Finding Isadora(118)

Merilee was marrying Matt, her soul mate since grade two. You’d have thought fifteen years of love and dreams would have resulted in something more organized than a spur-of-the-moment wedding. However, Merilee’d had a rough time of it health-wise this year, then Matt found a last-minute deal on a Mexican Riviera cruise, and the result was that in thirteen days my kid sister was going to have the wedding she’d always dreamed of.

Except that she, who was frantically catching up the university work she’d missed due to illness, didn’t have time to make wedding arrangements.

Merilee needed help, and I loved Merilee. So did our middle sisters Kat and Jenna, of course, but as always, I was the organizer. The truth was, I liked being in charge. In fact, I preferred doing things myself, so they’d get done right. Snotty? Given my awe-inspiring IQ, my parents’ expectations, and the responsibilities that had been foisted upon me at an early age, could I have turned out any other way?

Ergo, I, who so didn’t relate to the white-lace-and-promises concept, was now on the hunt for a couple of those frilly magazines to supplement the gigantic bible on wedding planning I’d purchased at the uni bookstore. After clearing Sydney airport security late Sunday afternoon, I made for the Newslink store.

A display of hardcover books near the entrance caught my attention. The under-construction pyramid featured Wild Fire, the new release from one of Australia’s popular novelists, Damien Black. A female sales clerk was plastering “Autographed Copy” stickers on covers that were a touch garish—eerie flames in yellow and red blazing on a black background—but definitely eye-catching.

As a sociologist specializing in the study of Indigenous Australians, I knew Black’s name. He was part Aboriginal and wrote paranormal mystery thrillers featuring a police officer who was an Aboriginal Australian.

Though I rarely read fiction, I’d picked up one of the novels. It had been surprisingly entertaining, moderately accurate when it came to the facts, and even, here and there, insightful. But only here and there. Mostly, his work was crassly commercial. The man should devote his writing talents to something serious.

I certainly didn’t plan to read another of his books. “Waste of time. Glib and superficial.”

“Pardon?” The sales clerk turned to me.

“Sorry.” One of the hazards of spending so much time on my own; I had a bad habit of voicing my thoughts. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

The clerk grinned. “No worries. Lots of readers disagree with you, though. He sure sells well. Me, I can’t put the books down. He’s kept me up all night, more than once.” She winked. “Wish he’d do it in person, though. He was just in signing these books and I gotta say, the man’s seriously hot.”

“I’m sure ‘hot’ is an important criterion for making one’s reading choices,” I said dryly.

A male snort told me someone had overheard.

The clerk glanced over my shoulder. Her eyes widened and color flooded her cheeks. “Oops! Sorry.” She ducked her head and concentrated on stickering books.

I turned and saw a man who definitely qualified as hot. His clothes were as simple as you could get—worn jeans, a navy tee—but they showcased a tall, well-muscled frame. His face and arms were tanned dark, and he obviously didn’t believe in haircuts. Though I wasn’t a fan of long hair, the shiny black waves hanging almost to his shoulders did suit him. He had a strong-featured face with a hint of the exotic, and bright gray eyes that were currently regarding me with a sparkle of humor.

I felt an odd kind of physical awareness. Of him as a man. And me as a woman. Which definitely wasn’t the usual way I reacted to a guy. There was something familiar about him, yet I was sure I’d never met him. I’d have remembered that bizarre sense of awareness.

“Not buying a book then?” he asked teasingly, with an Aussie twang.

Embarrassed by my reaction to him, I averted my eyes and muttered, “No.”

As I turned to walk away, I heard him say, “Each to his—or her—own.”

Why did I feel as if I was running away? I brushed the thought—and the man—out of my mind as I collected a bottle of water then found the magazine section.

How surreal to be browsing bridal magazines. “Let me count the reasons I hate this stuff.” Whoops, I was muttering out loud again. I continued my rant inside my head. It’s a giant industry that manipulates brides into thinking the most expensive wedding is going to make for the happiest marriage. Don’t people know that—

“Excuse me? Are you buying that one?” A female voice broke into my thoughts and I realized a perky young redhead was gazing at me inquiringly.

“What?” I glanced down at the magazine in my hand, featuring the ubiquitous bride clad in frothy white. “I haven’t decided.”

“It’s the last copy. So, if you’re not getting it, I’d like to. It’s my favorite.”

“Then take it.” I handed it over. “They’re all the same to me.”

“Oh, no, they’re not!” Her tone suggested I’d said something sacrilegious. “This one’s for the Australian bride, and that’s me.”

She pointed to another on the shelf, using her left hand and flashing a small diamond. “That’s for the modern bride, the one beside it is more traditional, and oh, that one has the dreamiest things but they’re way too expensive, though some of their ideas can be replicated on a cheaper scale.” She grabbed a copy.