In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(48)

Em grabbed the disgusting, slimy boob enhancer (that had just been in a seagull’s beak). Should she put it back? Or leave it? If the bird had any diseases (avian flu, for example), would the chlorine in the pool water kill off the germs?

“Well?” Jack said. “You gonna put that back, or shall I?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Very funny.”

“All right, at least let me...here.” He pulled her a few steps away and hugged her. “Go for it. You can tell me later why you’re wearing raw chicken.”

“It’s not chicken. It makes...never mind.” She slid the offending object back under her breast.

Couldn’t help noticing how it felt to be pressed up close to Jack. Wet. Warm. Slippery.

“I was wondering how the girls defied gravity like that,” he murmured. She could feel his voice rumble in his chest as she adjusted her suit.

“Don’t make fun of me,” she ordered. “This is a stressful weekend.”

He pulled back a little and looked down at her. A drop of water slid down his neck and pooled against his collarbone, and Em suddenly really, really wanted to lick it.

“Just for the record, you don’t need any enhancing,” he said, and her knees buckled a little. His eyes crinkled, and he kissed her forehead.

Crap on a cracker. She was falling for this guy.

“Thanks,” she said briskly, and then, because the mortification of Jack—and possibly everyone else—knowing what she’d stuck in her bathing suit was settling over her, she swam to the stairs and got out of the pool.

CHAPTER TEN

“MY KINGDOM FOR a cheeseburger,” Colleen murmured.

“You said it, sister,” Em answered.

The rehearsal “dinner” consisted of a raw vegetable buffet. Drinks were decaffeinated green tea (hot or iced), mint tea, nonfat soy milk, water and cranberry juice, the real kind that made your entire body pucker. Emmaline had a raging headache, probably due to a frightening lack of caffeine, carbs and ice cream in her diet for the past twenty-four hours.

The first thing she would do when she got home, after loving up Sarge, of course, would be to take him to O’Rourke’s—Sarge was theoretically a police dog in training—and order the nachos grande and two of the biggest burgers they had. One for each of them.

Her stomach growled.

“Where’s Jack?” Colleen asked, putting some kale on her plate.

“I think he’s sleeping,” Em answered. She’d knocked on his door, but there’d been no answer. Maybe the jet lag had caught up with him. Maybe he was walking on the beach. Maybe he was in traction after the chicken game. Maybe he just needed a break from this dopey weekend.

She hoped he wasn’t...well, suffering. That lost look that came across his face just killed her.

“Back to the bridesminions’ table.” Colleen sighed. “See you later.”

Right. She and Jack had been assigned to a table of Russian-speaking older people. Naomi’s relatives from Irkutsk, if Em had understood correctly, based on the map the sole English speaker had drawn on a napkin. A great-aunt or grandmother was filling her purse with cucumber sticks. One old man was asleep. Another kept looking at her boobs (even un-Ta-Dahed, they looked pretty nice in this dress, Em thought), but otherwise, they just talked among themselves. Em smiled at them occasionally to show she was one of the nice Americans. Only the boob-looker smiled back, and he was missing two teeth.

Angela, Mom and Dad were seated with Kevin’s parents; Angela had very loyally offered to sit with Em, but Mrs. Bates (who had once quite loved Emmaline, if memory served) had almost given birth to a Komodo dragon at the suggestion. Em assured her that it’d be fine back here in Siberia, and the truth was, she was relieved not to have to make conversation.

Kevin and Naomi sat at a tiny table for two under a spotlight.

They really did look in love.

“Okay, folks, time to burn off some calories and dance!” the DJ barked. Yes, heaven forbid those ten or twelve calories from dinner be allowed to simply rest. The Black-Eyed Peas came booming from the speakers.

Any minute, Em suspected, Kevin and Naomi would do a choreographed dance to their special song.

The song she and Kevin were going to dance to at their wedding was “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole. Em still couldn’t hear it without a small brain bleed.

“Naomi and Kevin wanted you all to have one of these as a party favor,” said a little girl who was holding a basket. Please, God, it was full of bottles of Jack Daniel’s.

But no.

The little girl held out something all too familiar. People magazine, “Half Their Size” edition.

On the cover was a picture of Kevin holding up a pair of his enormous pants. Pants that Emmaline had bought him, since he’d hated shopping for himself back then. Probably loved it now.

The Russian relatives opened the magazine. Em slid hers into her purse. She could burn it later. Not that it would help. She had the damn thing memorized.

Page forty-seven. The usual stuff about how Kevin had struggled with food all his life, his blood pressure issues, his prediabetes. And then the killer blow:

“I was living with someone who wasn’t supportive,” says Bates. “She sabotaged my efforts, always buying food that fueled my addiction. Then I met Naomi, and I realized I had to leave that other relationship. She was just too unsupportive.”