The Stand-In (11 page)

And for some reason, he wanted to help her recover from her pain.

* * * *

A couple of days passed before Winn had the nerve to text Patrick, and he hadn’t been in touch either. She couldn’t say she was surprised. After all, when she told him what Mike did to her, his expression had been one of awkward horror.

She knew the look. She’d seen it in a hundred-odd faces on her wedding day. And all because the groom absconded with his former girlfriend. People didn’t know where to look. Standing at the top of the church aisle, her knees buckling, she’d felt like a leper.

She hadn’t known what to think and had stood there for a few long moments, like an idiot. Thank God Enid had had the presence of mind to whisk her out of the church through a side door.

After getting a mumbled, “I’m sorry” phone call from Mike, all she’d seen was black. A black hole of comforting numbness. It had taken her a month to crawl out of it. Another month to start going on some very unsuccessful auditions.

By the third month, her black field of vision had morphed into red fury, as if someone had covered her eyes in scarlet lenses. She’d gotten angry. After all, he’d never explained himself other than saying he wasn’t over his old girlfriend, Stacy. A two-year engagement to Winn, and not once during that time had Mike thought to share his misgivings with her. Not while they perused real estate ads. Not while she chose her bridal gown, a dream confection of antique lace. Certainly not during any of their quiet moments together.

She’d never confronted him either, something Enid urged her to do at least once a week.

“Just show up at Shithead’s house one day,” Enid often said. “And pop him right in his coward’s mouth. You’ll feel better.”

“I won’t lower myself to his level.”

“Jesus, Winifred. The man dumped you five minutes before your wedding ceremony and you’re concerned about lowering yourself? Are you afraid to face him?”

She’d wondered many times but always arrived at the same answer. No, she wasn’t afraid. Why should she be afraid to see him? She’d loved him once. Rather, she just didn’t want to allow him one more opportunity to drag her down. She’d spent enough time mourning their relationship, their sham love affair. She refused to give it one more thought.

And thus, her need to continue working for Margie. She did feel a measure of closure by playing bridesmaid, as strange as it seemed. However, the panic attacks hadn’t stopped. In fact, since Elena’s wedding, she’d suffered three more, always during the quiet of night, when no one else was around to calm her.

She’d never admit it, but she’d pulled through those attacks by thinking of Patrick and the way he’d held her, the way he’d comforted her. Hell, during the most desperate moments, when she swore she’d never breathe again, she’d even allowed herself to recall their kiss. Her nipples had pebbled in remembrance. And only when she’d recalled the particular glide of his tongue, the way he’d tasted her, did her breathing start to regulate.

Of course, Mike had been an excellent kisser, too. Some of his kisses still seared her memory bank. Look where they had gotten her.

Shoving aside all memories of Patrick’s tongue, she whipped out her phone and texted him the details for Saturday’s wedding. It promised to be a humdinger and they needed to prepare for it. In fact, when she considered exactly what they needed to prepare, she stifled a giggle. If he wanted to look the part, he’d have to go shopping with her, and soon. She’d organized her outfit ages ago, but wanted to pick up a couple of accessories. Hopefully Patrick would still be able to throw something together at this late date. If not, he’d look mighty silly.

Actually, she thought, putting her phone away, she preferred to deliver this invitation in person. She wanted to see his face when he read it. It would give her a laugh, a sorely needed laugh.

Something told her Patrick Lincoln, patron saint to suave men everywhere, might not find the next wedding quite as enjoyable.

* * * *

“You want me to wear what?”

“You heard me.”

Patrick only frowned harder, his eyes wide. As they sat together in the coffee shop, he clutched his espresso so hard she feared he might damage the cup. “Actually, I’m really hoping I heard you wrong.” He shook his head, like a dog dragging its wet carcass out of a lake. “Tell you what. I’ll get my tux dry-cleaned and wear that, okay? It’s classic black. Goes with everything.”

Winn bit her lip, trying not to chortle. “I’m sorry, Patrick. You can’t wear a tux to this wedding. You’ll look out of place. You don’t want to be the only one dressed inappropriately, do you?”

“Yes, Winn. Yes, I do.” His mouth opened and closed several times. “What you’re suggesting is…abominable.”

“Didn’t you say you were going to be the peanut butter to my bread? We won’t match if you wear a tux.”

He seemed to lose all his tan as he considered the implications. “Who are these people anyway? Why would they make their guests suffer like this?”

“Actually, it seems their guests are excited about the wedding. And Josh and Sunshine are adorable.”

“The bride’s name is Sunshine?”

Her nostrils quivered as she sucked back a belly laugh. “Do you have a problem with her name, too?”

His lips compressed and he spoke through clenched teeth. “No, but it explains a lot.”

“Look,” she said, placing a hand on his white knuckles. “I realize you’re accustomed to refined country-club weddings. Think of this as an adventure. Something unique. The stuff of good memories.”

He glanced at the invitation she’d handed him. “Nightmares, more like it.” He regarded her again, giving her the side eye. “Have you done a wedding like this before?”

“Nope. I don’t think there’s ever been a wedding like this before.” This time, she couldn’t hold back her laughter. It came bubbling out of her, a chain reaction of unladylike snorts.

He narrowed his eyes in disdain, glaring at her like an imperious Roman senator eyeing a dirty peasant. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I can’t lie.” Her stomach wobbled in mirth. “I’m loving this. Your face…you look like I just set your puppy on fire.”

“That imagery is inappropriate and frankly shocking.” He stood and put his hands on his hips.

“Where are you going?” she asked, still cackling.

“To get more coffee. Something tells me I’m going to need it.”

As soon as he turned his back, Winn put her head down on the table and allowed the tears of glee to rain down her cheeks.

* * * *

Patrick trudged after Winn as she marched down King Street West. When she’d informed him they had to shop for his wedding outfit in the theater district, his terror had climbed to new heights. Surely the woman was mad? And the wedding couple, this Josh and Sunshine, had to be certifiable. How else to explain this fiasco of a wedding? Okay, it hadn’t happened yet, but surely it would end in tears. Or with all of them being carted away to the nearest insane asylum. Weddings were supposed to be dignified affairs, or so his married friends assured him. Not that he’d ever planned one for himself.

As he considered the grim prospects, he stopped at a street meat vendor, hoping Winn wouldn’t notice he’d stopped following her. However, within seconds, she turned, like an angry schoolmarm and hauled him away before he could even think of hiding behind a sausage with extra sauerkraut.

“Let’s go,” she taunted, her lips still quivering with mirth. “Wally’s Costume Emporium is just ahead.”

“You know, Winn Busby, I feel a great need to put you over my knee right now.”

“Aw. I’m so glad to see you’re already getting into character. Keep it up, Paddy.”

“You’re incorrigible.” He paused. “Hang on. Did you say we’re shopping for my wedding outfit at Wally’s Costume Emporium?”

“Yup.”

“Dear Lord, give me strength.” She dragged him into a colorful building on which was painted various characters from modern musical theater, wizards and witches and that silly Phantom of the Opera dude.

He cursed as she led him up a long set of stairs, and he decided to reward himself by checking out her amazing ass.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
. For a moment, he forgot his trials and lost himself in her swaying hips. Fucking amazing. The only bright spot in a dismal day.

They arrived at the top floor and he had to refrain from gasping at all the baubles and sequins. It looked as if Liza Minelli had exploded in the showroom.

Winn approached a man at the counter. Dressed like a clown, he lunged at her in greeting. Patrick had to make a split decision whether or not to beat the man off with a stick, but then realized he meant no harm. He checked out the clown’s name tag, which flashed with bright lights, and realized this was the famed Wally.

“How can I help you lovely people?” Wally intoned brightly. He then collapsed into a coughing fit typical of life-long smokers. He pointed at Winn once he recovered. “You’re with the Porter-Reyes wedding, aren’t you? I got you suited up a few weeks ago.”

“That’s right, Wally. And now I need an outfit for my friend.” She glanced back at him. “I don’t suppose there are any premade ensembles left?”

Wally grimaced, which made him resemble the clown from that horrific Stephen King novel. Patrick took a step back. He’d always hated clowns. This one, more than most.

“We might have to cobble something together at this point,” said Wally. He nodded at Patrick. “You. What are your measurements?”

“Uh, 16 neck, 34 in the sleeves…”

“No, no, not those measurements. What size sword do you wanna carry?”

“Sword? I have no clue what size sword I should carry.” He glanced at Winn but she averted her gaze.

Wally stepped out from behind his counter and Patrick saw the clown costume only covered his top half. His bottom half, sadly, was attired in stained shorts and smelly sneakers with holes in them.
Dear God
.

He was in hell.

The clown sized him up. “Of course, you could do a dagger instead, but a sword’s nice for a ceremony. Pomp and circumstance and all that crap.” He rummaged through the racks and Patrick tried his best not to breathe as a musty smell filled the air. Wally produced a few garments, several of which looked as if they’d been through a war. “All the fancy costumes were taken by the other guests. Your character will have to be down on his luck.” He coughed in Patrick’s face and thrust the rags at him. “Try these on.”

He grabbed the garments and plodded toward the dressing room, a cubicle made to look like a shower, complete with a curtain that might have been see-through. “Is this the only dressing room?”

“Nah,” said Wally. “But it’s the best one. Come on out when you’re dressed, princess.”

Princess?
What the fuck? He whipped back the shower curtain, stepped inside, and shut it again. As he closed it, he glimpsed Winn’s face, so full of joy and amusement.

In that moment, he felt less ornery. He had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with her smile. In fact, he was tempted to try on a dozen silly costumes to coax that smile from her again. She was the happiest he’d ever seen her. He had to admit, despite his initial horror, there was a chance he might be having the smallest bit of fun.

But then she pulled out her phone, aimed the camera at him, and clicked.

Okay, now he wanted to spank her again.

* * * *

“Come on. We just have one more stop before I release you.” Winn grabbed Patrick’s arm and dragged him into the pantyhose store. As she pulled him, her fingers clutched his biceps and she almost swallowed her tongue at its firmness. Before she forgot herself completely, and demanded kisses followed by penetration, she let go of his arm and sighed.

He cast an appraising glance around the shop and picked up the package nearest him. When he spotted the picture of fishnet-clad legs, his eyebrow arched in interest. “This is a much better store than Wally’s.” He put a hand on his chest. “I swear it on my life.”

She pried the fishnet package out of his hand and replaced it. “You have no self-control.”

He peered at her. “You have no idea how self-control governs my actions.”

“Well, try not to get too excited while I browse the knee-high area. I know it conjures up sexy images.”

“Seriously? Knee highs?” His lips twisted. “I’m going back to the fishnets. You do what you have to do.”

With a laugh, Winn searched for her size and let him wander a few feet away. She was still giggling quietly, remembering his face at Wally’s, when the tinkling bells at the door signaled another customer. She didn’t look up until she heard a woman say her companion’s name.

“Patrick.” The woman cleared her throat. “What a surprise.”

Winn’s head shot up. When she saw the woman, she did her best to remain in her place even though she wanted to dart over to Patrick’s side and clutch his biceps again. The other woman was gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous produced by excellent bone structure and insane top-model height. The blush on her cheeks only heightened her obvious charms.

Patrick turned to the newcomer. His smile faded. “Gloria.”

The two of them stared at one another and Winn stared at them. The pause, so awkward, inspired the shop girl to meander toward them. “How can I help you folks?”

You folks
. As if they were a couple.

Winn swallowed and dropped her gaze, pretending to check sizing on a package of knee-highs. Even though the packaging clearly stated “One Size Fits All,” she reread it a dozen times to keep her eyes busy and off Patrick.

From her periphery vision, she saw him acknowledge the clerk. “Thanks. I’m good.” He walked toward Winn. “Besides, I’m here with a friend.”

Winn glanced up and nodded. She looked at the woman he’d called Gloria. Something twigged at the back of her brain as she pondered the name. Gloria…Gloria…Dietrich?

Oh, God.
That
Gloria. Winn clutched her knee-highs to her chest.

After dismissing the clerk with a shake of her bottle-blonde locks, Gloria walked toward them. With a curt nod at Winn, she addressed Patrick. “How’ve you been?”

He smiled through compressed lips. “Fine, thanks.”