A Wedding at the Blue Moon Cafe Read online

  “Ouch. You really know how to hurt a guy.” He might have said it to make a joke but didn’t find it funny. Probably shouldn’t have made a crack about stripping, not after his stupid mistake.

  She slipped past him. “I better get back inside.”

  An argument caught in his throat, and he held it there until she went in. Then he blocked any anger that threatened to rise up. Enough pushing for tonight. He’d only alienate her further. He circled around to the front and in through the main entrance, avoiding eye contact but aware of her. Keenly aware. By the time he said good night, she appeared as much on edge as him.

  Driving to El Cosmico, he couldn’t stop wondering. Requirements. Yeah, he bet he could figure out what she required. Someone who saw past her tough exterior. Past the tattoos, or maybe not; maybe they were the key, whatever pain had driven her to mark herself with them.

  He wanted to unlock her secrets.

  Chapter Five

  Dinner at six thirty, Amy had said, but come anytime. Clarissa tried on three outfits before settling on a white sleeveless blouse embroidered with blue star-like flowers, a blue skirt that skimmed her knee, and her favorite necklace, a mother-of-pearl star on a black cord. Respectable-looking enough to dine with the parents of her favorite people. Her own parents might have even approved.

  The bottle of wine clamped inside the basket on the handlebars, she cursed the heat as she cycled to the outskirts of Marfa. Not a great distance by any measurement, but enough to leave a sheen of sweat on her chest and forehead. Enough to hear the remembered voice, as she reached for the knocker on Amy and Jeff’s front door, of her mother chiding her, You ruined it. You always ruin it on purpose, don’t you?

  Did she? She had ridden her bike instead of doing the sensible thing—driving here. Then why was she glad Dylan hadn’t yet arrived, giving her the chance to freshen up before he saw her? After knocking, she swiped away the sweat beads and met Jeff’s greeting with a smile.

  He bent to accept her kiss on his cheek. “You rode your bike? I could have picked you up.”

  “I needed the exercise. And to stop for this.” She handed him the wine.

  “Amy’s favorite. You’re too good to us.” He carried it to the kitchen where Amy chopped vegetables and her sister, college friends, and Jeff’s sister sat on the other side of the counter, talking and laughing. Brooke’s smile cooled when Clarissa approached and said a blanket hello.

  Amy’s easy hug and gracious manner always put her at ease. “You shouldn’t have. Except you know I love it. Thanks.”

  “I figured I wasn’t the only one you invited to come early.” She couldn’t come empty-handed. And an extra bottle of wine never hurt with so much estrogen in one room. “Here, let me finish for you.” She washed her hands at the sink.

  “Don’t be silly, you’re a guest.”

  Clarissa toweled off and shooed Amy away. “And you’re the host. Go mingle and do hostess things.” So she wouldn’t have to think up small talk.

  “My first hostess act will be to get you a drink. Wine? Lemonade? Raspberry iced tea?”

  “Lemonade for now, thanks.” She set to work slicing the vegetables in even strokes, taking her time arranging them on the platter. The knife slipped when Amy let Dylan in. One glance from him sent her nerves skittering, her mind separated from her movements, concentrating on him alone. She hadn’t felt the cut, not until Amy said, “Sweetie, you’re bleeding,” and eased the knife from her grip.

  “Sorry. I’m….” Losing it. “Sorry.”

  Amy wrapped a paper towel around Clarissa’s fingers and led her to the bathroom. “Let’s find a bandage.”

  How embarrassing. “Don’t bother.”

  “It’ll take one second.” Amy dabbed disinfectant on the wound. “You look tired.”

  “I had trouble sleeping last night.”

  Amy opened the bandage package. “Did you go out afterward?”

  “No.” Clarissa had thought about it. Restless, she’d considered hitting Padre’s for a while, but was in no mood for conversation. If some cute cowboy had hit on her, she’d have taken him up on it. And regretted it. Solitude. That was all she’d needed last night.

  Amy dabbed a cotton swab on Clarissa’s hand. “You’ve been doing too much.”

  “I’m fine, really. I got carried away painting last night. Past two o’clock. Silly, huh?” She shook her head. “I actually slept in this morning. Past ten.” How long had it been since Clarissa had slept so late?

  Bandage secured, Amy washed her hands. “Tonight, I insist you relax.”

  “I’m here to help you, not the other way around. This is your wedding, your special day.”

  Amy swiveled Clarissa around and into the hallway. “And we’re all going to have fun. That’s an order.”

  One Dylan appeared to be taking seriously. He and Jeff laughed so hard, tears filled their eyes. To Clarissa’s horror, Amy steered her directly toward them.

  “Well, no karaoke tonight.” Dylan spoke pointedly to Jeff.

  Karaoke? Clarissa might have believed it of Jeff. Never Dylan.

  Jeff groaned. “Oh come on. We made a better team than Springsteen and Vedder.”

  “Maybe Jimmy Fallon and Andy Samburg.” Dylan laughed. “No, it’s been way too long. And I have no intention of becoming that drunk.”

  “When you crooned love ballads, girls paid attention.”

  Dylan shook his head. “Nope, not happening.”

  “It’s how you got Meg to fall in love with you,” Jeff teased.

  Meg? So Dylan had been in love? “What was she like?”

  “Smart, funny, creative,” Jeff said. “A lot like you.”

  Turning away, Dylan muttered, “Unavailable.”

  “Only after she accepted the job as travel photographer,” Jeff said. “They were the ‘it’ couple before then.”

  “Poor Dylan!” Amy cooed. “Did she break your heart?”

  His laugh sounded as false as his cheer. “Pain builds character, right?”

  “It’s always hard when we lose people we love.” Clarissa surprised herself by voicing her thoughts.

  Sobering, he faced her. “Exactly.”

  Fuck. Why had she spoken? Why draw his attention? Now she couldn’t break from it. Couldn’t reconcile the Frat Boy asshole she’d met that first night with the Dylan Jeff was still going on about—who gave all he had to the work he loved, but played hard, too, a guy who put his creativity to use for both.

  The conundrum had kept her awake last night. Not even the stars had provided solace. After she woke up, she puttered around the cottage. Cleaned a little. Showered. Painted awhile. The same thoughts that robbed her of sleep stayed with her.

  Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Did he pursue her only to prove to himself he could win her? Yeah, then he’d leave in five days.

  So what? It’s your usual style, isn’t it?

  Not with frat boys. Stop thinking about him then.

  Such nice thoughts, she had to admit. Everything he said inspired another one. Strip-mining? You’d love to strip him. Find out exactly how buff he kept his body. Did a six-pack of abs mean he was self-absorbed? Or that he took care of himself?

  Her problem with Dylan. In a nutshell. Too smooth, too practiced in everything. You’re nothing special to him.

  Or anyone. The way she liked it.

  Used to like it. Not anymore.

  She’d given up painting when the brush slipped, smearing gold into turquoise. She needed to get out of her head, not deeper in. Unfortunately, coming here put her in the same predicament. Closer to Dylan, but the real Dylan?

  ***

  Discussions and conversations wound down to instructions and reminders—rehearsal dinner on Thursday, wedding on Saturday. Dylan waited for Clarissa to say good night to Jeff and Amy, then followed suit.

  He caught up to her outside. “Did you walk here? It’s a little chillier now.”

  “No, I rode my bike.” She pulled it from the side of
the house.

  No light, no reflectors. Drivers would never see her. “I’ll give you a lift. Please?”

  “You’re not responsible for my well-being.”

  “I’d sleep better knowing you got home safe.”

  A smile slowly spread across her face, like a flower unfurling. “We can’t have you sleep deprived. All right.”

  How could such a small thing feel like such a huge triumph? He loaded her bicycle into the backseat.

  “Where do you live?”

  She stared at the road ahead. “Drop me by the café. I’m not ready to go home yet.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She absently fingered her hair. “Out, maybe.”

  To pick up some stranger? His gut twisted. “Hey, want to go see if the Mystery Lights are on tonight?”

  “They don’t operate on a switch.”

  He ignored her know-it-all tone. “I know. But they weren’t there the other night.”

  She nodded. “Because it was misty, like tonight.”

  Okay, strike one. “How about Prada?”

  She winced. “You want to see Prada? Really?”

  “Yeah, why not? I appreciate art.”

  “Right.” It came out on a chuckle.

  Did she think him so crass? “I have several pieces in my condo. Reproductions, of course, but—”

  “Paintings? Photography?”

  “Both. I have a framed poster of Steichen’s Flatiron Building.”

  “Oh.” The word stretched into a few beats on a laugh. “In your bedroom, I bet.”

  “How…yes, why?” How had she guessed?

  She shot him a “duh” look. “Because it’s totally phallic. Okay, what else?”

  Shit, she was right. The Flatiron Building in shadow could easily have been a giant penis in full erection. A Penis-zilla roaming Gothic City in search of victims. Less confident, he went on. “A few small paintings from a local arts festival.”

  “You go to arts festivals?”

  Why did she make it sound like an accusation? “Yes.”

  She eyed him. “On your own initiative? Or does your girlfriend drag you there?”

  “I have gone with girlfriends on occasion, but also on my own.”

  “Wait, I bet I know why. Because you went with your girlfriend first and saw a cute artist chick, so you snuck back later on your own.”

  Shit. “I did not sneak.”

  She laughed. “Aha.”

  Nailed him again. “Don’t be condescending.”

  “Me?” Her teasing smile returned.

  “So, Prada—yes or no?”

  “No.”

  So decisive. “Why not?”

  “It’s one of those things you’re better off seeing on your own.”

  “You think I’d react like a Neanderthal.”

  “Basically. Plus, it’s like thirty-five miles out. I’ve seen it plenty of times. You’ll want to study it awhile.”

  Interesting. “Why’s that?”

  “Trust me. You will.”

  No need for her to smirk with that deadpan expression. “Okay, I get it. I’ll take you to the café.”

  “Thank you.” After an awkward silence. “So how’s the yurt?” She hardly disguised the amusement in her tone.

  “Fine. Good, actually. I like it.”

  “Really?” The disbelief in her face matched her tone.

  Why was surprising her so much fun? “I had my reservations, I admit.”

  “You’re okay with the common bathroom facilities?”

  “At night. So I can shower under the stars.” He waited for some smart-ass remark.

  She rested her head back against the seat. “That sounds nice.”

  “Better than nice. It’s fantastic.” So was the thought of her in the stall with him, him soaping her wet body…. “You should see it.”

  They’d arrived, the usual bad timing. His little fantasy left him with a hard-on.

  He parked near the café, got out, and lifted her bike to the curb. “Where are you headed?”

  “Don’t tell me, you’re suddenly thirsty.”

  He brightened. “I am, in fact.”

  She walked the bike behind the café and came back. “How does Padre’s sound?”

  An invitation? He had no clue what Padre’s was. “Perfect.”

  Her sly grin made him nervous, but he walked with her the few blocks to what looked like an old feed store, except for the neon signs in the windows and the loud music shaking the ground.

  She didn’t wait for him to open the door for her and waved to the bartender when they entered. A four-man band played a cross between rock, country, and blues, the volume making conversation difficult. She crooked a finger over her shoulder and led him to the end of the bar. Only one stool, but he didn’t mind standing beside her.

  They ordered two beers and he scanned the place. Holy cow, everything from Pac Man to air hockey. Cool old jukebox, too. Off to the side near where the band played, J. D. and Vonnie were cozying around a table for two.

  Dylan nodded in their direction. “Who’s J. D.’s new friend?”

  She leaned into him. “Vonnie Seacrest, the latest theater director.”

  He didn’t mind the loud music so much. “You make it sound like a rotating position.”

  “Is that a double entendre? Because I’m sure it would give J. D. a few ideas.”

  “I hadn’t meant it that way, but, ugh, don’t put that image in my head.” The last thing he needed. New York City had its naked cowboy; Marfa didn’t need one. At least, not while Dylan visited.

  “It’s getting late. I’m heading home.” She drained the last of the beer from the bottle, set it on the bar, and sauntered through the dancing couples toward the door.

  Jesus. “Hang on.” He shelled out a few bills and jogged to catch up.

  He walked with her, surprised to find themselves behind the café again on the path to the cottage. “This is you? Right behind the café?”

  “Makes for an easy commute.” She leaned the bicycle against the trellis and turned the knob.

  “You don’t lock it?” He closed the door behind him. Cute place, but tiny. A microefficiency. Suitable for one and only one.

  She glided into the kitchen area. “Never.”

  “But someone might break in.”

  She took out two beers and handed him one. “If anyone wanted to bad enough, they’d find a way. There’s nothing inside anyone would want.”

  “You’re inside.” He unscrewed the top.

  She sat on the loveseat. “Why do you care?”

  “Because I do.” He bent over, braced his arms against the back and sides of the sofa, and eased in to kiss her. Her mouth moving against his made him want more of her, and he sunk to the seat. Barely enough room to fit. She broke away and swung upward, and he reached for her and started to rise.

  She pushed his shoulders down and straddled him, slow and confident, then dragged herself down to his lap. Holy shit, if he could melt and turn to steel at the same time, he’d just done it. He crushed her against him to reach her lips, those pink-petal lips he’d been dying to taste. Cherries and vanilla. Soft and sweet as he’d imagined. Her breasts pressed high on his chest, her waist so small, she seemed fragile when he held her so tight. Until she began to writhe against him, her breath warm in his mouth when she moaned. Her fingers in his hair, her tongue probing his drove him wild. Skirt tight across her ass. He pushed it higher, willing her to unzip his jeans and ride him till sunrise.

  She broke off the kiss and backpedaled to a stand, holding her head. “I can’t. This is crazy.”

  “The only crazy thing about it is how insanely good it is.” When she shook her head, he shot to his feet. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it.”

  She seemed unable to catch her breath. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” He stepped toward her. Needed to feel her against him again.

  Her hand pressed against his ribs, holding him at bay. “Ple
ase go.”

  “Clarissa. Can we talk awhile?” He loved hearing her scratchy-sexy voice. Loved her smile and wanted her to shine it on him again.

  “No. I know where it would go. And I can’t.”

  Can’t. A word he couldn’t argue with. It hinted at a deeper meaning, something darker she didn’t want him to see. Yet, anyway.

  He shook off the haze of need and stepped backward toward the door, eyes locked on her until she turned away, shoulders hunched as she hugged herself. She looked so small, he wished he could hold her all night. Tell her life wasn’t so bad. Everything would turn out all right.

  Instead, he did as she asked, and left her alone, a butterfly trapped in her own cocoon.

  ***

  On the drive out to the Prada display the next morning, Dylan realized Clarissa was right. Thirty-five miles made for a long drive in the desert, especially alone. Why waste his time? Except that in Marfa, he had time out the wazoo to waste. He slowed when the building came into view, then pulled over.

  Kind of a meaningless bit, wasn’t it? Reality art. A realistic store, complete with perfectly aligned shoes on a shelf. No evidence of humans, and the artist had enough sense not to pose mannequins inside.

  He got out and stood at a distance, staring. I don’t get it. Why did people think it so great? And why the hell did he find it so irritating?

  He strolled around the building, but not much to see except for out front. He returned to its large window, and glanced down. Business cards of past visitors, weighted by stones, lined the low ledge that ran along the outside of the building. He reached for his wallet, following his natural instinct to promote his PR firm wherever possible, but once he had his own card in his hand, he couldn’t bring himself to leave it with the others.

  Is that why Clarissa wanted him to come alone? Am I supposed to have some fucking epiphany about being part of it, this meaningless emptiness? Is this supposed to reinforce the idea that my success is only an illusion?

  Sudden anger roiled up, surprising him. He shoved the card back into his wallet. Goddamn her anyway. He worked hard every freaking day. Long hours, catering to clients, doing everything possible to ensure they got what they needed.