Changing Teams (14 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Britt

“Okay, buddy, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

Sam glanced at me, then he returned his gaze to the road. “Explaining about what, might I ask?”

“This car, for one.” When we’d gone down to Sam’s building’s garage, I’d been expecting the attendant to bring out a regular old two- or four-door vehicle of the Honda or Toyota variety. Instead, the attendant presented us with a shiny black BMW 325I. Once I was a passenger in said vehicle I discovered that the butter soft leather seats were also heated, which made me wonder if there were BMWs in heaven.

“Hey now, I love my car,” Sam said, patting the dashboard.

“Yes, it’s very nice,” I said. “As is your apartment, which comes with a doorman
and
a garage, and that suit you’re wearing could feed a family of four for a month.” I watched him not look at me; okay, maybe he was watching the traffic. “Spill. Are you the highest paid photographer’s assistant in the world, or do you have a goose that lays golden eggs stashed in your pantry?”

Sam chuckled. “Neither, I’m afraid. I mentioned my gran earlier, the one who left me your bracelet?”

“You did.”

“I never knew my grandfather; he died long before I was born. However, he worked in the stock market, and he taught my gran everything he knew. She, in turn, taught me.”

“Are you saying you’re rich?”

“Not by a long shot. I’m comfortable, and I have a nice cushion against emergencies, but I still need to work. Hell, if I lost my job that apartment would be nothing but a memory.”

“But not the car?” I teased.

“I rent the apartment. Car’s paid for.” We stopped for a red light, and Sam glanced at me. “Are you saying you wouldn’t love me if I was rich? I said I’d love you if you were a midget.”

“I would,” I said. “It would just take some getting used to. I am step-related to a bunch of rich jerks, you know.”

The light turned green and Sam shifted into gear; once he was in third he took his hand from the gearshift and squeezed my knee. “Glad to hear you wouldn’t want me only for my small amount of money.”

“You heard my criteria,” I said. All this skirting about the topic of love had me intrigued, so I asked, “What’s your criteria?”

“For what? Marriage?”

“Yeah. What are the deal breakers?”

Sam was silent for a time. “It would have to be someone I was crazy about,” he said at length. “Someone I thought about all the time, who I couldn’t get out of my mind. Someone I could be proud of. Someone I couldn’t imagine living without.”

“Sounds just like my terms and conditions.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth curled up. “Sure does, darlin’.”

Eventually, the road brought us to the country club in Westchester that was hosting Melody’s wedding. I knew the place well, since my stepfather’s family held all of their important functions there: weddings, anniversaries, the occasional meeting to plot world domination. My sixteenth birthday party had been held there as well, which was my stepfather’s last-ditch attempt to transform me into a society girl. As you can probably guess, that hadn’t quite worked out for him.

Sam pulled up to the carport at the country club, where we disembarked and he handed over the Beemer’s keys to an overdressed valet. I put my hand inside Sam’s elbow, squared my shoulders, and stepped through the double doors toward the sort of life I’d avoided at all costs.

Gilt signs directed us to where the Vindale-Moore ceremony would take place. As we followed the pink-carpeted hallway, Sam murmured close to my ear, “No fancy church wedding for Melody?”

“No, Darryl refused one,” I replied. “Stepdaddy was so furious, he nearly called the whole thing off; he’s a devout Catholic. Well, as devout as a slimy lawyer can be. Having the ceremony here is the compromise between Darryl and stepdaddy.”

“Melody didn’t have a say in where she gets married?”

“When you sponge off the men in your life, you get what you get.”

The hallway led us to a garden room bordered on three sides by evergreen hedges. A vine-covered gazebo took pride of place, and carefully tended flowering shrubs were scattered around its base. White folding chairs surrounded the gazebo in orderly rows, and fairy lights glinted in the trees.

“This is…pretty,” I said. I’d planned on hating everything about the wedding. The nice scenery was a pleasant surprise.

An usher stepped forward, and inquired, “Moore or Vindale?”

“Moore,” I replied, though I seriously considered joining Darryl’s side. The usher indicated that we should sit on the right of the aisle, then he offered to place our gift on the proper table. I handed over the envelope, then Sam and I found some seats neat the back.

“Is your mother here?” Sam asked.

I craned my neck and found her smack dab in the front row, right where Patrick would have wanted her. “Front row, fourth seat from the aisle,” I said. “She has blonde hair, and she’s wearing a green dress.”

Sam leaned to the side, nodding when he saw her. “That stepdaddy on her left?”

“Yeah,” I said. “His name is Patrick Sullivan, just so you know. Though I’d love to see the look on his face if you call him stepdaddy.”

“Behave,” Sam warned. “Who else are you related to around here?”

I spent the next half hour pointing out various relations to Sam, sharing anecdotes about my days in New Rochelle, and my grand escape to New York City. After I’d named every Sullivan in attendance, Sam glanced at his watch.

“A quarter past three,” Sam said. “What bride arrives late to her own wedding?”

“She’s probably trying for a dramatic entrance.” I glanced at the gazebo, where the groom paced back and forth. “Or maybe she wants to make Darryl stress a bit.”

“That’s evil,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Man’s probably nervous as hell, waiting on his bride.”

“Well, that’s Melody.”

Sam laced his fingers with mine. “You wouldn’t make your groom sweat it out?”

“I would never do anything like this.” I toyed with the floral swag perched on the seat back in front of me. “I wouldn’t want anything this garish. I mean, the gazebo and all the flowers are nice, but I would never get married at a country club.”

“Then where?” Sam pressed. “Family church?”

“I’m not exactly a regular churchgoer,” I replied. “Still, a church wedding might be pretty. Not that this isn’t pretty, but it all seems so fake.”

Sam squeezed my hand. “As long as you love who you’re marrying, I suppose any wedding can be perfect.”

I squeezed back. “I suppose so.”

The generic background music increased in volume and became “The Wedding March,” and all eyes turned toward the end of the aisle. Melody appeared on cue, to the
oohs
and
aahs
of the assembled guests. She wore a form-fitting white satin sheath overlaid with white lace, her dark hair piled atop her head and her veil pinned just below the profusion of curls. She carried a small bouquet of pink calla lilies, the stems bound with white ribbon and pearl topped pins. As much as Melody got on my nerves, I had to admit that she looked stunning.

“Jorge would hate her dress,” Sam whispered in my ear.

“I think it’s nice.”

“Too boring, too safe,” Sam said. “She isn’t doing anything that hasn’t already been done a thousand times.” Melody passed us and we faced forward. “Don’t worry, darlin’, when it’s your turn to be a bride, Jorge will make you something spectacular. He lives for dressing brides.”

“Who knows if I’ll ever even get married?” I said.

Sam squeezed my hand again. “I have a feeling you will.”

The ceremony went exactly as it was supposed to, with rings and vows and Melody tearing up at just the right moment. Once Melody and Darryl were legal, they stood in their receiving line of two and Sam and I queued up to offer our congratulations.

“You look beautiful, Melody,” I said once we reached the happy couple. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, that means so much coming from my beautiful model cousin,” Melody gushed, then she leaned close to me and indicated Sam with her eyes. “Is that him?”

“Melody, this is Sam MacKellar,” I introduced.

“So he
is
the one from the website you were whoring around on,” she accused.

“Um, yeah.” Being that zero percent of my self-esteem was derived from Melody’s opinion of me, the whoring comment didn’t even faze me. “Is that a problem?”

“I can’t believe you brought him here,” she hissed. “This is
my
wedding
!”

“I know, that’s why the card’s addressed to you.”

Melody frowned but remained silent, so I took that as my opportunity to move on. While Sam offered his congratulations to the bride, I stepped forward to the groom. “Darryl.”

“Britt.”

And we were out of the receiving line. Sam and I retreated to the reception hall, and he swiped a few
hors d’oeuvres
from a passing waiter. “Man, I’m starved,” he said, handing me a tiny spring roll nestled on a cocktail napkin.

“Me too,” I agreed. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and my stomach was none too happy about that. I spied a woman in a stunning green gown watching us from across the room, and formulated a plan. “Want to grab some drinks? Open bar.”

“Surely.” Sam wolfed down his spring roll, then he placed his hand on my back and escorted me to the bar. “Why the sudden desire for alcohol?”

“I think my mother wants to meet you,” I replied. “You’re familiar with the phrase liquid courage?”

Sam grinned. “Mothers love me. Bring on the parents, baby.”

Sam ordered us two glasses of Merlot, then we downed them and ordered two more before heading toward my mother. She was standing with a gaggle of Sullivan harpies, but excused herself when she saw us. I didn’t miss the look of relief she bore.

“Britt, baby, thank God you’re here,” Mom said in a rush, then she plastered her patented Mrs. Sullivan smile across her face. “Wasn’t the ceremony nice? And Melody was such a beautiful bride.”

“It was, and she was,” I agreed. “Mom, this is Sam MacKellar. Sam, this is my mother, Cynthia Sullivan.”

“A pleasure,” Sam said. “I must say, Mrs. Sullivan, you don’t look nearly old enough to have a daughter Britt’s age.”

“Good to meet you, Sam. I notice that you started right away with the flattery.” Mom smirked. “Is that because you’re worried I saw those pictures online, the ones of you with my daughter?”

Sam’s cheeks darkened, but he didn’t miss a beat. “I assure you, I only speak the truth. And now I know that Britt came by her beauty honestly.”

At that, Mom blushed a bit. “Mmm hmm. Britt, you and Sam will be sitting at our table.” I opened my mouth to whine, but Mom held up her hand. “No, I can’t change the seating arrangements, and yes, Patrick will be sitting with us. I’m certain that you can deal with your stepfather for a few hours.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, leaning against Sam. Confident in her victory, Mom looked at Sam.

“So, Sam, tell me about yourself,” Mom said. “Where did you two meet?”

“Yes, Sam, tell us where you met our Britt,” said my stepfather, appearing out of nowhere like a frickin’ evil ninja. “Patrick Sullivan, Britt’s stepfather,” he said, extending his hand toward Sam.

“Sam MacKellar,” Sam replied, shaking Patrick’s hand. “Britt and I met at a photo shoot.”

“Are you a photographer?” Patrick asked.

“I am,” Sam replied, omitting that he’d been the photographer’s assistant on that particular shoot.

“And what were
those
pictures used for?” Patrick pressed. “They didn’t end up on any websites, did they?”

“Patrick,” I hissed.

“Surely not, sir,” Sam said, ignoring my outburst. “Britt is the new face of Sands Romance novels.”

“Sands Romance?” Mom asked, clapping her hands together. “I love those books! Maybe you can do a cover with Giovanni!”

“Um, I already did,” I said.

At that, my mother squealed like a pig, then she ran off to tell the harpies that I was famous; it seemed that Giovanni had his own little Sullivan-based fan club. I’d never felt so vindicated in my hatred of romance novels. While Mom spread the word of my newfound glory, Patrick continued his interrogation of Sam.

“Interesting that you’re so settled in a career at such a young age,” Patrick continued. “When I was your age, I was in the Marines.”

“I do come from a military family,” Sam replied. “I’m named for my grandfather, who was a general in World War Two, and he was named for his father, who served in World War One. Both of my parents are Air Force officers.”

“And you didn’t enlist, because?” Patrick pressed.

“Patrick,” I snapped. “Sam is
not
one of your witnesses.”