Tap tap tap.
Andrew groans.
“Are you two having sex in my closet?” Declan says in a voice that makes it clear that we do not, under any circumstances, have permission to have sex in his closet.
“Yes.”
“No.”
We answer simultaneously, then giggle.
The doorknob jiggles.
“Don’t come in!” Andrew shouts, reaching between us to adjust himself.
“Why not? Afraid I’ll see Amanda naked? We’d just be even, then.”
“I am not a bag of flesh you get to parade to settle some score!” I shout.
Andrew’s eyebrows go up.
The doorknob stops shaking.
“Get out here. Now. You two are the maid of honor and the best man at this wedding and you’re acting like horny teenagers. You have responsibilities. And not just announcing Dad’s cancer to a group of people and violating his privacy.”
“Shit,” Andrew hisses through his teeth. His gaze drops and he sighs.
I fling open the door and look up into the eyes of a very angry Declan McCormick.
“See here,” I say, shoving my finger in his face. “You don’t get to blame Andrew for the fact that your father doesn’t want to share his private information with you.”
“Amanda—” Andrew grabs my other arm and tries to stop me.
“Are you blaming me for what Andrew just did?” Declan’s voice goes low and dangerous, like a coiled snake preparing for a full strike.
“No.”
“Sounds like it.”
“That’s your interpretation.”
I can feel Andrew’s eyes on me, though I can’t see his face. I’m not fighting his battle for him; he can do that just fine.
I don’t really know why I’m taking on Declan. Six (seven?) glasses of wine, maybe? Does everything I do have to make sense? Everyone around me has tacit permission from the universe to act in irrational ways.
Maybe it’s my turn.
Finally.
Declan’s face is a study in how to exude power without actually doing anything. No words. No expression. No movement. Just the steady breath of a man who is accustomed to having time stop for him while he deliberates.
And then:
“Not now. I am not having this conversation now. Dad,” he says, looking around me and catching Andrew’s eye, “is out there trying to salvage everything after that bomb you dropped. You owe him, at the very least, the courtesy of your attendance.”
And with that, Declan slams the door shut in my face.
Andrew looks at me.
I look back.
He runs a shaking hand through his hair and asks, “I’m guessing sex is out of the question now?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The wedding is in one week, and it’s time for final fittings, not-so-final fits, and a lot of frustration.
Plenty of words that start with the letter F.
Which means grumpy men, lots of wine, and a mother of the bride who is like a hummingbird on crack.
We are at Shannon and Declan’s apartment yet again, though there’s no fancy dinner for us to ruin. Just an assemblage of snacks, some beer and wine, and a tailor flown in from Edinburgh to make sure the men in their kilt tuxedos fit the part. Marie has gone for the modern Scottish look, with the men in tight, tailored, short jackets and bow ties, and kilts that look more complicated than a corset to assemble and wear properly. The look is more Royal Family than Eighteenth Century Highlander, thank goodness.
I see swords and sporrans, special socks and strange shoes, and for once I’m relieved to deal with the familiar drudgery of a strapless bridesmaid dress. We women have our wedding seamstress, and she’s doing all the last-minute tucks and loosenings and fussy little tweaks that make everything perfect.
“No, Marie, I will not dye my hair auburn for the wedding,” Declan insists as the tailor adjusts his skirt...er, kilt. Sorry. I called it a skirt in front of the Scottish tailor and he hissed at me like that time I stepped on Chuckles’ tail.
“But you’ll wear the tuxedo kilt,” Marie replies.
“Of course.” Declan gestures down at his body. He’s clad in a white t-shirt that fits quite well, the kilt in question, a sporran and the woolen socks. All the pieces are being carefully checked to make sure that the suits can be delivered as planned to the Farmington Country Club groom’s quarters on D-Day.
“And the sword?”
“Mooooooooom,” Shannon says in a low voice of warning.
“The sword is a wee bit much,” the tailor mutters under his breath.
“Sure,” Declan answers. “I need to have something to fall on when you finally tip me over the edge.”
“Ye might do better with a Sgian Dubh.” He pronounces it like skee-an-doo.
“A what?” Declan asks, twitching suddenly as the kilt pin gets a wee too close to his, um...wee wee.
“A small knife you can hide in your hand and use quietly.” The smile he shares with Declan creeps me out. “Ye do more damage faster that way and put yourself out o’ your misery.”
Marie splays her palm over her heart. The tips of her fingernails are a lovely lilac that matches her eye shadow. Her own hair is a rich auburn now, permed to be curly. She’s gone from platinum blonde to auburn so fast it’s disconcerting.
Then again, who am I to talk when it comes to changing hair color?
“I am just trying to make sure I...er, you and Shannon have the best wedding ever!” She sniffs, clearly hurt. Or pretending to be hurt. Now that she’s become a Momzilla, it’s hard to tell the difference.
She gives the tailor a withering glance. He doesn’t notice. I have the distinct impression he couldn’t care if he did notice, anyhow.