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“Okay,” Josie Lynn said as she took the money. She stood back opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
* * *
DRAKE SIGHED AS he walked back into the reception. It looked as if there would be no distraction tonight. Cupcake was not only a spitfire, she was tough. He’d seen that there was no way he was going to charm her into going out with him. Much less fall into his bed for the night.
“Which just blows.”
“What blows?”
Drake turned to see Obsidian beside him. He couldn’t convince Cupcake to give him a chance, and apparently he couldn’t convince the persistent maid of honor that he was not interested. But at least now she no longer carried her riding crop. Instead she held two champagne flutes of the wretched-looking punch.
She offered one to him and he accepted, seeing no way to deny her—at least if he didn’t want her to head back and retrieve her crop.
She lifted her glass in salute. “Yo ho ho, blow the man down.”
Drake lifted his glass in return, but didn’t take a sip.
“I have to say, your girlfriend surprises me.”
He frowned, just briefly confused by her statement. Then he understood whom she was talking about.
“Oh? Why is that?”
Obsidian pursed her dark red lips as if considering the right answer, which he highly doubted she needed to. He was certain she’d formulated her opinion about the caterer right away.
“She seems a little too—pedestrian for you.”
Pedestrian? Really? Were they looking at the same woman? He considered asking this woman—who as far as he was concerned was trying far too hard not to be pedestrian and was only managing to be a bit of cliché—how she had come to that conclusion, but he realized she would answer him. And he didn’t feel like hearing it.
So instead he simply smiled and said, “Don’t let the ruffled shirt and breeches fool you, I’m a pretty average guy myself.”
She raised a dark, thinly arched brow. “I don’t see that.”
He found it hard to believe she saw much of anything with the amount of black eyeliner she had caked around her eyes.
“Yes, well in some cases, looks can be deceiving,” he stated, then without thinking, took a swallow of the disgusting-looking punch.
Holy shit, it tasted even worse than it looked. He forced the slimy, sort-of-clumpy concoction down, even though he really wanted to spit it out on the ground. Dear God, he needed a real drink more than ever.
“Will you excuse me?” he said to Obsidian, not managing to keep the disgust off his face, and frankly he didn’t care if she thought it was directed at her or the drink.
He registered that she again raised an eyebrow at him, but she said nothing as he walked back toward the kitchen.
Drake knew Cupcake wouldn’t be any more impressed to see him back than Obsidian had been to see him leave so abruptly, but he had to see if the little caterer had any sort of alcoholic beverage.
Tonight really had him out of sorts, and at this point even a few swigs of cooking sherry might take the edge off this weird feeling inside him. And truthfully, as he headed back to the kitchen, weaving through the crowd of guests, he felt even stranger.
But he ignored the almost dizzying feeling, blaming it on the circus sideshow feel of the wedding—the crazy clothing, the decorations, and the bizarre dance that many of the people were doing that looked like they were pretending to ride horses while spinning invisible lassos over their heads.
So weird. So almost surreal.
He just wanted to get to the kitchen. And hopefully get some booze. He’d grovel to Cupcake if he had to.
He giggled—yes, actually giggled. So not pirate-y. It was funny, because he suddenly felt kinda—good. Well, loose at least.
When he entered the kitchen, the light was glaringly bright, more so than he’d recalled from the last time he was in there. He paused, leaning against the doorway, having to blink several times to get his bearings.
Then he saw Cupcake, God she was so sexy. He was going to go tell her so, again, right now. But then he noticed she was holding the back door ajar and she was talking to . . . he blinked again, his vision seeming to swim in front of him. He gained a little control and squinted, trying to see clearer.
She was talking to several . . . Chers? He blinked again, and actually rested his head against the doorjamb. Was he seeing double? Or would that be multiple? There were a lot of Chers.
He giggled again. Funny, he didn’t usually giggle.
Damn, he felt weird. What was happening? He took a few steps into the room, then had to catch himself from stumbling on the edge of the counter. From his vantage point, now he couldn’t fully see the people she was talking to, and because of this odd underwater-type feeling, he wondered if he’d just imagined that.
But she was talking to someone and as he watched, still bracing himself on the counter, he saw Cupcake reach for something. He squinted again, the wooziness in his head growing. But he could still make out what she’d taken. Money.
Yes, money, he thought, proud that he’d had enough focus to make out that. But the lightheadedness intensified. The kitchen started to feel as surreal as the courtyard.
Maybe he should go find the others. Something was really wrong with him and he needed to find Cort or Wyatt. Even Johnny.
Johnny would probably tell him just to go with it. Saxon, too. Maybe he should; it wasn’t unpleasant exactly.
He set down the glass he still held, not even realizing he had, until he slid it awkwardly onto the stainless steel. He looked back over to where Cupcake stood, debating if he should just call to her.
No, he’d already made a terrible impression on her. Acting like this would really convince her he was a loser. Not to mention, she’d probably just think it was some lame ploy to get her attention.
He had to find the others. He staggered back to the doorway, stopping again to catch his balance. He glanced back at Cupcake once more to see her opening the back door wider and allowing the Chers into the kitchen.
He stumbled back into the dim light of the courtyard, only making it a few feet, then he decided he couldn’t face that crazy room of strange people. He turned to go back to the kitchen, and that was the last thing he remembered.
* * *
JOSIE LYNN WATCHED the Chers ready themselves for their grand entrance, adjusting their clothing and fluffing and flipping their hair. She looked down at the hundred-dollar bill still clutched in her hand, that same sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.
Maybe she shouldn’t have let them in.
