band, energized by the dancing crowd, played two extra songs before ending their set for a break. Mel and her friends returned to their table out of breath.
“I can’t wait to tell Will you really can swing dance to punk music,” Mel said to herself.
Just then, a man Melody had never seen before set a beer down in front of her. “You looked like you could use a drink,” he said with a flirtatious smile.
Melody looked from the drink to the guy, then back at the drink.
“What’s the matter, don’t you drink?” he asked.
Mel picked up the glass and passed it back to him. “I don’t drink anything you bring me.”
The guy stood staring blankly for a moment before finally wandering off.
Samantha shook her head at her. “You never cease to amaze me. Everywhere we go, men fall all over themselves trying to impress you. You always shoot them down without batting an eyelash.”
Melody shrugged. “I didn’t ask him for the drink. He volunteered for bartending duty.”
“One of these days you’re going to run into a guy who’s not scared of you.”
Mel shook her head, folding her arms across her chest. “It’ll never happen,” she said, more confidently than she felt.
Deep down, she knew she may have already met that man.
Chapter 4
“Funny, but you don’t strike me as the wall-flower type.”
Will snapped out of his reverie to find himself the target of an unabashed feminine once-over. Standing only five foot five in her glittering three-inch pink pumps, his appraiser craned her neck to take in his full length.
Parkview’s club floor lounge was teeming with trendy singles that Friday night, but all Will could think about was the Knicks game he was missing. His new wide-screen TV had been delivered earlier that week. At that moment, he should have been watching the Knicks clobber the Bulls in high definition.
Abby, the planning-committee chair—hoppedup on a latte—had cornered him at the gym again this morning. She wouldn’t let him get back to the stair-climber until he’d agreed to attend the mixer.
“Wallflower.” The word tasted flat in his mouth. “Is that what I am?” he asked the beautiful young woman.
“You’ve been nursing that same drink since you got here, and you’re holding up this wall as though the roof were caving in. So, yes, you’re behaving like a wallflower.” She sipped from the flared lip of her Cosmopolitan glass. “Is that really how you planned to spend this evening?” she asked with a sidelong glance.
He’d planned to spend the evening with the Knicks, but it was too late for that now. In that instant, Will made up his mind to make the best of the situation. His brother had been right—he needed to start living the lifestyle he’d worked so hard to afford.
He followed his new friend to the bar where he discovered her name was Valencia. As he bought her Cosmopolitans, she regaled him with her escapades as an interior designer for several big-name celebrities. He listened, smiled, flirted mildly and even took her number when she offered it.
As Will rode the elevator down to his apartment, he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.
He tried to brush the feeling away as he entered his apartment. Valencia was just what he needed right when he needed it—a professional woman who shared his tastes and desires. She was beautiful and petite with smooth dark skin and a trendy haircut. Just his type.
So why did he feel so…disinterested?
Dropping Valencia’s card on the coffee table, Will grabbed his remote. There was still time to catch the end of the game. He stared blindly at the screen until his gaze drifted back to the phone number scrawled across the top of the card. On some strange level he felt as though he should have been with Melody.
But that was ridiculous. He hadn’t done anything wrong. They weren’t even dating. Yet, his mind finished silently.
Did taking her out for an extended dance lesson qualify as a date?
Will wasn’t sure, but it surprised him how much he was looking forward to finding out.
Melody threw down her pencil in frustration and pushed away from her art board. She was supposed to be finishing the panels that introduced the Ambassador story line. Instead she kept absently sketching the angles in Will Coleman’s face.
His face was handsome in all the conventional ways, but that wasn’t what stirred her artist’s fascination. It was the war going on behind his eyes.
He had the makings of a comic-book hero—boy-next-door good looks with a little something extra. The hint of a secret identity, maybe? With her pencil, she darkened his brow into a brooding look. The eyes always showed the strain of a double life.
Snatching the sketches of Will from her drawing board, she shoved them into a drawer. She was projecting qualities on to him that didn’t exist. Will wasn’t a superhero—no matter how perfect she made him out to be.
And she didn’t have time to waste inventing new comic-book characters. She’d gotten up early that morning to get some work done before her house became overrun with wedding paraphernalia. Stephanie had begged her to let them use her apartment to address wedding invitations.
Melody had just started to get a rough outline of the Ambassador’s first panel when she heard the doorbell ring.
Her heartbeat sped up as she crossed the room to get the door. “Bass,” she said, feeling both relief and disappointment. “What are you doing here? My sister will be here any minute with her bridesmaids.”
Bass leaned against the doorjamb, clutching his skateboard and a bag from CompuCity. “And good morning to you, too. I stopped by to check out the first draft of the Ambassador sketches. You said they’d be done this weekend.”
Embarrassed at her lack of progress, Melody continued to block the entrance. “Since when do you get out of bed before noon on a Saturday?”
“It was an emergency. My motherboard blew up right in the middle of a Web site redesign.” Bass looked over his shoulder to survey the empty hallway. “So what brings Bridezilla and her merry minions to your humble abode?”
“Stephanie’s apartment is being painted and my mother—the etiquette Nazi—claims the Rush name will be dead in New York if we don’t mail the invitations Monday. So you stand at the gateway to wedding hell.”
“What about one of the other bridesmaids? Don’t they have apartments?”
“I’m the maid of honor.” She hung her head in mock sorrow. “It’s my cross to bear.”
“Well, this won’t take long.” He tried to look past her into the loft. “Show me the sketches and I’ll be out of here before they arrive.”
“Actually…” She grabbed his arm, pulled him into
