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Mina motions for me to settle down when the tables nearest us shoot me a look, but she’s barely keeping her laugh contained.
“Stop it.” I point a finger at her. “There is nothing but mutual dislike between us.”
She’s still laughing. “And a strong desire to bone.”
The waitress drops off our drinks and I grab my beer, taking a gulp. If Mina is anything like Timothy, continuing to argue with her will convince her she’s right. I have to ignore her and she’ll get bored.
Turns out Mina is nothing like my brother.
“You’ll have to play nice with Nic,” she says after a few minutes of silence, sitting back in the booth, looking smug. “You’re walking down the aisle with him.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to tell me she’s joking.
She’s not. “I want you to be my maid of honor. Surprise!” She does jazz hands.
This explains the dress she shoved at me, insisting it was The Dress. It was so pretty that I hadn’t given a second thought to how suspiciously quickly we’d found it. It’s an odd mix of sexy and demure, with a lace cold shoulder bodice and a satin skirt that hits just below my knees. The pale gold color works well with my skin tone and dark auburn hair. Mina’s bridesmaid game is top-notch. But the maid of honor?
“Um, but…” How do I politely point out we’ve only known each other for twenty-four hours?
“Charlotte and Lexi have been my friends since high school, and while I love them, I am not choosing between them. Also, they’re both a bit intimidated by Nic. The whole celebrity thing. It’s for their comfort, as well.”
It’s more than the celebrity thing. Nic’s so pretty that to stand next to him, even in a beautiful dress with professionally styled hair and makeup, is to fade into the background. I’m used to it, at least. “We’ll murder each other. Ruin your wedding.”
Mina shrugs. Does she seriously not care if we ruin her day?
I shake my head. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Iammarrying your brother.” She tips her beer at me before taking a drink.
I’m going to have to touch Nic. Take his arm. Dance with him. Pose for photos with him. How can I make it through all that? I’m going to be a distracted, confused mess of sexual frustration and irritation within ten minutes.
“Nic’s not going to be able to keep his eyes off you.” Mina winks, pushing one of the shots she ordered to me. “Lots of dark corners in the venue, by the way.”
“He wishes,” I mutter. Except he doesn’t. He didn’t stick around in the laundry room, he hasn’t asked for more or tried for anything. He clearly regrets what happened and that hurts.
I turn the shot glass in my hand. The drink is a delicate pink, pale as a cherry blossom. The color my cheeks might be if I had feelings for Nic, instead of the scarlet or crimson they’re turning. Humiliation and rejection have an uglier palette.
Mina must pick up on my lack of enthusiasm because she changes the topic. “I want to embroider something floral for my spring release, but I can’t draw anything beyond a simple daisy. You painted those gorgeous flowers in your room—any ideas?”
Mina’s already pulling a pocket-sized sketchbook and a pen out of her handbag, pushing them across the table to me. I don’t have any ideas, but Mina’s too invested in telling me her struggles over a pumpkin spice latte to let me get a word in. I pick up the sketchbook and rifle through it. Dozens of tidy sketches dot the sheets before I find a blank page.
It’s just a doodle. It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t like it.
“What kind of flower do you want?” I ask, picking up the pen.
She shrugs. “I’ve done daisies and tulips. I tried to do a cherry blossom once, but it didn’t look right.”
I sketch a couple of cherry blossoms as Mina tells me about her embroidery machine and how it works, what sort of designs work best for the small size she needs. I do a few other flowers, too, irises, lilacs, wisteria, as she talks.
“These are really good,” she says after I hand the sketch pad and pen back. “This one would make a beautiful screen print.” She points to the wisteria.
Huh. It would be cute on a canvas bag or a T-shirt. Guess I never thought about putting any of my doodles on clothes. I still can’t believe anyone would want them, let alone my boss Elle or a gallerist like Gretchen Torres.
There’s an email from Elle sitting unopened in my inbox with the subject line: Commission for Gretchen Torres. It’s probably a reminder or Gretchen’s contact information, but I can’t bring myself to look in case it was all a mistake and Gretchen liked some other piece of actual art Elle has on her walls.
Mina stares at the designs, a thoughtful look on her face, before she glances up at me. “Would you consider doing some designs like this a few times a year for me? I’ll pay and credit you.”
I’m already shaking my head. “They’re doodles, nothing special. You should hire a professional.”
