Liz Fielding - The Bridesmaid's Reward

The receptionist stepped back, holding the door wide so that she could get through, then closed it behind her. Leaving her alone with the guy with the seriously buff body and the good catching hands. She could still feel the imprint of them where he’d grabbed her.

It was clearly going to be one of those days.

‘Hello again,’ she said.

He’d been looking at some notes in an open file on the desk. He didn’t actually flinch as he glanced up with the beginnings of a smile curving a mouth that was as promising as his body. But he did look at her for what seemed like the longest five seconds in the history of the world before indicating the chair facing his desk.

‘Come in, Miss Layton.’

‘Dodie,’ she said, staying where she was. People only called her ‘Miss Layton’ when they were going to say something unpleasant.

‘Dodie. You’re a friend of Gina’s?’ he said, picking up on the receptionist’s comment.

‘We dabbled in the same fingerpaint at nursery school,’ she said. ‘I stayed with the paint while Gina discovered the jungle gym. The rest, as they say, is history. And you are?’

‘Brad Morgan. Do you want to take a seat while I check out the notes Gina left for Angie?’

‘Won’t I burn more calories standing up? I haven’t got much time to get into shape.’

‘I don’t believe it will make a significant difference,’ he said. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Coffee?’ Things were looking up, she thought as she crossed to the chair and sat down. ‘Is that allowed?’

‘It’s not encouraged,’ he admitted. ‘But—’

‘You don’t believe it will make a significant difference.’ That smile almost broke out of its restraints. He made a valiant effort to keep it under control, however. ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’ She’d taken the precaution of tanking up on caffeine before leaving home. And she smiled at him—the wide-screen version—just to show him how it should be done. ‘I didn’t realise you work here.’

He looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. ‘Don’t let the limp fool you. I could make you sweat if I put my mind to it.’

Mr Sensitive wouldn’t have to put her through a full body workout to make her sweat. He was raising her temperature just by looking at her. She was beginning to take a serious dislike to the man; she wasn’t the one who’d made an issue of his dodgy leg. In fact, she was beginning to wish he’d looked the other way when she’d stumbled and just let her fall.

She didn’t say that.

Instead, with a gesture that took in his worn grey sweats, she said, ‘I simply meant that you don’t quite fit the glossy corporate image.’ Then, because she always said too much when she was nervous, ‘Is your good tracksuit in the wash?’

Brad bit back a sudden urge to grin. Dodie Layton was overweight, out of condition and, with her just-keeping-it-out-of-my-eyes hairstyle, lack of make-up and unpolished nails, she seemed to have completely bypassed the notion of ‘perfect grooming’.

Her attitude, however, was refreshing. Stimulating, even. He felt stimulated to eject her from his state-of-the-art health club. She didn’t fit the image. She was making the place look untidy.

On the other hand it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him without any thought for the consequences. Or weighing up the impression they were making. Apparently she didn’t care what kind of impression she was making—at least, not on him.

And wasn’t the whole point of his health club chain to help people like her achieve the ‘image’?

He held out his hand for her temporary membership form. ‘I’ll take that, shall I?’

He wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, or why Gina was apparently giving this woman the run of the place without expecting her to pay for membership, but he decided to go along with it for the time being.

‘I see from Gina’s notes that you’re hoping to lose a couple of dress sizes.’ An interesting way of putting it.

‘Not hoping. It’s absolutely vital that I can get into a size…’ She stopped, apparently unwilling to betray her present dress size. ‘Something smaller.’

‘And you’ve got six weeks?’ When she didn’t answer, he looked up. She did not look happy. ‘Have I got that wrong?’

‘No. Yes…’

He sat back. ‘Perhaps you’d like some time to consider the question?’ he offered.

‘No. The thing is I did tell Gina six weeks. But my mother called round this morning and apparently the final fitting for the dress is much sooner than that.’

‘Fitting?’ He frowned. Dress? ‘You’re getting married?’

She flushed. ‘Does it sound that unlikely?’

‘Not at all,’ he said, instantly regretting his tone. It wasn’t for him to suggest she wouldn’t make some man a wonderful wife. He was sure that on a good day she was a person of infinite warmth and charm. Today just wasn’t a good day.

But weddings were not his favourite subject and it was beginning to feel as if this woman had been sent especially to torment him.

The sparkle in her large, dark eyes would drag a response from even the most unwilling of men, however. Looking at her, flustered and furious with him, he felt a compelling urge to put his arms around her and give her a cuddle. Found himself wishing he’d taken the opportunity when she was shaky and vulnerable.

Unlikely that she was getting married? No, he decided. Despite everything, he conceded that it was not unlikely at all.

‘But you’re not wearing a ring,’ he pointed out, rather more gently, by way of apology. ‘And you have left it rather late to get into shape for your big day.’ Unless of course it was a rush job. His stomach clenched unexpectedly at the thought as he glanced at the form again. The section on medical conditions had been left blank, but there was no point in pussy-footing about. ‘If you’re pregnant, you should have mentioned it on the form.’

‘Well, thanks,’ she snapped. Abruptly the sparkle disappeared, leaving him with the impression that the sun had gone behind a cloud. She was clearly not amused by his less than tactful comment on her shape. ‘But for your information it’s my sister who’s fallen for the happy ever after bit. Being older, I’ve got a better idea of the reality. I’ve simply been drafted in to make sure the pageboys don’t put white mice down the necks of the flower girls. At least not in church. I’m chief bridesmaid,’ she added, presumably in case he was not only rude, but slow on the uptake.

Firmly put in his place, and oddly pleased to be there, he said, ‘That sounds like fun.’

‘It sounds like hard work to me. And if I have to be hampered by a floor-length dress made from a fabric totally unsuitable for child-minding, it would help if it didn’t split under the strain. Should I have to make any sudden moves.’ Then, like a ray of sunshine peeping out from behind a storm cloud, her apparently irrepressible smile was heralded by the appearance of a dimple. ‘Virtue, however, is its own reward. It won’t all be sticky fingers and nervous vomiting. Traditionally the chief bridesmaid gets the best man…’ The flush returned, hotter and pinker, as she ground to a halt.

She was blushing? How delightful. How unexpected. She had to be—what? He glanced at the form. She’d given her age as twenty-six. If she’d been in the same school year as Gina he could add at least a year to that. Maybe two. Which suggested any other figures she’d put down were suspect, too.

‘I’ve got the picture,’ he said. ‘You believe the best man will be more receptive to your ample charms if they are a little less…’

It occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that he wasn’t having a particularly good day either, and he stopped before he said something he might have cause to regret.