Marrying The Wedding Crasher. Melinda Curtis
of her role here was to stop Vince’s brothers from pestering him. A little distance between the siblings was called for.
The door at the top of the stairs led to a small, homey apartment with a galley kitchen. The kitchen table and living room furniture weren’t stylish retro, they were just old, yet well cared for. Three doors faced her. Two were closed. The open door revealed the bathroom. Harley went in and cleaned up.
When she emerged, Gabe was standing in front of the TV stand that didn’t have a TV. Instead family photos graced the top. He set one back down.
“I don’t want you to take this wrong.” Gabe sounded a lot like Harley’s protective older brother Taylor—overly confident and a tad self-important. Both characteristics were softened by Gabe’s unabashedly friendly smile. “I like you, but I know you aren’t dating my brother.”
Harley’s shoulders pinched in a near flinch at his assessment. She didn’t like lying, but she’d made an agreement with Vince to pretend they were dating. And there was just something about Gabe’s accusation that raised her competitive hackles. She’d never liked losing to Taylor, not in checkers and not in verbal chess.
“Really?” Harley forced out a chuckle and crossed the room to study the framed photo Gabe had been looking at. “Present your case, counselor.”
Gabe rubbed his hands together, clearly pleased that Harley hadn’t taken offense.
“First off, there’s your age difference. How old are you?” Not only did Gabe have no filter, he had no sense of boundaries. If it wasn’t for his good-natured demeanor, he would’ve been annoying. “I’m guessing twenty-four?”
“I’m almost twenty-seven.” Harley bent for a closer look. The photo Gabe had set down was of the three teenage Messina boys straddling motorcycles. An older man stood behind them with the same thick, dark hair and lady-killer grin as the boys. Their father? Harley leaned closer, taking in Vince’s multicolored striped shirt that seemed too short, blue jeans that seemed too long, and a grin that seemed too wide.
“When I was twenty-three, I dated a girl who said she was eighteen.” Gabe watched Harley closely, a spider patiently studying the fly. “Her daddy came after me with a shotgun.”
“Well, if we’re challenging each other’s relationships, I’d like to see the scars on your backside.” Harley straightened and laughed, more genuinely this time. “Are you implying I’m too young for Vince?”
“I think I’m spinning it the other way around.” He waggled his dark brows.
Harley shook her head. “Nice try, but seven years isn’t that big of a deal.”
“Sweetheart, it’s nearly eight years.” Gabe flashed a troublemaking grin. “More in dog years.”
“Clearly, it makes no difference to us.” Harley rolled her eyes. Gabe could have been cloned from the same genes as her brother.
“Clearly, there’s no zing between you two.” Gabe’s grin didn’t dim. “I’m only challenging your claim because we had a rough childhood and I feel responsible for my younger brother. You know, protective.”
“Pfft.” Gabe was more transparent than a new window in an old house. “You and Joe have a bet.”
Gabe’s eyes widened and then he began to laugh and nod. “Yep. Joe and I have a bet. Joe says you’re legit.”
Harley wanted to put Gabe in his place. And the only way she could think of doing it was to mention something personal about Vince, something he’d only tell a girlfriend, not an acquaintance. “Was this photo taken after your mother left for Texas?”
His smile disappearing faster than a cockroach on a midnight raid in the kitchen. “What did you say?”
Too late, Harley realized Vince must not have told his brothers about his mother’s location.
Vince opened the door, not looking like a man happy to see his girlfriend. No doubt, his expression would turn thunderous if Gabe asked about their mother.
The smart move would be to smile and make her escape, nose in the air. But then, nothing Harley had done this summer had been smart.
Instead she crossed the room, latched onto the collar of Vince’s polo shirt and kissed him hard.
“I THOUGHT YOU said you wanted a kiss.” Harley’s nose was out of joint. She pushed through the door to El Rosal, Harmony Valley’s Mexican restaurant, without waiting for Vince to open it. “I gave you one. End of discussion.”
Vince followed Harley inside, past a chalkboard posting early bird specials. He glanced over his shoulder to watch Gabe walking across the town square toward the Lambridge Bed and Breakfast. What was his fun-loving, meddlesome brother up to now?
Something had happened between his brother and Harley upstairs. Gabe’s good-humored bluster had been deflated. He’d ridden in the back of Vince’s rented SUV to the restaurant in near silence. Gabe was never silent. And with his brother’s mouth on mute, Vince couldn’t fully enjoy Harley’s kiss.
She’d claimed him with that kiss, branding his lips in a way that still burned.
Oh, something had happened between Gabe and Harley, all right. And good or bad, Vince had benefitted from it.
Harley had grabbed him, then released him and marched out of the apartment. Vince had followed in the same stilted way a mummy followed its master.
The shock was wearing off. Or maybe it was the loud, bustling atmosphere in El Rosal.
The restaurant’s walls, tables and chairs were painted in primary colors: bright reds, yellows, blues and greens. The flat-screen television mounted above the bar was tuned to a muted baseball game. Pop music sung in Spanish filled the air. It wasn’t even five thirty, but the restaurant was packed, primarily with white-haired patrons, many of them having conversations at a volume that indicated their hearing aids might not be switched on.
Over a decade ago, the grain mill in town had exploded and the company subsequently shut down. Being Harmony Valley’s primary employer, jobs had dried up and with it businesses had closed their doors. Younger families had moved to find jobs and new opportunities. Older residents had hunkered down and stayed in their homes.
Now there was a new local employer, a small but growing winery. According to Joe, the bulk of the population was still over the age of sixty. And here was the proof. White-haired patrons dining on early bird specials.
A waitress led Harley to a table by the plate-glass window looking out on the town square and its lone oak tree.
She dropped into a yellow chair and hid behind the menu.
Vince sat across from Harley, studying the long, limp hair hooked behind her ears. She hadn’t looked this tired when she’d gone upstairs to clean up. “What did Gabe say that upset you? Whatever it was, I’ll talk to him.” Which was polite brother speak for an exchange of punches.
“Nothing.” Her blue eyes flashed over the top of the menu. “I let him get under my skin. The jet lag is catching up to me.”
He wasn’t sure he believed her, but something, almost like relief, allowed Vince to draw a deep breath, to pick up the menu, to realize he was hungry.
“You’ll want the mole chicken tacos.” An elderly woman who could stand-in for Mrs. Claus sat at the next table. She had thick, round glasses and thick, round curls.
She seemed vaguely familiar, but so did over half the restaurant patrons.
Across from her, an elderly Japanese man shook his finger at Vince in a friendly way. “I know you. You’re one of the Messina boys.”
“Yes. I’m Vince.” Vince braced himself for