Sister of the Bride (Fool's Gold #2.5)(3)

For a brief second, she weighed the idea of exposing the sham. She would be free of Howie, but reduced to spinster status. Yes, it was a new century. Yes, women could do anything. Yet in the world of the McCormicks, being single and within three years of thirty was both a disaster and a source of shame.

"But you're a sports writer," her aunt Tully would say yet again. "Can't you catch a rich husband from all those sports you watch?"

If only it were that simple. The problem was while she loved sports--the competition, the quest for greatness, the odd quirks that made every game interesting--she was less thrilled by athletes. Maybe because she'd seen them at their worst--one of the perks of her job. It was sort of like working in the kitchen of a restaurant. Dining out would never be the same again.

A tall, dark-haired man entered the lobby. He was good-looking enough to turn heads, with a body to match. Broad shoulders and long legs, all dressed neatly in a soft-looking blue-striped shirt tucked into jeans. If only, she thought regretfully, looking past the hunky guy and hoping to see the bumbling nerd who was on the verge of being late.

He was into computers. Maybe she should have sent Howie an e-mail reminder.

"Katie?"

The tall, dark stranger stopped next to her. She stared at his firm mouth, his strong jaw and the gorgeous green eyes barely concealed behind steel-rimmed glasses.

Her mouth opened. She felt it, then had to consciously close it. No way. Not possible. On what planet could this be happening?

"H-Howie?"

The man smiled. It was one of those sexy, self-deprecating smiles that made every woman in the room want to purr.

"Jackson," he corrected. "I go by Jackson now. My middle name."

Or eye candy. That name would work, too, she thought, her brain stuttering as she attempted to take in the changes. He was taller, more muscular, even his hair was perfect.

"H-Howie?" she repeated.

The smile turned into a low chuckle. "I'm not that different."

Au contraire.

"You've, ah, grown up," she managed, hoping she didn't look as stupid as she felt.

"So have you."

She wrinkled her nose. Up wasn't exactly the right word. She was about the same height she'd been at thirteen--a very average five foot five. The difference was she'd lost about forty pounds since then. And figured out how to play up her equally average features. She wasn't complaining--not exactly. But in a family of very tall, thin, attractive people, she was a throwback to the short, curvy lineage that everyone thought had been bred out.

"Yes, well, I've at least lost the baby fat," she said, figuring there was no point in ignoring the obvious.

Jackson studied her. "Your eyes are the same. Pretty. I remember the color."

"Because I was glaring at you?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. I was terrified you were going to beat me up."

"You treated me like I was an idiot."

"I was overcompensating for feeling like I didn't belong." He shrugged. "Don't take it personally. I acted that way everywhere."

"One of the downsides of being the smartest guy in the room?"

"You held your own."

She laughed. "I was reduced to threatening physical violence. Not exactly the definition of holding my own."

"You did fine. Now I hear you're a famous sports writer."

If Katie had been drinking, she would have choked. "Not exactly. Is that what your mom told you?"

He nodded.

"I work for the local paper. The Fool's Gold Daily Republic. I write the sports page, the occasional op-ed and I've done an emergency feature story when they were desperate. No one's definition of fame."

"You like what you do. I can hear it in your voice."

"I do like it." She found herself staring into his green eyes and wishing she'd listened to her mother sooner. Howie...ah, Jackson...was all that and more. "I've heard you're some kind of impressive computer guy."

She winced, thinking maybe she should have done a little homework. "You created a program about, um, something business-y."

The slow, sexy smile returned. "Inventory control. Trust me, you don't want to know the details."

"Probably not, but it's good someone keeps track of all that inventory stuff. It's wily."

He raised his eyebrows. "Wily?"

"I studied sports communications, not business. Wily is the best I could come up with, under the circumstances. Give me a deadline and I can be much more impressive."

"Maybe I'm already impressed."

She wasn't sure if it was the words or the way he said them, but for the first time in a long time, she felt positively girly. If her hair had been a couple of inches longer, she would have been tempted to flip it. As it was, she was grateful her mother had made her wear a sundress instead of jeans and a T-shirt, and that she'd taken the time to brush on mascara and lip gloss.

"You're not what I was expecting," he continued.

"I know," she admitted, trying not to flutter her lashes, although the need was powerful. "When my mother suggested you as my emergency date, I wasn't exactly grateful. But I do appreciate you showing up and taking time to help with this."

"Not a problem."