It Happened One Wedding
Page 64
A split second after their eyes met in the glass, she smiled. “So. Starbucks.” She slid out from his arms. “I’ll be back.” She headed for the bedroom door.
“A shirt might be good.”
“Right.” She turned around. Wasting no time, she grabbed a shirt out of her closet—not even pausing to see which one—and walked out of the room, shoving the shirt over her head as she nearly flew toward the stairs.
Vaughn watched her go, thinking that was the fastest he’d ever seen Sidney Sinclair move.
Apparently somebody really needed her Starbucks.
• • •
AS SIDNEY HURRIED down the stairs, she told herself to chill out.
So, for one teeny tiny moment while looking at her and Vaughn’s reflection in the mirror, she’d thought they looked cute together. So what? He was a very attractive man; he’d look cute standing next to a toaster. That didn’t mean she was having relationship-type thoughts about the guy—because she definitely knew better than that.
Vaughn was the guy who picked up random women in coffee shops. The guy who had a seven-day rule in order to avoid emotional entanglements, the guy who hadn’t had a serious relationship in years.
He was not a Mr. Right.
She’d made her pledge, and she was sticking to it. No more commitment-phobic men, no more player types, no more guys with issues or drama or whatever. She wanted someone who was solid and steady, someone who knew without any doubt that he was ready to go the distance.
Someone nice like Trish’s husband, Sidney mused, while grabbing her keys off the console table for the three-block walk to Starbucks. She opened her front door. Or Simon.
Simon.
As in, the man who was walking up her front steps with Isabelle.
Sidney’s stomach dropped as her mind actually processed that.
Isabelle and Simon—here.
Vaughn in the shower.
Oh.
Shit.
“Perfect timing—I’m about to explode,” Isabelle said, her words as rushed as her footsteps. “I’ve had to pee since we left Starbucks.”
Before Sidney knew what was happening, her sister barreled right past her and ran into the house toward the first-floor powder room.
No.
Simon, who wore sunglasses, gestured with the tray of drinks and paper bag he carried. “Isabelle and I wanted to say thank you for last night.” He smiled. “We brought coffee and apple fritters.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Sidney managed.
This couldn’t be happening. If Isabelle and Simon discovered Vaughn inside her house—in her shower, no less—it would look like the two of them were . . . doing exactly what they were, in fact, doing.
With that in mind, she held out a hand as Simon tried to step inside her place. “Hey, I know—it’s such a nice day, why don’t we stay out here and enjoy our coffee and apple fritters al fresco?”
Simon made a face. “Too much sunlight.” He brushed past her, entering the house. “I don’t think I’ve been this hungover since college.” He headed in the direction of her kitchen.
Shit, shit, shit.
Sidney followed, wondering if there was any way she could at least hustle them onto her back terrace if she promised Simon a spot in the shade—or hell, a damn parasol. Anything to get them out.
Isabelle stepped out of the powder room and joined them in the kitchen. “Much better. Apparently, I’ve moved out of the nausea-and-vomiting phase of this pregnancy and into the peeing-every-half-hour phase.”
“It could just be all the juice you drank last night,” Simon said, grabbing an apple fritter out of the bag and taking a bite.
“Hey, those are for Sidney.” Isabelle came over and gave her a hug. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before we left the bar, since somebody”—she looked pointedly at Simon—“felt sick after deciding it would be a good idea to smoke a cigar for the first time last night.”
“Word to the wise. Don’t inhale, just taste,” Simon told Sidney.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sidney noticed Vaughn’s suit jacket hanging over the back of one of the barstools. “You know, actually, I was just on my way ou—”
Simon spoke at the same time, teasing Isabelle. “Besides, I figured that I needed to start practicing for when the baby comes. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do: hang out in the delivery room smoking cigars, while you do all the womanly stuff?”
“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you are going to be right next to me for every moment of all the stuff—womanly, or otherwise,” Isabelle said.
Sidney clapped her hands. “So. I can see you two are raring up for some sort of cute play-fight. And it would be totes adorbs to watch, I’m sure. But there’s this appointment that I’m very late for, so maybe I could call you later, Izz?”
“Huh. I don’t think you can pull off a totes adorbs,” Simon said, studying her.
Seriously.
“Is your shower running?” Isabelle suddenly asked. She looked up at the ceiling, which was directly below the master bathroom.
Think, Sinclair.
Sidney thunked her head. “Look at that. That’s how late I am for this appointment. I was rushing around so much I even forgot to turn the shower off.”
Of course, that had to be the moment Isabelle noticed Vaughn’s jacket.
She gasped and stalked around the counter. “There’s someone here.” She picked up the jacket and held it up. “A male someone.” Isabelle paused, looking a little hurt. “You didn’t tell me you were dating anyone.”
“A shirt might be good.”
“Right.” She turned around. Wasting no time, she grabbed a shirt out of her closet—not even pausing to see which one—and walked out of the room, shoving the shirt over her head as she nearly flew toward the stairs.
Vaughn watched her go, thinking that was the fastest he’d ever seen Sidney Sinclair move.
Apparently somebody really needed her Starbucks.
• • •
AS SIDNEY HURRIED down the stairs, she told herself to chill out.
So, for one teeny tiny moment while looking at her and Vaughn’s reflection in the mirror, she’d thought they looked cute together. So what? He was a very attractive man; he’d look cute standing next to a toaster. That didn’t mean she was having relationship-type thoughts about the guy—because she definitely knew better than that.
Vaughn was the guy who picked up random women in coffee shops. The guy who had a seven-day rule in order to avoid emotional entanglements, the guy who hadn’t had a serious relationship in years.
He was not a Mr. Right.
She’d made her pledge, and she was sticking to it. No more commitment-phobic men, no more player types, no more guys with issues or drama or whatever. She wanted someone who was solid and steady, someone who knew without any doubt that he was ready to go the distance.
Someone nice like Trish’s husband, Sidney mused, while grabbing her keys off the console table for the three-block walk to Starbucks. She opened her front door. Or Simon.
Simon.
As in, the man who was walking up her front steps with Isabelle.
Sidney’s stomach dropped as her mind actually processed that.
Isabelle and Simon—here.
Vaughn in the shower.
Oh.
Shit.
“Perfect timing—I’m about to explode,” Isabelle said, her words as rushed as her footsteps. “I’ve had to pee since we left Starbucks.”
Before Sidney knew what was happening, her sister barreled right past her and ran into the house toward the first-floor powder room.
No.
Simon, who wore sunglasses, gestured with the tray of drinks and paper bag he carried. “Isabelle and I wanted to say thank you for last night.” He smiled. “We brought coffee and apple fritters.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Sidney managed.
This couldn’t be happening. If Isabelle and Simon discovered Vaughn inside her house—in her shower, no less—it would look like the two of them were . . . doing exactly what they were, in fact, doing.
With that in mind, she held out a hand as Simon tried to step inside her place. “Hey, I know—it’s such a nice day, why don’t we stay out here and enjoy our coffee and apple fritters al fresco?”
Simon made a face. “Too much sunlight.” He brushed past her, entering the house. “I don’t think I’ve been this hungover since college.” He headed in the direction of her kitchen.
Shit, shit, shit.
Sidney followed, wondering if there was any way she could at least hustle them onto her back terrace if she promised Simon a spot in the shade—or hell, a damn parasol. Anything to get them out.
Isabelle stepped out of the powder room and joined them in the kitchen. “Much better. Apparently, I’ve moved out of the nausea-and-vomiting phase of this pregnancy and into the peeing-every-half-hour phase.”
“It could just be all the juice you drank last night,” Simon said, grabbing an apple fritter out of the bag and taking a bite.
“Hey, those are for Sidney.” Isabelle came over and gave her a hug. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before we left the bar, since somebody”—she looked pointedly at Simon—“felt sick after deciding it would be a good idea to smoke a cigar for the first time last night.”
“Word to the wise. Don’t inhale, just taste,” Simon told Sidney.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sidney noticed Vaughn’s suit jacket hanging over the back of one of the barstools. “You know, actually, I was just on my way ou—”
Simon spoke at the same time, teasing Isabelle. “Besides, I figured that I needed to start practicing for when the baby comes. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do: hang out in the delivery room smoking cigars, while you do all the womanly stuff?”
“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you are going to be right next to me for every moment of all the stuff—womanly, or otherwise,” Isabelle said.
Sidney clapped her hands. “So. I can see you two are raring up for some sort of cute play-fight. And it would be totes adorbs to watch, I’m sure. But there’s this appointment that I’m very late for, so maybe I could call you later, Izz?”
“Huh. I don’t think you can pull off a totes adorbs,” Simon said, studying her.
Seriously.
“Is your shower running?” Isabelle suddenly asked. She looked up at the ceiling, which was directly below the master bathroom.
Think, Sinclair.
Sidney thunked her head. “Look at that. That’s how late I am for this appointment. I was rushing around so much I even forgot to turn the shower off.”
Of course, that had to be the moment Isabelle noticed Vaughn’s jacket.
She gasped and stalked around the counter. “There’s someone here.” She picked up the jacket and held it up. “A male someone.” Isabelle paused, looking a little hurt. “You didn’t tell me you were dating anyone.”
