Page 25 of Accidentally Marrying the Prisoner
“Another Dr. Pepper?” Mckinley asks, tucking a face-framing piece of her long, dark magenta dyed hair behind her ear.
Something gnaws at my stomach when I slide a look to Conrad, wondering if he’s checking out the tall, pretty waitress wearing teeny, tiny black jean shorts and thigh-high black western boots. Her itty-bitty, cropped uniform T-shirt shows off the kind of curves I’ve always been envious of. Conrad and I haven’t even been married a full two weeks, and it’s not like this is a real marriage, so really, I’d have no reason to care if he was. None at all. Absolutely nada…Or so I keep telling myself, afraid I’m getting too attached to a man who’s leaving in a few short years.
But Conrad isn’t looking at Mckinley, and I try not to think about how much that pleases me. He simply pops the cap on his second bottle of beer while listening to Jorge tell the story of the time he accidentally electrocuted himself while fiddling with the furniture warehouse’s breaker box. Wonderful. Something to look forward to.
“Can I please get a frozen margarita?” I ask Mckinley. I need to let loose a little if I have any hope of rejoining the conversation.
“Sure thing, hon,” she says, clearing the empty bottles and pint glasses from the table, about to walk off.
Conrad snaps his head up to Mckinley. “Make that a non-alcoholic margarita.”
I frown. “Uh, no, I want a regular one.”
Conrad lays his hand on my thigh under the table and gives me an imploring look. “Probably not a good idea, princess.”
“Why?” But then I shake my head. “Don’t care. One regular frozen margarita, please,” I tell Mckinley. “And make it strong.”
Conrad bounces his knee when Mckinley walks away after having raised her brow at his presumptuousness.
I lean in to ask, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t think you should be drinking alcohol in your condition.”
“What condition?” I ask, bewildered.
“You could be pregnant.” Conrad squeezes me into his side on the bench seat with an arm around my back, snaking his re-bandaged hand around to rest it on my stomach.
Though we’d only been exchanging whispers, a few of the guys give us nosy looks, most notably, Sam, when I rear my head back and say too loudly, “Pregnant? I’m on the pill!”
“Which isn’t effective yet. And like you said, my pull-out game is weak.” He looks smug about it, too, though he quickly tries to hide it.
Sam coughs to cover a laugh, then asks me, “What’s your last name again?”
“Perkins,” I answer at the same time as Conrad says, “O’Byrne.”
“Really?” Sam clicks his tongue. “Small world.”
“Don’t tell me you know my mom too,” I groan.
Conrad tilts his head at Sam, and they seem to have a silent conversation—one that ends with Conrad’s grin turning downright wicked. Weirdo.
I pinch my lips, trying to peel Conrad’s hand off my stomach without injuring him further, and I tap the toe of my pointy brown cowgirl boots that Conrad picked out for me tonight.
Conrad snatches my margarita as soon as Mckinley sets it on the table in front of me, and he gives the drink a long sniff. His brow darkens when he hands it back to Mckinley and tells her, “She’s not drinking tonight.”
It’s my turn to be smug when Mckinley hands it straight to me and tells Conrad, “That shi–oot won’t fly around here.”
“What won’t?” Conrad asks.
“Thinking you can tell your woman what she can and can’t do.” She nods toward the back of the patio, where a motley group of women has just stepped out onto the patio.
The group stares daggers our way, all either crossing their arms or raising their brows. Just behind them lurks a group of giant men that could be mistaken for bears if it weren’t for their flannel shirts and work boots.
And would you look at that? A little of my energy comes back, and I sit up straighter, wiggling my fingers at them. “Hey, ladies.” I search their faces, looking for the one I’m most familiar with. “Is Aunt Faye with you?”
“She’s working tonight,” one of Aunt Faye’s best friends, Dolly, says. She flips her long, dark blonde hair behind her shoulder and takes a seat at the only available picnic table across from us at the corner of the patio.
“We’ll tell her you said ‘hi’ when we see her tomorrow, Mirabeth,” says Goldie, another of Aunt Faye’s besties.
