Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Her bottom lip quivered ominously, contorting her pretty features into something rather frightening. When she sucked in a dramatic gulp of air, I braced myself for an explosion. She whimpered instead and pulled a tissue from a large bag riddled with LV symbols.
“No, it’s something you’d be doing for me. If you care about me,” she blubbered.
I shot an alarmed glance at Mom, pushing my glasses along my nose. “Oh, geez, Tabby. Of course, I do.”
“My name is Tabitha,” she cried…as in real tears.
Mom sighed wearily. “All right. That’s enough. Leave Tommy alone. You’ve stated your request…Tabitha.”
“Actually, there’s more.” She sniffled and blew her nose, closing her eyes dramatically before continuing, “The Remingtons want to host a couples wedding shower in late May at their Santa Barbara estate as a sort of…pre-wedding thing. We’re invited to stay at the house, but they’ve offered to put guests up at a nearby resort for a night too.”
“Have fun,” I commented.
“You have to attend! And you have to fix…you.” Tabby waved her hands in an “all of this” gesture, adding, “Fix the clothes, the glasses, the hair, and try not to talk about science so much. It could be a problem.”
“Tabitha!”
“Perhaps the solution to your problem is to proceed without me,” I suggested coolly, glowering at my sister. “Tell them I’m busy.”
“I tried that already,” she huffed. “They’re willing to move the date to accommodate our family. Your presence is mandatory. And since it’s a couples event, you have to bring a date…or a friend. Just not someone weird like Holden.”
I glared. “What’s wrong with Holden?”
Tabby hiked her bag over her shoulder “He’s next-level quirky. I can’t explain someone who dresses like a Shakespearean dork circa 1492 to the Remingtons.”
I smacked my hand on the table, scowling on my best friend’s behalf. “Shakespeare wasn’t even born until 1564.”
“Need I say more?” she snarked. “No one cares when Shakespeare was born, Tommy. And those are precisely the conversations we do not want to engage in over foie gras and beef Wellington. Please.”
“I won’t make promises I might not be able to keep,” I singsonged, taking a huge bite of my turkey sandwich.
She gritted her teeth. “Grr! You have to promise not to be a fartsicle.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I—”
“Enough!” Mom waved her arms over her head. “You two are twenty-seven, not seven. Act your ages. Of course, Tommy should bring his boyfriend.”
“Holden is not my boyfriend, Mom. He’s my friend,” I corrected for the umpteenth time.
“And he’s a perfect date to bring to any soiree,” she said in a tone that indicated she didn’t quite buy the friend story.
“Ugh. Whatever.” Tabby stuck her tongue out at me, then released a put-upon sigh before grazing Mom’s cheek with a pretentious air kiss. “I have to go. Sterling is expecting me. Talk to Tommy, Mom. Please.”
I listened to the rhythmic clip of her heels on the hardwood floor fading in the distance and didn’t say a word until the front door closed and peace was restored.
“You know, this might be a controversial statement, but I don’t think she’s very nice.”
Mom moved to my side and patted my back soothingly. “I’m sorry. It looks like we have Bridezilla on our hands.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Tabby’s performance was so over-the-top, it was almost comical. And that was very…her. My sister liked big entrances and extravagant overtures, and she’d always had a flair for the dramatic. I knew that about her, so I wasn’t sure why it was more difficult to ignore her jabs than usual.
“She’s so wrapped up in the wedding that she’s not thinking straight. I wouldn’t have told her you were coming by today if I’d thought she was going to—”
“Viciously attack me?” I supplied, polishing off my sandwich.
Mom frowned, pursing her pink-stained lips as she crossed her arms. Cynthia Hartwell was an exceptionally pretty and very fit fifty-five-year-old former tennis pro with shoulder-length brown hair who played a lot of golf, volunteered for a local charity, and worried about her grown children. Apparently, with good reason.
“I’m sorry. That was my fault. She could have handled that more delicately, and I apologize for overestimating her capacity to do so,” Mom said gravely.
I narrowed my gaze as I set my plate in the sink. “So you think I need a makeover too?”
“Absolutely not.” She smoothed a wayward strand from my eyes and smiled. “You’re an exceptionally handsome man. I’d think so no matter what. However, you should fix your glasses…for your own sake. That tape is looking a bit dingy.”
I pulled my spectacles off and pinched the wad of scotch tape affixed at the bridge.
I’d been taping this particular pair since my friend Chet’s wedding last December. If I remembered correctly, they’d flown off my face during a heated Mariah Carey dance battle at the reception. Thankfully, the glass hadn’t been damaged, so I’d secured the cracked frame with adhesive and wound a fresh piece around the old one for the sake of cleanliness at least once a week…for the past three months.