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Back in the present, she could only gasp at the outrageous turn her little fantasy had taken. “Adelaide Phelps,” she said aloud, using the name she’d grown up with, the name no one but her mother even knew about. “That wasn’t a flirtation, that was a seduction, and if that’s what’s on your mind, you better just stay away from Wyatt Madison!”
WYATT TOSSED the newspaper aside, his entire body thrumming with anticipation for something that would never happen.
He ought to be consumed with relief that Phoebe hadn’t taken his bait. He’d been testing her with that come-on line. If she’d had any intention of using his show-business connections to revive her career, he’d just given her the perfect opportunity.
But she hadn’t responded as predicted. In fact, she’d all but crossed herself and hung garlic around her neck to keep him away. Wait a minute, was garlic for werewolves or vampires?
Well, no matter. She’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. She thought he was old, damn it. He was thirty-nine, in the prime of his life. He wasn’t old; it was just that Phoebe was young. When he’d been in college, she’d been jumping rope on the playground.
He had to keep reminding himself of things like that. Because he hadn’t felt at all relieved when Phoebe had turned her nose up at his flirting. He’d felt keen disappointment. And just what would he have done if she’d responded? He’d like to think he would have politely but firmly sent her home with a pat on the head. Unfortunately, he knew damn well he’d have peeled those overalls right off her, given even half a chance.
“WELL, IF IT ISN’T my three best customers,” said George, Phoebe’s favorite waiter at The Prickly Pear. The upscale bar and grill was only a few blocks from Mesa Blue, and the three friends ended up here for dinner at least once a week, as did several of their neighbors.
George automatically set drinks in front of Elise, Daisy and Phoebe, already familiar with their habitual choices. The three friends always chose the same table, when it was unoccupied, so George could wait on them.
“Evening, George,” Phoebe said with a smile, letting him kiss her on the cheek. Like Jeff, his flirtations were harmless. He had a wife he adored.
“You lovelies want the usual?” George asked.
They all nodded. Chicken Caesar salads all the way around. Their order never varied.
It was two days after Phoebe’s last encounter with Wyatt. She’d tried to forget about it, push it out of her mind, but she found herself annoyingly preoccupied with thoughts of what might have happened if she’d reacted differently to his come-on.
Elise made an exaggerated throat-clearing sound. “Will you join us, Phoebe?”
“Huh?”
“You’re off in never-never land again,” Daisy said.
Elise nudged her. “This is an important occasion, and I want you paying attention.”
“Sorry.” She focused on Elise. Important? Had she forgotten someone’s birthday? “What’s going on?”
“Momentous, in fact,” Elise said. “You were both very supportive during James’s and my…courtship.”
“Courtship?” Daisy said dryly. “More like a roller coaster.”
“So tonight,” Elise continued, ignoring her, “I am officially asking both of you to be bridesmaids.”
Phoebe was unexpectedly touched, as Daisy appeared to be. They both jumped out of their chairs to hug their friend.
“I figured with all those sisters, you wouldn’t need any more bridesmaids,” Phoebe said.
“This is my one and only wedding, and I plan to have as many bridesmaids as I want. Six, so far, and it’s not eight only because one of my sisters will be out of the country and another will be eight months’ pregnant by September and she refuses to waddle down the aisle.”
“I love weddings,” Daisy said on a sigh. “I’m really happy for you, Elise, but I wish it were mine.”
“We’ll have you married off in no time,” Elise said. “In fact, there’s a new teaching assistant in the Languages Department. Spanish. He’s gorgeous, kind of like Antonio Banderas, and he’s single.” Elise pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to Daisy. “He said for you to call him.”
Daisy took the card without much enthusiasm. “How old is he?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“He’s younger than me, I bet,” Daisy said.
“Maybe a little, but that shouldn’t matter. He’s very nice, very much a gentleman.”
Daisy sighed. “I’m reduced to begging for dates with destitute grad students.”
“He’s not destitute,” Elise argued. “Anyway, the last rich guy you went out with drove you crazy with all his things.”
Daisy groaned. “The dentist. Why do I let you guys keep fixing me up?”
“Because it’s a numbers game,” Elise said. “You have to kiss a lot of toads before you find the prince. And, anyway, the rejects have single friends.”
“Maybe…” Phoebe ventured, “maybe Daisy doesn’t want us to fix her up anymore because she found someone on her own.”
“What?” Daisy said sharply. “Phoebe, I told you, Wyatt and I are just friends. We talked for about ten minutes, and that was it.”
“Not Wyatt,” Phoebe said. “The other guy. The one you left the party with.”
“Oh, do tell,” Elise said.
Daisy took a long sip of her iced tea. “So, Elise, have you chosen your colors yet?”
Well, that didn’t go over well, Phoebe thought. She’d been hoping to tease Daisy into revealing the identity of the mystery man Wyatt had mentioned. She figured there would be a simple explanation. But clearly Daisy didn’t want to talk about it.
“I’m not sure about colors yet,” Elise said, “but I was thinking maybe a pale yellow for the bridesmaid dresses.”
“Only if you want me to look like a corpse,” Phoebe said flippantly, then wished she’d thought before she’d spoken. Elise should be allowed to pick any color she wanted. It didn’t matter that yellow washed out Phoebe’s skin and made her hair look like straw.
“I forgot—you do look dreadful in yellow. No offense.”
“None taken. Don’t worry about that, though. Pick whatever color you like best.”
“No, no, I don’t want any Night of the Living Dead bridesmaids. Maybe pink—”
“Pink? On a redhead?” Daisy said. “Clash city.”
“You’re right,” Elise said. “Well, I’ll think some more.”
“Let’s get back to Wyatt,” Daisy said. “What are you going to do about him, Phoebe?”
“Me?” Phoebe hoped her friends couldn’t see the sweat popping out on her forehead. “Why would I do anything with him?”
“Because the man is clearly besotted with you,” Daisy said. “At the party he was staring at you like a cat eyeing the last sardine.”
Chapter Four
Wyatt was having a Tuesday that put all other bad Tuesdays to shame. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever get used to temperamental guests on the show, especially now that he was dealing with so many of them. “Heads Up” wasn’t just an ordinary talk show. It dealt with trends—anything cutting edge, from the newest hot movie star to the latest in gene therapy. His hosts—a young, romantically involved couple—were hip and charismatic, and they were adept at getting past both glib sound bites and technobabble. Despite the show’s wide-ranging subjects—going against the television industry’s niche marketing philosophy—it was drawing a good-size audience from a wide demographic.
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