Accidentally in Love with the Pilot Page 9

  Scrubbed the grout in her bathroom.

  Folded the laundry he’d taken out of the machine. It took an extra twenty minutes to figure out where all the strings were supposed to go when he folded her thongs, but he finally managed to arrange the little patches and threads into a semi-neat pile.

  He opened the living room closet door, hoping to find a vacuum cleaner, but was distracted by a black leather motorcycle jacket hanging there. What had she said about bikers at the bar the other night? She didn’t want to be one? Then what was the deal with this?

  He pulled it out. Yeah, it was a motorcycle jacket, but it was unique. It had a familiar off-center zipper, and it was black leather, but the similarity to anything familiar ended there. Every seam was top-stitched in iridescent thread, and there were tiny mirrors embedded in the material at apparently haphazard places.

  Ben didn’t pay much attention to biker style, but he was fairly certain this wasn’t a cheap knockoff and seemed too shiny and new to be a thrift-store find.

  He looked inside the collar, and there, in tiny, careful embroidery, were the words, “Motorcycle Meg, 2017.”

  Well, how about that. His bride may not want to drink like a biker, but she seemed to want to make jackets for them.

  His bride. Still a foreign phrase, but it almost sounded natural.

  Not like that pile of wedding chapel flyers and cards waving at him from the coffee table. He was tempted to ignore it, but Megan was anxious to get the marriage thing figured out, and she had enough on her plate to worry about, so he sat down with the list, pulled up Google Maps on his phone, and plotted a path.

  …

  Megan pulled into the Theatre Land costume supply store and cut her engine. Her sister’s insistence that her new costume have a couple of giant rhinestones on the chest had turned out about the way Megan expected—like Beth had giant shiny nipples when the spotlight hit her.

  And in a series of unfortunate events, Megan had to redo the whole thing.

  The good news was that she got to come to her favorite place in the universe—Theatre Land.

  The interior of the shop practically glowed with shiny, glittery, and metallic fabrics, tempered by velvets and soft satins. Her fingers itched to touch, to dream, to buy and create. She wasn’t even sure what she’d make.

  Unbidden, Ben’s words from the bar the other night came to her. I think you should go for it.

  Yeah, easy for you to say, Mr. Jet Driver Guy, she thought. He didn’t see the pleasure in her adopted siblings’ eyes when she finished something they’d asked her to make, or feel their appreciation when she made their lives easier.

  She took a moment to stop and browse through the new fabrics and wondered what Ben was doing. He’d probably rolled over and gone back to sleep for a few hours, maybe wandered out to find some library books and was now lounging by the pool watching Misty and Frannie, the showgirls who lived next door, while they lay in the sun. She’d kind of forgotten to warn him the pool was clothing-optional. Because so many show people lived at her little complex and wanted lineless tans, they’d voted and agreed to get a really high fence around the pool so residents could lay out as naked as they wanted.

  At the thought of Ben watching Misty and Frannie cavort about, she suffered an unwelcome pang of jealousy. They’d probably invite him to play naked volleyball, and he’d probably agree to participate, though she liked to imagine he’d keep his swim trunks on. But who knew?

  Finding the bolt of fabric she needed to repair Beth’s costume, she took it to the cutting counter and greeted the clerk. “I need a yard and a half of this,” she said. She really only needed half a yard, but this stuff had glittering threads running through it, and she kept imagining it as part of a Vegas landscape. Like on a quilt, but not a quilt.

  She sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. Whatever. Go ahead and buy the fabric. Maybe there will be a cholera outbreak and you’ll get quarantined in your apartment for a few weeks with nothing to do but sew.

  Ben would probably be bored during this imaginary quarantine, so she’d have to take a few breaks to keep him entertained.

  “What are you smiling about?” the clerk asked.

  Megan dragged her mind back to reality. “Oh, just thinking about what I might make with this fabric.” She sighed happily, and then her stomach growled, reminding her that Ben had promised to make her lunch. And then she’d make him dessert.

  Normally, the knowledge that a guy was waiting around for her to finish her work so she could spend time with him only served to make her want to work later, but for some reason, today, the thought of Ben at home made her want to be there, too.

  This is dangerous, her man-diet-self tried to point out.

  He’s only going to be around for a few weeks, her newlywed, possibly pregnant brain argued.

  Surely she could indulge the newlywed side and go home without feeling bad. After all, the honeymoon would be over in a few short weeks.

  …

  Ben put the finishing touches on his fourth wedding chapel itinerary just as the timer dinged to let him know lunch was ready. He stopped to plug his phone in on the way to the kitchen, inhaling the familiar aromas of home.

  In spite of his boasts to Megan, he didn’t cook much for himself, simply because he was so rarely home, and his best dishes were high-volume recipes—and even he could get sick of the same thing after the ninth day.

  He’d pulled out all the stops today, though he worried his Nana’s Place meal—which was good old-fashioned Southern home cooking—might not be as fancy as what she could get here. But who was he kidding? Her freezer was full of Lean Cuisines, and most of those moldy takeout containers had held leftover pizza and cheeseburgers.

  Now the stove was crammed with pots and pans, and the oven held a merrily bubbling pan of macaroni and cheese. He’d even fired up the brand-spanking-new Crock-Pot for the turnip greens.

  Hopefully, Megan would like what he’d made, because her freezer was going to be crammed full of home-cooked meals by the time he left Vegas.

  “Oh my God. What is that?”

  He turned to see Megan’s face, to find out if this was a good “oh my God,” or if he’d be running out to pick up McDonald’s for lunch today.

  “I think I can actually see the cartoon finger beckoning me toward the kitchen,” she said, smiling in amazement. “If I’d known all those gadgets could work this kind of magic, I might actually have tried the cooking thing.”

  Trying not to preen, he said, “Most of your things are still in the boxes. A sharp knife and a cutting board do most of the tricks.”

  “What’s all this?”

  He held up a finger, asking her to wait a minute, while he put on an oven mitt and bent to the oven.

  “First up, Nana’s world-famous macaroni n’ cheese.”

  “I’ve heard of this dish you call macaroni and cheese, but in my world it’s fluorescent orange and comes from a box,” she told him.

  “I thought your mom is Italian. Shouldn’t your people do something even fancier?”

  “She must have hidden the Stouffer’s lasagna box before you got there the other day,” Megan said, perching on a barstool at the counter. “What else ya got?”

  He began lifting foil from dishes, and said, “Smothered chicken, fried fish, fried okra, and corn bread.”

  “I think I just heard my arteries play Taps.”

  “And turnip greens. To counteract all the fried.”

  “I don’t know if I can eat enough greens to take the edge off that.”

  “If you put enough hot sauce on ’em you can,” he told her, beginning to scoop hearty portions of everything onto a couple of plates.

  He turned and set one in front of Megan and handed her a set of utensils before sitting down next to her.

  She just looked at him.

  The knot in his stomach, nearly always present, tightened slightly. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re n
ot hungry?”

  Another shake. “No. I mean yes. I am. Hungry.” Her voice was tiny.

  “You don’t like chicken? Fish? Macaroni?” He was beginning to sound desperate, even to himself. “What about corn bread? Everyone likes corn bread, don’t they?”

  Her voice, when it came out, squeaked. “I like it all.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  A tear slid down her cheek when she finally said, “You cooked for me. Just for me.”

  What kind of guys had she dated before that none of them had ever taken care of her? That was just fucked up. But all he said, was, “Oh.”

  She slid off her stool and wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest, and said, “Thank you,” in a barely audible mumble.

  He hugged her back and said, “You’re welcome.”

  And the solitary, hold-himself-apart-from-the-crowd guy held his center-of-everything-all-the-time wife until the timer dinged on the sweet potato pie.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What time do you have to be at the theater?” Ben asked while Megan rinsed dishes. He took a plate and stacked it in the dishwasher. He thought maybe he’d make pizza for supper if she was going to be home.

  “Six-thirty,” she said as her phone began to ring. She dried her hands and hit the answer button. “Hey, Paul,” she said, and listened for a long moment. “Sure, see you then.” She rang off. “Okay, I have to be at the theater at six-thirty, but I need to go by the dry cleaner on the way there. I’d better be out of here by six.”

  A text buzzed in. She looked at it, laughed, and said, “I guess I need to be ready to go by five-thirty.”

  Did her family ever cut her a break? Good thing he was so quiet, otherwise he’d be biting his tongue.

  He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was two now. They’d planned to search out wedding chapels this afternoon, but he didn’t want to add anything more to what her family had already heaped on her today. No matter how much his captain mind wanted to take over, he’d let her make the decisions about what would happen this afternoon. He knew she wanted to resolve the wedding issue, and that would take some weight from her shoulders.

  “Do you think we’ll have time to visit any of the wedding chapels?” he asked.

  She started to open her mouth, but hesitated before saying, “I suppose we could go to a few.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he agreed, pulling up Google Maps on his phone. “I’ve got a couple of itineraries mapped out.”

  She looked surprised. “You mapped them out?”

  “I like maps. I’m good at navigation.”

  Her shoulders barely sagged, but her smile was bright as she said, “That’s great.”

  Was it? Her body said, “No,” but her expression said, “Yes.”

  Ben opted to assume she had on her game face. He was used to being in charge of missions, but this time, he’d take second chair. He said, “The route with the chapels closest to the Masquerade and most likely to be where we tied the knot is a few hours’ worth of travel. Do you want to take a shorter route with less likely options? Or—”

  “I don’t care,” she said, cutting him off, then closed her eyes and inhaled. Exhaled. “Let’s take the shorter route. I don’t want to mess with your system.”

  “Okay… Do you want to take my car or yours?”

  “Since I’m more familiar with the area, why don’t I drive?” she suggested with a tight smile.

  He cleared his throat, hesitant to rock this already-unsteady boat, but said, “Do you mind driving my car? I don’t think I’ll fit so well in yours.”

  She nodded, put the keys to her little Honda down, and took his from the basket by the door. “Let’s go.”

  The ride was quiet, except for directions. For the first time since he’d met her, he struggled to think of something to say. Normally, their silences were companionable, but this one…this one was awkward.

  He almost wished her family would call to break some of the tension.

  Ben had been looking forward to spending the afternoon with her, even if they had to go on an undo-the-wedding quest, but she was annoyed, and he didn’t know how to fix that.

  “Wind Beneath My Wings” rang out from Megan’s pocket. There was that trusty phone. She sighed. “Would you mind getting that?” she asked, digging it out and handing it to him.

  “Hello, Megan’s phone,” he said.

  “Hi, Ben. This is Beth. Where’s Meg?”

  “She’s next to me, but she’s driving.”

  “Oh.” There was a confused silence on the other end.

  “Something I can do for you?” he asked.

  “Well…can you put me on speakerphone?”

  He looked at Megan and raised the phone in question. He’d make excuses if she wanted him to. But of course, she nodded, so he said, “Sure.” He pushed the button and held the phone in Megan’s direction.

  “What’s up, Beth?” Megan asked.

  “I have to talk to you. Harry needs to be tutored in math. The teacher can do it before school, or we can take him to a learning center after school. If I have to get him to school early, we won’t be able to carpool with the Smiths, and they won’t want to drive home in the afternoons if I’m not taking their kids in the mornings. But if we do the afternoon thing, I’ll have to get Owen up from his nap early, and that’ll mess with Ron’s schedule—you know how important his schedule is. What should I do?”

  Megan was silent for a moment, eyes narrowed in contemplation. Finally, she said, “What about this? I take Lexxie to dance at four-thirty on Wednesdays and Fridays. Can Harry have tutoring on those days? Then I can swing by, get him to the learning center, and by the time he’s done, Owen should be up from his nap, and you can do pickup?”

  “Omigod, that’s brilliant!” Beth screeched into the phone, causing both Megan and Ben to flinch. “I’ll talk to you later. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Probably buy a Ouija board,” Megan muttered as soon as her sister had rung off.

  They’d reached the first chapel on their list, and Megan turned into the vacant parking lot just as her phone rang again.

  “Great. Now someone probably wants me to tell them which urinal to use in the men’s room.” She picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”

  And suddenly, Ben understood. It wasn’t just that her family relied on her to do everything, it was that they relied on her to make decisions. And he’d been doing the same thing today. He’d thought he was being magnanimous by suggesting she choose their activities, when she was actually exhausted by it.

  “Go with the blue one for tonight,” Megan was saying. “Drop the green one off at the twenty-four hour dry cleaner, and that’ll give me time to fix the red one.”

  She said goodbye and hung up, staring at the World Famous Little White Wedding Chapel. “World Famous, huh?” she said. “I live in this town and I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s probably a relativity thing. This is the most famous wedding chapel that’s both little and white.”

  She nodded. “So there’s also probably a World Famous Medium White Wedding Chapel, too.”

  “And a World Famous Little Green Wedding Chapel.”

  Neither of them made the first move toward the door.

  Ben didn’t want to go in. The afternoon had already gotten off to a wonky start, and the thought of trying to remedy their wedding mistake made him tired. So he said, “It doesn’t look open, but there’s another place on this block. What do you say we walk down that way?”

  She blinked. “Okay.”

  He had no intention of getting to the next chapel, because he’d spied something as they’d driven past he thought would give Megan a few minutes’ respite from thinking about everyone else’s problems, and he wasn’t going to ask her if she wanted to go or not. She could simply say no if she didn’t want to.

  They got out of the car and walked toward the sidewalk. He wanted to take her hand in his
, but thought better of it. She was edgy, and he didn’t want to overstep. They might be “together” around her family and even more “together” when they were alone in her apartment, but he didn’t know what the rules were in public.

  The street was lined with small shops and restaurants, most from an earlier era. They passed a tattoo parlor with photos of all the usual markings, and a few not-so-usual.

  “You don’t have any tattoos, do you?” Megan asked.

  “Nope. Always wanted one, never decided on anything I’d want forever.”

  She laughed. “Me, too, though I kinda want to get something cool in Chinese characters.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem. And how would I know if it really said what I wanted it to? What if I asked for ‘Live, Love, Laugh’ and got ‘Potato, Sleep, Hamster’?”

  “That would suck,” he agreed. And then they were past the tattoo place and in front of a small building with a window full mannequins dressed in all manner of sequins, rhinestones, and feathers. “Look,” he said, feigning surprise. “What’s this place?”

  “Oh!” Megan gasped, her face lighting up with delight. She read the sign. “Madame Diva’s House of Former Glory. It’s a secondhand costume store!”

  “After you.” Ben reached for the door and opened it for her.

  She looked confused. “I think we’re supposed to be visiting wedding chapels.”

  He nodded. “We have time to browse, don’t we?”

  …

  Within moments, Megan had forgotten her to-do list, how tired she was of making decisions for her whole family, how bad she felt for getting mad at Ben for trying to be nice—forgotten about all of it in a crowded little thrift store filled to the brim with old costumes. For the second time in one day, she indulged in one of her favorite pastimes—imagining all the things she could create if she had the time.

  “Wow.” Ben held a hanger with a half dozen strips of black leather, silver links, and not much else. He read the tag. “‘The Fifty Shades of Pain Revue, October 2014-February 2015.’ Ugh.”