Page 3 of Some Sort of Love (Happy Crazy Love 3)
By nine the following night, my positive attitude was somewhat diminished. All the rude questions and comments I hadn’t heard at the rehearsal dinner had clearly been saved up for the main event.
No boyfriend yet? Maybe you’re being too picky.
Last Nixon sister standing, huh?
Hard to believe you’re still single, Jillian. You’re so pretty! (Then they’d study me carefully, like they were trying to figure out what the problem was, since it couldn’t be my face. If I were a car, they’d have asked me to pop the hood so they could take a look.)
One well-meaning great-aunt even dragged me over to meet someone who was seated at a nearby table. The fact that he was gay and even had a male date seemed lost on her, and she kept insisting we dance. The poor guy took me out on the floor just to shut her up, and we swayed awkwardly to “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” while my sisters howled with laughter at the head table.
After that, I decided to hide out near the bar and get tipsy.
I was creeping behind a row of topiary trees with my third—or maybe my fifth—glass of champagne when my mother’s oldest friend, Irene Mahoney, spotted me. Irene meant well, but she was the kind of woman who always managed to compliment and insult me in one breath.
“Jillian! Are you hiding?” She stuck her hands on her ample hips.
“No, Aunt Irene. Just taking a break.” Lifting my glass, I downed the rest of my champagne and immediately wanted more. Why were champagne flutes so small? Would it be wrong to ask for a bigger glass? Or maybe the whole bottle?
“Well, you should be dancing! You look so pretty in that dress, and you’re never going to meet anyone if you don’t put yourself out there. You know what they say, always a bridesmaid…” Her voice trailed off as she pointed one pudgy finger at me.
I squeezed the stem of my glass so hard I thought it might snap, but I managed a smile. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“How’s the new job going? Your mother said you’re loving it.”
I nodded enthusiastically. “I am.”
“Are the hours any less grueling? Do you have any time to yourself?”
“They’re a little better, not much. But I love getting to know the families. Last week I—”
“What about your own family? Don’t you want one?”
I bristled. “Sure. Eventually.”
“Well, you’re never going to meet anyone hiding over here with that frown on your face, silly girl.”
Actually, I wasn’t frowning until you came over here.
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nbsp; “You need to stand where you can be seen. Smile. Look more approachable,” she admonished, patting my arm. “Let me find you a partner.”
“No, really. I don’t want to dance right now.”
“Well, you’re much too lovely to be standing over here so single—I mean, so alone. You’re at that age where you have to be proactive about these things, Jillian. You have to let men see what a prize you are or risk being sad and lonely forever.” She grabbed my arm and began to drag me toward the tent.
“Please. I’m not a prize, Aunt Irene. And I’m not sad, either.”
“Of course you are! Every woman wants a man in her life.”
Digging my heels in, I wrenched my arm away. “Actually, what this woman wants is another drink. Excuse me.” I spun away from her and slammed immediately into a big, solid wall. Wait, no—it wasn’t a wall. Walls don’t have strong hands that reach out to steady you, huge dark eyes full of concern, and a thick, brown beard you’re pretty sure would feel like velvet against your cheek. And your thighs.
They don’t know your name, either.
“Jillian?”
For a second, I couldn’t place him. Then my jaw dropped. Oh my God. “Levi?”
“You two know each other?” Irene, still right behind me, sounded pleased.
