Page 39 of Flirting with the Stranger

“But for some it is.” She lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “There’s nothing wrong with a girl wanting a special day. Where all eyes are on the bride while she wears her beautiful white ball gown. One that she’s spent years saving up for because when she laid eyes on the v-neck cathedral train with lace and tulle, it was the perfect dress.”

“All that for a dress you’ll wear for like twelve hours, get ripped off your body at the end of the night, and then sit in the back of your closet, taking up space for way too many years.” I place the last box on top of the stack.

“Well, aren’t you the romantic? What’s your dream wedding?” She rests her hand on her hip.

“First, I would axe all this extra cake bullshit. A cake for the bride and groom, individual cakes for each table, and a variety of cake pops. Come on? A little overkill, don’t you think?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Well, this extra cake bullshit keeps this bakery in business, so I’ll take it.” I wave my hand over all the cake boxes in the back of the van.

“Fine, but I don’t want it. I would want only me and my bride. Destination wedding. Somewhere tropical and on the beach at sunset. Then afterward we wouldn’t need to worry about entertaining everyone and we could get right to consummating our marriage.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

She snickers. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“A wedding should be for the couple, not for entertaining everyone else.”

“It’s hard to argue with that. But I would still want the white dress.” She cracks a small smile.

I rest my butt on the back edge of the van and cross my arms over my chest. “What about you? What’s the dream wedding? It sounds like you already have the dress.”

She drops the stack of table linens in the van and her shoulders deflate. “I already had that wedding. The ending wasn’t part of the dream.”

“Whoa. So, you’ve been married? I hope you’re not still married?” I raise a questioning eyebrow.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. She wrings her fingers together. “No and no. There was a wedding, but the groom took off before I could walk down the aisle.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” I reach for her wrist and tug her between my legs, and she comes willingly. My fingertips drag up and down her arms as she casts her gaze to the ground. “What happened?”

“He decided he no longer wanted the life we’d spent the last five years building together. Which also included starting a bakery. But he did leave me with one thing, all the debt from the startup.” She swipes at the moisture in her eyes.

“He’s a dumbass. You deserve so much better than him. You deserve someone who’ll wipe away your tears, not create them.” I use the pad of my thumbs to swipe at the wetness under her eyes. “You deserve someone who’ll spend all his time making you smile and laugh, and not bring you sadness.” I grip her chin and force her to meet my gaze. When our eyes meet, I flash her a giant grin, and she gives me a small one in return. “I think you can do better than that.” The corner of my lips turn up to one side. I wrap both my arms around her waist and pull her closer and tickle her sides. She squeals and wiggles in my arms. I keep going until she’s full-on giggling.

“Okay! Okay! Stop!” she says between breaths.

I stop tickling her and rest my hands on her hips. “You deserve the best. Never think otherwise.”

She nods.

“What do you say we finish packing up and we can laugh at the drunk bridal party while they embarrass themselves as they dance to the ‘YMCA’ or ‘The Cha Cha Slide’ or whatever people dance to at weddings.”

“That sounds oddly refreshing. But you’ll need to refrain from jumping up on a table and taking your clothes off. It’s not that kind of party.” She gives me a flirty wink.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “If NSYNC comes on, I can’t make any promises.”

* * *

Tulle and twinkle lights drape across the ceiling from the perimeter and meet in the middle of the room. The head table sits in front of a wall of windows that overlooks Lake Superior. Purples and blues paint the sky as the sun sets. Dinner has been served and toasts have been given. People dig into their nine-inch table cakes while others stop and pick up one of my amazingly delicious cake pops.

An older woman in a tight blue dress saunters up to the table. Her cherry red lips call out like a siren even in the low light. She comes to a halt in front of me. Her striking blue eyes meet mine for a brief second before she glances down and reaches for a cake pop.

“That one is a champa—” Before I can finish, she’s reaching for a stick and bringing it up to her mouth. Her tongue peeks out, wetting her lips before she opens and places the cake ball in her mouth. Her lips wrap around the thin stick as she pulls out. She chews and then swallows.

“Not the balls I’m used to, but not bad.” Her voice is soft and seductive.

I choke from her words and cover it up with a cough. An unladylike snort sounds from behind me. Trying to maintain my composure, I wave my hand over the table and say, “We have a wide variety of other balls if you’d like.”

She rests one hand on the table, and waves her finger, silently asking me to move closer. I lean in, hesitantly.

Once I’m close enough, she trails a finger down my chest. “Which one is your favorite? Because I think I already know which one I like.”

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