in here…’ Cressy screwed up her face, squinting up at Bryony. ‘But there’s one teensy problem.’
Bryony’s stomach sank.
‘Namely?’
Cressy waved a cycling shoe in her direction.
‘Look at the size of this. It has to be a seven. These beauties clip on to the pedals, and my mini-feet will slip right out of them.’ She shrugged, gave a guilty grimace. ‘Sorry babe, but it looks like this one’s down to you.’
‘Can’t you borrow some that fit you?’ Desperation was mounting in Bryony’s chest.
‘Maybe I could have done if we’d known about it earlier, but right now I can’t see anyone in cycling shoes with small feet.’ Cressy gave a hopeless shrug as she scanned the car park. ‘If I could I’d have grabbed them already.’
‘Can’t you change the pedals or something?’ Bryony’s voice rose to a squeak.
‘I doubt we’d get any others in time,’ Cressy glanced at her watch and sighed. ‘But even if we did I’m still in heels, and there’s no way that fits with Jackson’s major champion look.’
Damn and double damn.
This couldn’t be happening, could it? Bryony chomped her lip, determined not to scowl. Scarborough was so not her lucky place, but it wasn’t Cressy’s fault.
‘Talk about Cinderella in reverse.’ One last desperate ploy to wriggle out of the hot seat. ‘There’s no way I’ll fit into that Lycra, though.’
‘It’s not as if you’ve got a choice. At least Lycra’s stretchy.’ Cressy gave Bryony’s hand a pat; if it was meant to be comforting, then it failed. ‘It’ll squeeze you. Make the most of your assets for The Howler.’ Cressy shot her a wicked smirk as she shoved the kit towards her. ‘You know he’s called that because he’s so great in bed that he makes women…’
Bryony cut her off swiftly. ‘Yep, I did the reading too. Blowing In, Jackson Gale, The Official Biography.’
Trust Cressy to zero in on the bedroom side of things; although, something about this particular guy had her own brain hanging in exactly the same place. Great minds…
She made a mental note to stop that. And fast.
‘Aww, Bry, tell me you haven’t been reading biographies again?’ Cressy grimaced at her. ‘There’s no need to take it so seriously. Hot Stuff magazine has all the low-down and it’s so much more readable. And that Lycra certainly made the most of his assets.’
Cressy and her obsessions again.
Although she had a point.
In spades.
Not that she was about to admit to Cressy she’d noticed. No point getting the girl any more over-excited than she was already.
‘Probably just padding.’ Bryony added a derisive sniff to reinforce the deception.
‘That particular bit of him had nothing to do with padding, Bryony Marshall, and you know it.’ Cressy shook her head despairingly. ‘And lucky you for having that rear view for elevenses.’
Bryony shrugged, aiming to look completely disinterested. ‘Whatever.’
‘Don’t knock me out with your excitement. Glory, what I wouldn’t give to be in your saddle.’ Cressy’s teasing nudge hit her full in the ribs. ‘C’mon on then. Unless you want to strip off here like Mr Smart-ass, we’d better head to the Ladies. I’ll pour you into your finery.’
‘Fuchsia! And so tight! What the hell was Annie thinking?’ Bryony, emerging into the sun from the Ladies tripped on the step and landed in a heap on Cressy. ‘At least this dreadful stuffing round my bum will come in handy when I fall on my butt.’
‘Careful!’ Cressy grabbed Bryony’s arm hastily. ‘And in her defence, Annie probably chose the shorts to match the Charity top. They wouldn’t have been quite such a snug fit on her. And the padding is to stop you getting wedgies and saddle sores.’
Snug? That had to be the polite way of putting it. Indecent was more like it. And saddle sores were so not on her agenda. An already-bad day was turning into an indisputable nightmare and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. Bryony grimaced down at her boobs, morphed to melon-size, and her cleavage, squished skywards by the bursting zip.
‘Who’d have thought a stretchy top three sizes too small would zoom a girl to a double G? I look like I’m promoting Breast Enhancement, not Sport for Teens. And it’s not very warm either.’
Nipple alert!
Bryony squinted down, to examine her profile.
‘Don’t worry, it’s an erection-free zone – this far at least.’ Cressy shot her a grin. ‘And you look fab. So lucky we found that matching lippy. I can think of someone not a million miles away who’ll appreciate the look.’
‘Just the kind of support I need.’ Not. Cressy could wiggle her eyebrows all she wanted. That one wasn’t happening. Jackson Gale, with his smouldering, stomach-flipping brand of uninvited flirtation, had already made it onto her personal list of guys to be avoided at all costs. Bryony snorted, determined to distract her. ‘These shoes are crazy. I’ll never be able to walk in them.’
‘Sorry to state the obvious.’ Another rueful grin from Cressy. ‘But you’re not exactly going to be walking…’
Ahhh, shucks.
‘Don’t remind me.’ Another worry zapped into her brain. ‘You have told Jackson that it’s me on the back?’
Ominous silence. Cressy shuffled.
That would be a ‘No’ then.
‘It’s a great opportunity. You need to lighten up, Bry; we both know that. This could be your chance. Look at it as a gift.’
More animated eyebrows.
‘Cressy…’ Was there even any point in admonishing her?
‘At least it’ll be brilliant for that career path you’re so obsessed with. They’ll really owe you after this.’
Bryony dragged in a breath and clutched at her stomach. Somewhere along the line it had dematerialised. ‘This is such a bad idea.’
Why did she say always say ‘yes’ like some over-enthusiastic, cliff-fixated lemming? Why did her irrational need to prove herself override her sensible head every time? Why did she always need to show that she could pull off the impossible? Scared stiff of two wheels and she’d still let herself be railroaded into this. She’d barely ridden a bike since she was six and, even then, she’d been wobbly.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be over before you know it.’ Cressy, sensing her wavering, whisked into Producer-mode. ‘Let’s go and find Mr Delicious and get you on this bike.’
