A Wedding at the Blue Moon Cafe Page 9

  Yeah, what they needed. What about me?

  Stunned, he stared at the long strip of highway. Where the hell did that come from?

  “I have everything I need,” he said to no one. “More than enough.” A condo in the best part of the city, a great sports car, big-screen TVs in the bedroom, living room….

  Who ever visited him, though? Hardly anyone. He didn’t even like to bring dates there because rarely did any relationship advance past the “date” level. He tried to think of his last real girlfriend. Someone he cared about. A girl who listened to him, who showed less interest in his money than in his opinions.

  “Shit.” He rested his hands on his hips. He couldn’t even remember who his last real friend had been. Not a business associate or a client. Another guy who he could joke with, be himself around, who asked nothing of him beyond companionship.

  Then it struck him. “Jeff.” Years ago.

  In a daze, he shuffled to the car, climbed in, and drove back to Marfa. Leaving the car in the first available spot, he strode into the Blue Moon Café, straight toward the front counter where Clarissa was checking out two customers.

  Her waitressy smile faded when she saw him. “What’s wrong?”

  He leaned on the counter. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  Her glance went left and right. “Excuse me?”

  Embarrassed about customers overhearing? He could care less what they thought, but lowered his voice so he wouldn’t upset her. “You told me to go by myself to the Prada display because you knew I’d find more than an empty display there.”

  “You went?” Her face clouded. “I don’t get it. What else did you find?”

  “Come on. You know what I found. The truth about myself.”

  “Sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She closed the cash drawer and hurried into the kitchen. Amy and Harvey swung their heads toward them.

  “Hey.”

  Jaw clamped, Dylan nodded in greeting to them, hot on Clarissa’s cowboy-boot heels—which kept on going out the back door. He had to pull up short to avoid slamming into her when she abruptly turned.

  She held up her hands. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you have to leave me alone.”

  “I can’t. And you don’t want me to, not really.”

  Glaring, she shook her head. “Don’t give me that.”

  “Why did you kick me out last night? Because you didn’t feel anything when I kissed you? Or because you felt too much?”

  “Get this straight, Dylan. I don’t play games.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She huffed a laugh. “You’re all about the game. You don’t have a clue about what’s real.”

  “You can show me.” The only person who ever saw through him, who knew him better than he knew himself.

  Damn, why did he keep screwing up with her? He reached for her. “Clarissa.”

  Her brow arched. “No.” She whirled away, and cried out. A cry of physical pain.

  Her ankle. He caught her when she lost her balance, then drew her against him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sorry.” He kissed her neck, then couldn’t stop. He trailed kisses down her neck to her shoulder but stopped short of the feather. And the word inside it. Brat?

  “Don’t.” The shiver in her whisper slammed into him as she jerked away.

  “Okay.” He released her. “Sorry again. I can’t help myself around you.”

  She trembled as if caught in a blizzard. “That’s no excuse.”

  “For you to rip into me?”

  She dropped her head. “I’m sorry. I….”

  “Can’t help yourself either?” At least she looked as confused as he felt. “Man, I wish we could start over.”

  Sadness showed in her eyes. “Impossible.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Nothing worthwhile was impossible. He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Dylan Wall.”

  Staring, she shook her head.

  Don’t give up. “This is where you shake my hand….” He grasped hers and gently shook. “And we say how nice it is to meet.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dylan.” She said it with zero feeling.

  Yeah, so one last game, hopefully to clear the air. He could muster better from her. “You must be Clarissa. Jeff’s told me…almost nothing about you, actually. Maybe we could go out for a drink tonight, and you could fill me in on all the pertinent details.”

  The blue of her eyes became frosty. “The pertinent details usually scare the shit out of most guys.”

  A challenge? One he’d gladly accept. “I’ll take my chances. What time do you get off work?”

  She hugged herself. “I have a date tonight.”

  He ground his jaw. “Cancel it.” Please.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Damn, she actually seemed to mean it.

  “Maybe after tomorrow night’s rehearsal dinner, then?”

  Her furtive glance signaled the opposite of her “Maybe. I have to get back to work.”

  Yeah, and he had to go…somewhere he wouldn’t cause anyone embarrassment. Especially himself. “I’m going to wander around town a bit. Staying away from Prada.” Some joke.

  Half nodding, half ducking her head, she slipped past him and went inside.

  Have fun, Dylan. See you later, Dylan. Leave me the fuck alone, Frat Boy. The phrases played through his head in Clarissa’s voice. The most plausible? The last one.

  But already, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow night’s wedding rehearsal dinner.

  She couldn’t run away from him there.

  ***

  The day’s heat seeped away with the sunset. In the courtyard of Hotel Paisano, Clarissa hoped she didn’t appear too out of place. Despite the new sundress, formal events put her ill at ease. The steady trickle of the three-tiered waterfall into the pool at the center of the courtyard had a calming effect.

  The wedding rehearsal at the café had gone off without a hitch. She and Harvey had cleared the tables after closing early. Amy and Jeff held hands as the minister pretended to marry them. Dylan mimed handing over the rings. After a day of wondering where he was, what he was doing, Clarissa tried to ignore him.

  No J. D. all day, either. I’m bad for business. And too much down time left too many hours to think. To remember.

  Dylan. Her thoughts kept returning to him. Now he sat across the circular table, his presence all too palpable.

  Clarissa sipped water, condensation dripping onto her dress. Brushing the drops away, she realized someone said her name.

  Jeff. “Clarissa grew up in a college town—Princeton. She almost went to Columbia University.”

  An excuse for Dylan to turn his focus on her. Full blast. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I came here instead.” She kept her pleasant expression but hoped her low tone would convey her complete unwillingness to discuss it further.

  For once, he took the hint and didn’t press it. But why did he keep staring at her? Glancing over every few seconds? Checking to see she was still there? Looking for reassurance? Look somewhere else.

  When she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, he followed her inside.

  “Hey, Clarissa, wait a minute.”

  “I’m only going to the restroom.” If I can only find it.

  “Can we talk? Please?”

  “Maybe it could wait.” Forever. If he thought her “almost” Columbia U. status something they could bond over, he had another think coming.

  She made the mistake of stopping in front of the large television monitor where the classic flick Giant played all day, every day. James Dean was lavishing a hound dog smile on Elizabeth Taylor and drawled, “You sure do look pretty, Miss Leslie. Pert nigh good enough to eat.”

  So does Dylan. He smelled wonderful, too.

  He had the same hound dog smile as James Dean. “Promise you’ll dance with me.”

 
“What, now? This tile floor’s too slippery.”

  “I’ll hold you.”

  So tempting. His strong arms around her, swaying to their own rhythm. “There’s no music.”

  “So disappointing. You’re a slave to convention? We can dance here in the lobby if we want. Come on, for Jeff and Amy’s sake.”

  Kind of a crazy logic, but it made sense. She glanced outside at the table where Jeff and Amy sat so close their shoulders must have touched, and let out a breath. Not so crazy. They depended on her to be there for them. When she smiled sweetly up at Dylan, his smile widened. “One dance, Frat Boy. For their sakes. But not till the wedding.”

  He winced. “You’re cruel.”

  Finally, she saw the restroom door. Before she breezed through it, she smiled over her shoulder. “I’ve been called worse.” And as the song went, better to be cruel to be kind.

  The next line of lyrics echoed through her head, It’s a very good sign.

  What? No. No no no. She spared his feelings in the long run. Nothing more.

  In the few minutes it took her to return, Bethany and Brooke had Dylan cornered. Safe. She plucked a champagne flute from a passing server’s tray and meandered around the courtyard, grateful for the stone pavers, much less slippery than the tile lobby.

  Amy caught her in passing and reeled her into the circle with the Smileys and Conrads. “You remember Clarissa, my maid of honor?”

  She smiled and exchanged the usual pleasantries, mind-numbing until Mrs. Smiley cautioned, “You watch out for that Dylan.”

  Clarissa’s neck hairs stood on end. “Pardon?”

  Mr. Smiley winked. “He’s a prankster.”

  The sensation faded. A little. “What kind of pranks?”

  Mrs. Smiley hooted. “Do you remember the Thanksgiving before graduation, Jeff? Dylan put a few of those bullet hole decals on the Davidson kid’s Camaro? He spent every weekend polishing that thing. The boy nearly fainted when he saw it until Dylan peeled one off and assured him no one shot his precious car. Amazing how realistic they looked, though.”

  Her husband agreed. “Or the time he replanted a few of Old Fussbucket’s perennials?” Mr. Smiley wheezed a laugh. “I thought she’d have a cow.”

  Mrs. Smiley laid a hand on Clarissa’s wrist. “She admitted later the arrangement improved her landscaping.”

  Jeff raised his glass and said before sipping, “Classic Dylan.”

  “Huh.” Mind-boggling. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Can’t imagine what?” Dylan appeared beside her.

  “You.” Jeff said. “A prankster.”

  Dylan gave a nervous laugh. “We all do crazy things when we’re young.”

  “Yes.” She and Brad had committed their share of pranks. Before the diagnosis. Later she couldn’t stop wondering if somehow she’d brought all their bad luck down on them.

  “You, too?” Dylan asked.

  “What?” How had he read her? Whatever expression she’d made, she did her best to hide it. Too late.

  “Were you a practical jokester? I bet you were. You had a mischievous side, didn’t you?”

  Not something she wanted to share. “No. I had a reputation for beating up the pranksters.” She smiled sweetly.

  A sigh meant he understood her warning. “Good thing I grew out of it, then.”

  Or too bad. It would’ve been a better excuse for the way he behaved the night they met.

  He grew serious. “Guess you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I was pulling a fast one that first night?”

  What? Her neck hairs stood at high alert. Unbelievable.

  He eased away. “Guess not.”

  Too weird. Clarissa couldn’t shake the feeling. We’re on the same wavelength? No way. She didn’t realize she was shaking her head until his voice drew her out of her mental haze.

  “Forget I mentioned it,” he muttered before gulping his beer.

  “Good idea.” She wandered toward Jeff and Amy. “Thanks for a lovely evening. I’m calling it a night.”

  Amy hugged her. “Talk to you tomorrow, sweetie.”

  Dylan stepped beside her. “I’m headed out, too. I’ll drive you.”

  What a coincidence. She dangled her keys. “No need. Good night.” It would have been an easy walk from her little house to Hotel Paisano, but she had to avoid any undue chivalry from Dylan. One brief car ride with him and he’d have walked her to her door. A short stroll from the door to the loft and no doubt they’d end up there.

  Tonight, she needed to clear her head. Something she couldn’t seem to do around Dylan.

  Chapter Six

  After two cups of coffee, Clarissa frowned into her fridge. No milk. No eggs. No juice. One Greek yogurt, not enough to see her through the day. A trip to the market would remedy her needs, but somewhere in Marfa, Dylan wandered the streets. At a gallery, maybe? The Marfa Book Co. to catch up on news of the world? If she went anywhere, she’d run into him.

  The funny feeling persisted, but was it worth starving to avoid Dylan? Hm, a toss-up. Somehow, she lost her appetite around him, her belly filling with flutters instead. Which made zero sense. She wasn’t attracted to him. Sure, he was handsome. A killer smile. Teeth model-white and even. A freaking Ken doll come to life.

  But I’m no Barbie.

  At the ring of the wall phone, she swung over to reach for it. In the instant before lifting the receiver, the caller ID made her stop. A 609 area code. Home.

  She fumbled the phone back onto its cradle and jerked away. Why would anyone from home call? Neither of her parents had bothered for years.

  The phone rang again. Must be Mom. Her father wouldn’t persist in hounding her.

  No freaking way was her mother going to ruin her mood, not with the wedding tomorrow. Clarissa grabbed her messenger bag and left the safety of her little house. No sooner had she approached the FarmStand Marfa pavilion than she spotted Dylan watching four guys acting out scripts they held. Other groups of actors practiced their plays outside the pavilion to prepare for the festival that night. She veered in another direction but glanced back to see him closing the distance between them.

  He jogged up and fell into step with her. “Hey.”

  She gripped the strap of her bag tighter. “Hey. Are you following me again?”

  “I always end up doing that, don’t I? I’m not usually a stalker type. I only want a chance to talk to you.”

  She had no sarcastic response to his sincerity. Her defenses crumbled. “What’s so important?” God, he looked like a lost little boy. A teenager about to ask a girl on a first date. Oh no. And she’d say yes. Mistake of the century.

  “You keep avoiding me. I want you to understand I’m not the frat-boy bastard you met that first night. Or thought you met. Because I’m not him.”

  “Then exactly who are you, Dylan Wall? Because I have no idea.” He reminded her of herself when she’d first come to Marfa. Uncertain of her place in the world. It made no sense for Dylan, a successful business guy, to have such insecurities. Or was he so used to spinning images that he’d made himself into a chameleon who blended into every crowd?

  His smile bordered on desperate. “I’m a regular guy, that’s all.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “What do you want, a laundry list of my personal traits? Quirks? I work hard. I like movies. I like art. I like to sleep in late on weekends.”

  “Wow, you’ve just described about ninety-five percent of the population.”

  He choked on whatever argument he’d mustered.

  Disappointment flustered her. “I don’t think you know who you are. You bury your passion in your work and leave none for any other part of your life. What do you do for sheer pleasure? Anything beyond trolling bars for cute girls?”

  His entire body tightened, his eyes shone brighter. “You’re right. I do bury myself in my work. You’re no better. You hide behind all your tattoos.”

  Whoa, time for a reality check. “My ink is an outer exp
ression of my soul. If you had one, you’d understand.”

  “No, I have no plans to disfigure myself that way.”

  She groaned. “You missed the point, as usual.”

  He relaxed. “Then what was your point?”

  “You’re soulless.” She headed for the fruit section.

  He strode beside her. “You have no idea what I am.”

  Why is he still on my ass? And why so desperate? She picked up her pace.

  “You use art as an excuse not to grow the hell up.”

  She ground to a halt. “What would you possibly know about art? Do you even recognize beauty when you see it?”

  “Of course. Sometimes. Well, occasionally.”

  “Name the last thing so achingly beautiful that it stopped you in your tracks so you could stand there and let the sight wash over you.”

  His stare turned moony-eyed. “This moment. Now.”

  She blinked hard. Is he serious? “Very funny.” Not only her neck hairs stood on end. Her whole body seemed to have caught some electrical vibe, enough to jolt her into walking again. So long as her bones didn’t melt, she’d be fine.

  He kept pace with her. “It isn’t a joke.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Not a mature response, Clarissa.”

  Agreeing with him would only extend this conversation. She needed him to go away so she could think. “I think you try to piss me off on purpose.”

  “Yeah, maybe sometimes I do. You’re even more adorable with your eyes so bright, your cheeks flushed.”

  He admits it? Her brain flailed when she dredged its depths for a response. Nada. Zip. Zero. “Leave me alone.”

  He opened his arms. “I can’t.”

  Can’t. Sure, repeating her argument. Except she didn’t buy it. “Yes, you can.” And he would, in a few days. Was that what stopped her? She didn’t want to get involved because he’d soon go home?

  “Okay then, I don’t want to. There’s something between us, Clarissa. Tell me you don’t feel it.”

  “Oh, there’s something all right. Something that makes me want to….” Hit him. Sock him hard like the first night they’d met. Her brother used to joke about her physical reaction to boys she liked in grade school; the more she hit them, the better she liked them. When her cheeks got hot, she ducked her head.