Roman’s laugh was slow and easy. “Now, there’s a conversation I’d have paid to witness. Walker’s grandmother only looks sweet.”

“I won’t argue with you there. I don’t think Winifred McKinley knew what hit her.”

“She did look a bit shell-shocked during the ceremony.”

They sat companionably, the moment a funny mix of easy camaraderie and frustrating self-awareness. She’d missed this, Avery acknowledged to herself. The casual conversation and comfortable understanding between the two of them.

They’d had it since they were young—and if she took her romantic emotions out of the equation, she knew the loss of this companionship had been nearly as hard as losing her first boyfriend.

The last strains of the song faded, and Avery didn’t miss the quick tempo that took its place. Before she could register his movement, Roman was on his feet and pulling her to hers. “You can’t skip this one. It’s just not allowed.”

His large hand engulfed hers and Avery felt herself dragged toward the dance floor as the crowd parted to make room for them, the strains of “Oh, What a Night” blaring through the speakers.

Avery lifted her arms, the tension flying away as the voices of the Four Seasons floated over her. Their ode to lost virginity was as enjoyable—and dance-worthy—at thirty-three as it was at eighteen.

Grier and Sloan made their way toward her, the three of them laughing and dancing to the freedom of the music.

“My mother hates this song!” Sloan finally got out after a particularly impressive half spin, half pirouette. “Thinks it’s undignified.”

“Can we get ’em to play it again?” Grier suggested as she added some nimble footwork to complement the movements of her arms.

Sloan shot a glance at her mother, who’d managed to join the floor and who was doing a rather impressive dance of her own with Sloan’s father. “Actually, I’m not sure if we’ll appreciate the outcome. My mother appears to be enjoying herself.”

“Quick. Where’s the garlic?”

Avery swatted at Grier’s arm, laughing in spite of herself as Mick moved in to wrangle his wayward fiancée. Avery threw back her head and lifted her arms as Frankie Valli’s voice layered over the happily singing wedding attendees. It was only when Roman moved right in next to her, his large frame dwarfing her own, that she dropped her arms, stumbling and losing the beat.

And just like that, whatever joy had her firmly engaged in the moment evaporated, replaced in her mind’s eye with a vision of their prom night.

He’d stood above her so many years before, looking surprisingly similar. The tuxedo wasn’t custom-made and his hair was a bit longer, curling at the nape of his neck, but the rest was the same.

And the same hungry expression that rode his gaze then was the one he wore right now.

•   •   •

Roman stared down at Avery, his heart throbbing somewhere around the middle of his throat. A need so sharp it was nearly painful struck him with blunt force, like a body slam against the boards while skating at full speed.

Damn, but she got to him.

Nerves buzzed around his stomach with manic need, and he realized with a start he hadn’t felt the same around a woman since he was sixteen years old. When he’d schemed every conceivable way to ask her out.

His relief had been palpable when she’d said yes, her agreement to go to the diner for ice cream so simple—so natural—he’d wondered why he had worried at all.

Somehow he didn’t think it would be quite so easy this time.

Or that a hot fudge sundae could fix what had gone wrong between the two of them.

Pulling himself firmly off memory lane, he smiled and executed a neat two-step that he’d perfected in the eighth grade. “Your footwork needs some help, Marks.”

The heat that flared in her dark eyes shifted at the whiff of competition. “I can dance circles around you. I always could.”