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He liked the way she moved.
He liked the way she filled out those jeans.
And he was fairly certain he’d have to “see her around.”
Chapter Three
Georgia hated fussy girl stuff, which meant a bridal shower was like hell come to Texas—fake laughter, unconfessed sins, and the devil in the middle causing mischief.
The devil would be Marilyn Holly.
Okay, she wasn’t the devil, but she made Georgia want to stick her head in a bucket of water just to keep the steam from escaping her ears or prevent her from saying things like “Take a flying leap, you stuck-up bitch.”
But Georgia reined it in because she loved Mary Catherine Holly, and the relationship her friend had always had with her gold-digging stepmother was tenuous at best.
MC pasted a smile on her face and oohed and aahed over all the dainty panties and frilly nighties, blushing appropriately when someone made an off-colored joke.
When she got to Georgia’s offering of a vibrator and erotica nighttime stories, MC nearly lost it. She faked outrage appropriately, making a fuss about who in the world would have sent such a crazy gift, but her eyes sparkled when she caught Georgia’s eye.
Later, over the pink sherbet punch Marilyn insisted on making herself, Georgia whispered, “Marrying him, I figured you’d need it.”
MC rolled her eyes. “He’s good in bed.”
“Yeah, but for what is the question?” Georgia muttered.
MC hesitated for a moment as if considering the point. Then she calmly pushed back her perfectly styled golden hair and elbowed Georgia in the ribs.
“Jesus, you fight dirty,” Georgia said, rubbing her side.
MC smiled and waved at Mrs. Frasier, the new Baptist preacher’s wife. “Yes, I know, but despite your aspersions on the sexual prowess of my intended, I’m glad you’re here, superstar.”
“Don’t call me that. My career’s over... kinda like your sex life.”
Marilyn chose that moment to grab MC by the elbow, giving Georgia her usual withering glance. Marilyn had never wanted MC to hang out with “Hightower trash.” And it wasn’t until Georgia had procured a full ride to the University of Texas on a volleyball scholarship her senior year, that Marilyn would even speak to her. With the dragon, it was all about social position. Too bad Georgia wasn’t still dating Henry Arrington, English professor emeritus at the same liberal arts college where Georgia hung on to her position as head volleyball coach. A descendant of a U.S. President and son to a distinguished federal judge, Henry charmed, disarmed, and backstabbed like a gentleman.
Marilyn would have loved him.
“I can’t believe we pulled this off,” Claire said, touching her on the elbow, drawing her attention. Claire wore a bulky sweater that was too big, black leggings, and nondescript boots. Same old clothes, but Claire had lost a good forty pounds. Her newly slimmed face glowed with pride, matching auburn hair Georgia had envied for twenty years.
“Why are you wearing clothes that no longer fit?” Georgia asked, picking up a cheese tart and popping it in her mouth. “You look like a bag lady.”
“Do you know how many calories are in those?”
“Nope, and I don’t care. They’re good.”
“You’re such a witch,” Claire said.
“Oh, come on. Drop thewand add theb. You’re a big girl now, Claire.”
“Being grown does not give you license to talk like a sailor.”
“Did you mother teach you that?”
Claire’s face shifted. “Fine. You’re a b-i-t-c-h.”
“That’s my girl. ’Cause spelling it makes it less offensive.” Georgia grinned, popping in another tart, knowing Claire only felt comfortable being Claire around her and MC... it just took her a little time to warm up. “Hey, MC wants to go to the Thirsty Cowboy tonight for the bachelorette par-tay. I’m going to loan you a shirt.”
“I can’t fit into anything of yours.”
