Gena Showalter - Forbidden Craving

Tamara looked over at her and frowned. Back straight, Shaye, she mouthed. Smile.

A straight back displays your breasts to their best advantage, Shaye.

A smile is honey and men are flies, Shaye.

Do you want to die alone, Shaye?

Shaye straightened her shoulders to make her mother happy and pretended to focus on the minister.

“‘To love, honor and cherish...’” His smooth baritone created a perfect harmony with the gentle lap of waves.

Mostly, she heard love, blah, blah, blah.

Love. How she despised the word. People used love as an excuse to do ridiculous things.

He cheated on me, but I’m going to stay with him because I love him.

He hit me, but I’m going to stay with him because I love him.

He stole every penny from my savings, but I’m not going to press charges because I love him.

Her mother had said each of those things at one time or another.

And how many times had Tamara’s boyfriends groped Shaye herself, claiming they’d fallen in love with her?

Her, a mere child.

Shaye’s father was another prime example of the “love is all that matters” idiocy.

I can’t live with you and your mom, Shaye. I don’t love her anymore. I love Glenda.

His secretary. Of course, after Glenda had lost her sparkle, he’d fallen for Charlene, then Kasey, then Morgan.

When Morgan divorced him to be with another man, Shaye sent him an I’m so sorry card. What she’d really wanted to send was a Finally getting what you deserve sucks big-time, doesn’t it? card, but none had been available—the very reason she’d started making her own.

Over the years, her Anti-Card business had only grown. There were a lot of people out there who wanted to tell someone to screw off—in a fun way.

She worked close to eighty hours a week, but she loved every second. A love that would never come back to bite her.

Thanks to popular cards like I’m so miserable without you, it’s almost like you’re here and You can do more with a kind word and a gun than with just a kind word, she provided jobs for twenty-three like-minded men and women and made more money than she’d ever dreamed possible.

Life, for the weird-looking little girl who’d only ever disappointed her parents, was finally...not good, not really, but good enough.

She sighed.

“You may now kiss the bride,” the minister said.

Amid joyous applause, the brow-lifted, cheek-implanted groom laid a wet one on Tamara, who returned the kiss with vigor.

How long would this marriage last?

Not my problem. Soon Shaye would be on a plane, returning to Cincinnati and her quiet little apartment. No family. Few friends. Absolutely zero romance.

Life would be worth living again.

The glowing couple turned and strolled down the aisle, hand in hand. The lyrical thrums of a harp echoed behind them.

Daughter duty done at last. As everyone else filed toward the reception tent, Shaye inched closer to the sandy shore, moving away from the masses, escape within her grasp.

“Where are you going, silly?” A bridesmaid latched on to her arm with a surprisingly intense grip. “Remember, we’re supposed to take pictures and serve the guests.”

She swallowed a groan. Basically, the torture had only just begun.

* * *

AFTER AN HOUR of posing for a photographer who finally gave up trying to make the antisocial daughter of the bride smile, Shaye served cake to a line of champagne-guzzling guests. As expected. Most of those guests ignored her, merely grabbing a plate and ambling away. A few tried to talk to her, but quickly retreated when she snapped a cranky reply.

When the line stopped progressing, she glanced up, her eyes narrowed. A man—one of the groomsmen—had claimed his dessert but hadn’t stepped out of the way. Instead, he grinned at her.

“No, thank you,” she said, being preemptive in case that grin meant Let’s get our flirt on.

He balanced the cake in one hand and swirled his champagne flute with the other. His green eyes twinkled with merriment. “I’ll take a little slice of you if you’re serving it.”

Wow. Talk about inappropriate.

Should she throat punch him now or later?

Being nice is a choice, her therapist once told her. You don’t have to be cruel to others, physically or emotionally, to get your point across. All you need to do is communicate your desires in a firm but polite manner.

“I’m not serving myself to anyone.” Choose your attitude. Communicate your desires. “I’m not interesting in flirting, either.” Good? Good.

Groomsman’s grin only broadened. “How about a dance? I’ll do all the flirting, and you can simply enjoy the fruits of my labors.”

“No, thank you,” she repeated. She turned to the man standing behind him and handed over a plate. “Sorry for your wait, sir.”

Groomsman’s grin slipped a little. He drained his glass and set the empty on the table, exactly where it didn’t belong. “I get the feeling your mother...exaggerated about the best way to approach you. I should probably—”

“Shaye, darling,” her mother called airily. The scent of her expensive perfume wafted as she floated to Shaye’s side, blending with the aroma of sugar and spice. “Wonderful. You’ve already met your new stepbrother, Preston.”

Stepbrother? Well, that showed exactly how much contact Shaye had had with her mom these past few years. She hadn’t known groom number six had children. Actually, she hadn’t even met her newest daddy until an hour before the wedding.

Shaye glanced at Preston. “Nice to meet you.”

“A true pleasure,” he said, a little unsure.

He was a very handsome man, but he wasn’t even close to her type: absent.

She gathered two plates to pass to the couple behind him. Communicate desire. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must finish serving the guests before there’s a revolt.” A few ladies at the back of the line looked ready to claw out her eyes just to eat the jelly inside.

Tamara uttered a strained laugh. “There’s no reason to be rude, Shaye. You can do your duties while getting to know your new brother.”

“No, thank you.” He wouldn’t be her brother for long. No reason to forge a relationship already doomed to fail.

Her mother hissed, “I hate when you speak those three little words.”

“Why? They’re polite.”

“You,” her mother said, pointing to one of the other horrendously clad bridesmaids. “Take over the cake. Shaye, you will come with me.”

Strong fingers curled around Shaye’s wrist. A second later she was being dragged out of the reception tent to the edge of the beach.

Sand squished between her sandaled toes as a warm, salty breeze wrapped itself around her, swishing her grass skirt over her knees. Sunlight had faded completely. Now slivers of ethereal moonlight illuminated their path. Waves sang a gentle, soothing song.

Her mom’s velvety-brown eyes—eyes exactly like her own—narrowed slightly. She dropped Shaye’s hand as if contact could cause premature wrinkles. “Do you want to kill my hopes and dreams? Because that’s what you’re doing.”

Shaye wrapped her arms around her middle. “Your hopes and dreams...for me?”

“Of course for you! At the rate you’re going, you’re going to die alone, not just unloved but despised. I’ll never have a grandbaby.”

“There’s nothing wrong with dying alone. I imagine it’s quite peaceful.”

“Would it kill you to be nice?” Tamara smoothed a wisp of hair from her face. “To pretend you have a heart for just a few hours?”

That stung. Badly. “I’ll worry about me, and you worry about you, okay? This kind of upset could cause you to shrivel up like a raisin.”

Horrified, Tamara patted the skin around her eyes. “I just had Botox. I shouldn’t have a single line or wrinkle. Do you see a wrinkle? Tell me!”