a hitch. Still, seated at the elegantly appointed table while servers poured wine from vintage labels and placed dishes of filet en croûte before the laughing guests, Gemma couldn’t help but feel twinges of grief.
She frowned, idly plucking chia seeds off her house-made soft breadstick. Her own wedding, had it not been called off, would have been last month. A full year and a half before the date, she’d already chosen her gown (winsome chiffon skirt, no train), her location (on the beach in Manzanita) and the food (casual-but-authentic Mexican—crab-and-tomatillo quesadillas, street tacos, carnitas...yum). She and William would have had only one attendant each, and her four-year-old nephew could have worn a pair of swim trunks and his favorite Ninja Turtle floatie instead of the toddler tux he kept trying to struggle out of tonight.
“Whoa, what did that breadstick ever do to you?”
Ethan’s bemused voice jerked Gemma’s attention to the crumbles of bread over the table. “Dang.” She wiped bread crumbs off the white linen and into her palm, depositing the mess on her bread plate as a waiter placed her dinner in front of her. “Thank you.” She smiled at the server, then looked glumly at her meal. Pastry-covered filet mignon, wild mushrooms and Yukon gold potatoes in a dill-and-Gruyère cream sauce and an individual spinach soufflé—there had to be three thousand calories on that plate.
While everyone around her tucked in, Gemma mentally calculated the odds of living long enough to hook a man and become a mother if her heart was pumping dill sauce through her veins.
“Something wrong?” Ethan spoke close to her ear.
She glanced at him. Men, she thought, but didn’t say out loud. Men are the problem. In a dove-gray tuxedo that perfectly complemented his golden hair and tanned skin, Ethan had already drawn more attention than the bride. Betcha he could go home with any number of women tonight. Some of the willing ones were probably married. Love was too difficult for some and too easy for others.
“This food is a little rich,” she said.
“Aw, no. Don’t tell me you’re one of those.” He wagged his head tragically.
“One of what?”
“Bird women. The ones who barely taste their food and don’t take it to go, because they don’t have a dog, and there’s no way they’re going to eat anything more interesting than a celery stick, anyway.”
Gemma gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right? Do I look as if all I eat is celery?”
Apparently, he took her words as an invitation to let his gaze roam leisurely over the parts of her he could see while she was seated. He even leaned back a smidgen, as if he was trying to get a look at her bottom. When she glared at him, he grinned.
“You look good.” He nodded to her dinner. “Eat up.”
“I’ve seen your girlfriends,” she said. “Three of them standing together wouldn’t fill out a pair of size-eight jeans.”
“You keep track of the women I date?”
“Of course not.” She managed to sound highly offended. “My mother buys gossip magazines when you’re in them.”
He grinned. “I know. She has me autograph them when I’m in town. Between you and me, I think she’s selling them on eBay.” He nodded, sliced off more meat, chewed, then tried the cheesy potatoes. Gemma’s stomach growled. She picked up her fork and was about to give in to temptation when he observed, “So you read about me when you come home on weekends, then. I’m flattered.”
Abruptly, she retracted her fork. “That is not what I mean. My mother likes to discuss topics of interest to her. She shows me the magazine articles. I don’t seek them out.” Ooh, liar, liar, pants on fire. Raising her chin, she amended, “I have never bought a rag mag.”
That was true, actually. If she saw Ethan on the cover of a magazine, she would read it while standing in line at the market. No money ever transferred hands.
“From what I’ve seen,” she told him, “you prefer to date women whose physical attributes directly correlate to the norm in print and other media. A norm that is dangerously out of touch with a standard attainable for the average healthy American woman.”
He reached for another breadstick—his third—and lathered it with the sweet Irish butter Elyse had requested. “Could you say that again? In English this time, Professor.”
“You date skeletons!” She wanted his breadstick so badly she nearly grabbed it out of his hand. For the past two months, Elyse had begged her to diet. Her best efforts had led to a loss of four measly pounds, which would be back again before breakfast tomorrow. She needed food. She wanted food.
The breadstick, gorgeously buttered, hovered between them. She pointed. “Are you going to eat that?”
Flashing his most gorgeous smile, he held it out. “I’m happy to share. And happy you’re going to eat. I like you the way you are.”
Unexpectedly her heart filled the hole in her stomach. He liked her. The way she was.
Don’t get carried away. He offered you a breadstick, not a diamond ring. Who could blame her, though, if after a lifetime of being the “smart” sister, it felt good to have a man like Ethan pay her a compliment?
Accepting the breadstick, she took a ladylike bite. Mmm, yummy.
“Why didn’t you get married, Gemma?”
Coughing as the breadstick paused in her windpipe, she took a slug of wine. “What do you mean?” she asked when she could talk again.
Ethan’s blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Elyse and Scott came to Seattle for a home game and mentioned you were engaged. Had the rock and everything.”
Swell. She poked at the beef en croûte. “I wonder how they cook this steak without burning the pastry?” she mused aloud to change the subject.
“Too personal?” The deep dimple in his left cheek appeared. “Even for old friends like us?”
Gemma held her hands up in surrender. “Okay. Yes, I was engaged. We were supposed to have gotten married last month, but we called it off. End of story.” Sort of.
“Your wedding was supposed to have been last month?” He whistled beneath his breath.
“It’s fine. We ended it a long time ago.” Shrugging blithely, she sawed at the beef.
“How long?”
“Almost a year.”
He considered that. “How are you doing tonight?”
It wasn’t the question that made Gemma set her knife and fork to the side of her plate, but rather his tone. How was she doing? He’d asked it so plainly, no hesitation, no lurking reluctance to hear the answer. Most of her family, except for her mother, tiptoed around the topic as if it were a land mine. “I’m all right,” she answered quietly. “But sometimes I wish—”
“Ethan Ladd, you’d better save me a dance tonight.” A hand glittering with rings clamped Ethan’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I almost forgot what you looked like.” Throaty laughter
