LITMIR.BIZ

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pulled her wedding dress out of storage.

      Now here she was half dressed for the big event. Only an hour to go and she’d be Mrs. Griffin Stevens. It had only taken her thirty years and three grooms to get to this moment.

      “Now,” Aunt Maudie said, eyeing her gaudy watch that had more fake diamonds than a pawnshop, “let’s get you into that fancy wedding gown.”

      Annie’s stomach fluttered with sudden nerves and her mind spun with questions and doubts. She shoved them away. This was what she wanted; Griffin was the man for her. Wasn’t he? How could a woman be sure?

      No, no, no. She shook loose those thoughts. I’m sure. I’m positive. I’m confident this is the right thing to do.

      She grabbed her aunt’s hand. “What if something happens between now and the wedding?”

      “What could happen?”

      Annie laughed. “Anything! An earthquake could hit.”

      “In Texas?”

      “There could be a flood.”

      “We’re in the middle of a drought, sugar.”

      “Lightning could strike Griffin and kill him.”

      Maudie glanced out the window. “The sky’s as blue as your eyes today.”

      “He could trip and get a concussion and forget all about me.”

      “Not likely.”

      Her real fear surfaced. “He could change his mind.”

      “You know what you need?” Aunt Maudie gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze.

      “What?”

      “French fries.”

      She laughed. “Now?”

      “Not a better time. I’ll run to the D-Q Palace and be right back. Nothing better than comfort food to get your mind off your worries. Then we’ll get you all trussed up in that fancy gown.”

      Annie caught her aunt’s mischievous grin. “That does sound tempting.”

      “It’ll settle your stomach and calm your nerves.” She scooped up her purse that resembled a city slicker’s saddle and headed for the door. “This will be your last chance for the D-Q’s finest greasiest fries. Nothing better.”

      “There are fast-food places in Dallas.” In fact, the thought of one on every street corner made her almost giddy with excitement.

      “Not the same.” Aunt Maudie skimmed her hand down her curvaceous figure. “When you get to Dallas, you better be careful of eating too much fast food. Keep your figure, sugar. Men like a good bod.”

      “I’ll remember that.” Annie grinned, feeling lighthearted now and more optimistic that her wedding might actually take place.

      “Remember, sugar, when you get a man, you have to keep him happy.” She gave a lascivious wink. “Know what I mean?”

      Boy, did she! That’s why she hadn’t given in and had sex with Griffin before now. Her mother had always said, “Why buy the cow if you get the milk for free?” Convinced that having sex too early had been her mistake with her first two fiancés, Annie had tried a new tactic with Griffin. Now, tonight, she’d release all those natural urges and knock Griff’s socks—and the rest of his clothes—off. It would be one heckuva night that would keep him grinning for weeks.

      “I’ll get into that fancy underwear you gave me while you’re gone.”

      “It’s called a garter and silk stockings, sugar.” Her aunt gave a wink. “And trust me, men love ’em. Especially husbands!”

      Aunt Maudie should know. She’d had six of her own. And reportedly a few that weren’t hers in between.

      But Annie planned to marry only once, for all eternity.

      “WHO’S GOING to tell the bride the bad news?” Grant Stevens studied the other three groomsmen with slow deliberation, hoping one of them would be man enough to step forward.

      Each of them wore the prescribed black tuxes for the supposedly joyous occasion, but from their deepening frowns they might as well have been at a funeral. All of them avoided Grant’s hard stare. Beads of sweat dotted their foreheads. Grant’s bow tie suddenly felt like a hangman’s noose chafing his Adam’s apple.

      He’d been in the same situation twice before and it didn’t get any easier. If there was one positive thing about his parents being out of the country, it was that they weren’t witnessing another Griffin debacle.

      Thank God being a best man wasn’t like acting as a second in a duel. He didn’t have to step in and take the groom’s place. No, dammit, he’d just get to shatter another bride’s dream.

      It was enough to reinforce Grant’s determination to stay single. Hadn’t he given the bad news to his brother’s first fiancée and received a soggy, mascara-stained shirt in return? Then he’d delivered the blow to Griffin’s second fiancée and received a broken nose for his trouble. Now his brother had jilted number three and Grant wanted to wipe his hands clean of the whole matrimonial farce. What was wrong with being a bachelor, with playing the field? It was his preference.

      Like a pipe organ’s chords silence resonated in the foyer of the church as Grant waited for a volunteer. The heat of the west Texas sun filtered through the stained-glass windows. Red, blue and green sunspots dotted the marble floor like confetti. Eager guests were filing into the chapel. Grant had called the three groomsmen over to a secluded corner for a huddle. A decision had to be made. Soon, before the wedding march began.

      John Cummings shuffled his feet and scratched his receding hairline. “I wouldn’t know what the hell to say.”

      Peter Rawlins ducked his head and mumbled, “Me, neither.”

      Eric Simmons crossed his arms over his chest. “The groom’s your brother, Grant. Don’t you think you should handle it?”

      “Diplomatically, of course,” John offered, nodding his agreement.

      “Cut right to the point and get it over with quick.” Peter clapped Grant on the shoulder.

      “Remind her she can keep the ring. That should alleviate some of the pain—” Eric cleared his throat “—and humiliation.”

      That had never worked before. Maybe Eric’s perm had fried his brain. Grant clearly remembered the scar Griffin’s last fiancée had pinned on the bridge of his nose with the engagement ring she’d kept.

      He ground his teeth in anger. He wanted to wring his brother’s neck for running out on his bride-to-be…again. Part of him understood. He had the same affliction—ice-cold feet—when it came to saying I do. But why did Griffin have to get himself in this predicament? Why couldn’t he tell a woman on the first date that he wasn’t interested in marriage?

      “What are you? Chicken?” he asked the three groomsmen.

      “Hell, yes,” they responded in unison.

      “You haven’t met the bride.” Peter’s gaze cut toward the door at the end of the hallway. “She’s a knockout, but a…a…”

      John combed his fingers through the memory of his hair as if searching for the right description of the bride. “A real pistol.”

      Eric nodded. “She’s something to look at, all right. But I wouldn’t want to set her off.”

      Grant’s forehead creased. Maybe that’s why Griffin had run back to Dallas like a bull was chasing him.

      Squaring his shoulders, Grant prepared to burst the bride’s blissful bubble. He would simply handle her the way he dealt with clients whose investments had plummeted on Wall Street. He’d say it straight out. No beating around the bush. If that didn’t work then he’d treat her the

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