Do You Take This Baby?. Wendy Warren
Gemma’s shoulder meaningfully. “You know, it’s very powerful the way you two have decided to embrace humiliation and turn it into something super fun. You’re an inspiration.”
Gemma gaped at the girl. “Thanks.”
Scooping ice into the blender and pressing Crush while Collette hurried away, Gemma kept her gaze averted from the guests who were streaming toward the family room.
The fact was, until someone mentioned it ten minutes ago, she’d had no idea the episode was going to play on her parents’ fifty-two-inch plasma TV during the bridal shower that she was cohosting.
All of her family and plenty of the other people here had already seen the episode. It had been the talk of the town when it first aired on TV. And in a town as small and, lately, as wedding-obsessed as Thunder Ridge, she and Elyse had become instant celebrities.
Morosely, she watched the blender chop the hapless ice cubes into tiny shards. I know just how you feel. She’d heard all the witty comments about her appearance on the show—that she, always the bridesmaid and never the bride, must have been suffering from PTBS—post-traumatic bridesmaid’s syndrome. Or that, at almost thirty-four, she’d had a “senior moment” on TV. And of course there were the people who felt “just horrible for poor Elyse,” whose big sister had fallen dead asleep (and actually snored) while Elyse was sashaying along the runway in her very favorite gown.
Yep, Gemma had nodded off, snored, probably even drooled a little on a national TV show. The cameraman had caught her catnap—and Elyse’s outrage—on-screen. The show added thought bubbles and sound effects in postproduction, making it appear as if Gemma had fallen into a stupor after a few too many strawberry margaritas at brunch and suggesting that Elyse was a bridezilla, just waiting for her sister to wake up so she could smack her unconscious again.
Good times.
After loudly sobbing out her humiliation, Elyse had decided to face the episode head-on, showing everyone she was rising to the occasion by laughing at it herself. Nonetheless, Gemma had been making amends for ruining Elyse’s fifteen minutes of fame ever since.
“If you’re trying to show that ice who’s boss, I’d say you’ve succeeded.”
The deep, amused voice made every muscle in Gemma’s body go rigid. Oh, no. Noooo. She had known, of course, that Ethan Ladd was on the guest list for this afternoon’s party, but he was in town so rarely that she hadn’t expected him to show up.
Go away. She turned the blender up a notch, and the noise was satisfyingly obnoxious.
“Seriously? You’re going to pretend I’m not here?”
“Not at all. I’m pretending I can’t hear you.” She dropped several more ice cubes down the safety spout in the blender’s lid. The crunch was deafening.
A tanned hand reached over the bar and into her space. Involuntarily, she jumped back as Ethan managed to switch off the blender.
The nerve.
He was taller than her by at least ten inches and outweighed her by...what? Five, maybe six pounds?
Joke. She wasn’t that heavy. But having been pudgy throughout her childhood and teenage years, she’d learned there were people who appreciated her “curves” and others who thought she could drop a few pounds.
Keeping her head lowered, she felt rather than saw Ethan wag his head as he stared down at her. “Genius IQ, and ignoring me is the best you can do?” He clucked his tongue.
“I don’t have a genius IQ. And I’m not ignoring you,” she lied, her voice as tight as her muscles. “I’m concentrating on the job at hand.”
“You always were a perfectionist,” he said dryly. It didn’t sound like a compliment. “I think you’ve lost your customer base for now, though. Except for me. I’ll take a soda. Please,” he added after a beat.
She inclined her head to the left. “They’re in the cooler. Help yourself.”
“I was hoping for some ice.”
“In the cooler.” She still didn’t look at him. Could not look at him. Because looking at Ethan Ladd had always been her downfall. Like kryptonite to Superman, an eyeful of Ethan Ladd could turn Gemma into goo, marshmallow fluff, overcooked linguine—a squishy, messy mound of something that wasn’t remotely useful.
“I’ll help myself,” Ethan said sardonically and moved away from her line of vision.
Gemma grabbed a dish towel and mopped at the water pooling around the blender, her mind racing a mile a minute. When she’d gotten dressed for the evening, she’d felt perfectly confident about her outfit—a sweet 1950s-style red-and-white polka-dot dress with a cinched waist and full skirt. She’d paired the vintage piece with red patent-leather peep-toe pumps and wound a yellow scarf, headband-like, around her dark brown hair. Now she wondered if she should have opted for something more trendy or sedate.
Dang it. Ethan freaking Ladd—on today of all days, when she was already the underdog.
Refusing to glance in his direction, she listened to him root around in the cooler, heard the ice clatter as he withdrew his soda and the click of his no doubt expensive shoes as he walked across her daddy’s stone pavers to where she stood, all her senses on red alert, at the bar.
“’Scuse me, Gem.” Directly behind her, he reached around her frozen-in-place body to grab a glass, his shirt brushing the back of her shoulder. Silky shirt...bare shoulder. Her heart flopped like a defibrillated fish. Then his right arm came around, and he grasped the handle of the blender. “I like my ice crushed.”
Was it her imagination or did he deliberately brush against her a second time?
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked as he shook the frosty shards into his glass, then replaced the blender. Moving to her left, he opened the soda and poured, leaning one hip against her work space.
That’s when Gemma made her fatal mistake: she looked up, and there it was—his gorgeous kisser. Whether you liked Ethan Ladd or not, it was an empirical fact that he was practically an Adonis. The last time she’d seen him had been about a year ago. She’d been standing on the corner of Southwest Broadway and Southwest Salmon in downtown Portland, waiting for the light to change, and Ethan had been on the side of a bus. Or rather, his likeness had been.
Grinning face; thick golden locks styled, no doubt, by someone who charged by the hair; shoulders that bulged with sculpted muscle; abs chiseled from granite; and his Super Bowl ring front and center as he posed with his hand resting along the waistband of what had to be the skimpiest pair of underwear in BoldFit’s lineup of men’s briefs.
“So, your sister seems to be enjoying herself,” he observed.
Gemma’s throat and mouth were so dry, she could barely speak. “Mmm-hmm.”
“How about you? Are you enjoying the spotlight?” Behind the ever-present I’m-thinking-something-very-amusing-right-now smile, Ethan watched her steadily, his dark-rimmed blue eyes thoughtful.
“Not my cup of tea.” She gestured toward the house. “Why don’t you take your soda inside, Ethan? I’m sure Elyse wants you to see the show.” That would give Gemma time to catch her breath, practice her company smile and knock back a pitcher of Bellinis.
“No thanks. I had dinner with Scott and Elyse in Seattle four months ago. Heard all about it. Naps are supposed to be very healthful.”
She was a summa cum laude, had a master’s degree and taught literature at a private college, yet she rose to his bait like a trout to a lure. “I was teaching summer courses. I told Elyse I was too busy to go to New York, but she insisted, and—Why am I explaining this to you?”
“Well, I’m no psychotherapist, but I’d say you have an inflated view of your own importance.”
“That was a rhetorical question! You’re not supposed to answer