A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings 2 #2)(11)

He glanced around, pulling away from SportsCenter long enough for a, “Nice to see you again.”

“You remember Edward and oh, look, there’s Tom Wells—”

Ginger pulled away from Bridgett as Tom entered through a doorway across the room. A low, creeping shiver started in her bones. “H-hello everyone.” She tried for a sweeping glance past the men but her gaze clashed with Tom’s.

He watched her with those blue fireballs he used for eyes. One look and she felt engulfed, aching to be with him.

He terrified her more than the man-made flames across the room. Those flames she understood and could avoid. But the kind Tom Wells ignited seemed impossible to predict, avert, or extinguish.

“So, that’s everyone,” Bridgett said. “Help yourself to the buffet. There’s wine and beer, but if you don’t drink, the fridge is full of water, soda, and tea. We’re just hanging out, talking wedding. Can you believe I’m getting married?” Bridgett squeezed Ginger’s arm, giggling, effervescing.

“I’m happy for you.” Ginger smoothed her hand down her sweater, tugging at the end of the sleeve to make sure her scarred hand was covered. “It’s exciting. Rosebud High’s prom king and queen and most likely to marry . . .”

“I know, what are the odds? We’re actually getting married. After eight years apart I never thought I’d see him again, let alone marry him.” Bridgett leaned over the chair where Eric sat, roping him in her arms, and kissed his cheek. “But, well, love’s arrow doesn’t miss, does it?”

Oh yeah it does. By a county mile.

“So . . .” Bridgett turned around with a clap of her hands. “Fill your plate and join us girls on the sofa. We can talk hair.”

Ginger looked back at the cluster of bridesmaids. By the fire. A sliver of panic cut through her delicate confidence.

“It’s easier to eat sitting at the counter.” Tom’s bass declaration offered a welcomed truth, drawing Bridgett’s attention.

“Guess you’re right, Reverend Tom.” Bridgett wrinkled her nose at him. “All right, Ginger, grab a bite but don’t let this scoundrel keep you too long. Lindy and Kyle want to talk to you about their hair ideas for tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it,” Ginger said, turning to the buffet with a backward glance at Tom. How did he know?

She filled her plate and set it on the counter two seats down from Tom, who nursed a frosty root beer. “Are there any more of those?”

“At your service.” He hopped up, rounded the bar, and pulled a cold soda bottle from the fridge. He twisted off the top and slid it toward her. “On the house.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with her smooth left hand.

“Wow, I got a laugh out of you.” Tom came around the bar and took the stool next to her, relaxing with his elbows on the bar.

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“But I am. I didn’t know I possessed the power.”

“Very funny.” She lifted the soda bottle and took a hearty swig of sweetness. “Sorry about the other day . . .”

“I get it. Caught you off guard.”

Making sure her sweater sleeve covered her hand, Ginger split apart a fluffy yeast roll, the kind her Gram used to make when she was a kid. She popped a steaming piece in her mouth.

“What? No butter?”

She smiled, shaking her head, relaxing a bit. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Tom Wells made her comfortable. He made her want to be a better person. “My grandma made rolls like these for holiday dinners and birthdays when I was growing up. They were so good they didn’t need butter. We’d eat them plain or maybe with homemade black raspberry jelly.” Her voice faded. Those times ended right after Ginger turned thirteen. A year after the fire. An aneurysm claimed Gram’s life when she was only sixty.

“My grandma made dumplings.” Tom shook his head, humming. “Best thing you ever put in your mouth.” He peered at her. “But the same thing happened to us. She died and so did the tradition.”

“I keep telling myself I’ll learn how to do it but—”

“Life gets in the way.”

Ginger set her roll down and reached for her napkin. “Thank you.” She nodded toward the sofa and fireplace. “For that.”

“Bridgett can be a little obtuse.”

“Apparently you’re . . . What’s the opposite of obtuse?”

“Bright, smart, intelligent, handsome, sexy.”

Ginger choked, wheezing a laugh, pressing the back of her hand against her lips. She finished swallowing her roll, washing it down with a nip of root beer. “Someone doesn’t think well of himself.”

He grinned. “I like hearing you laugh.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Ginger shifted around in her stool and adjusted her scarf, making sure it was in place, covering her flaw. Under the heat of his gaze, she felt exposed and transparent, as if he could see the things she longed to hide.

“They’ve been talking about you.” Tom gestured to the women on the sofa with his root beer bottle. “Apparently Bridgett hired some world-renowned photographer for the weekend and they are counting on you to work your wonders.”

“Women like to feel beautiful. Especially in photos. Double especially for a wedding.”