Flower Girl Bride Read Online Free PDF Page B

his profile, surprised and pleased that he would admit that. He shook his head, clearly as startled as I was by what he’d said, but then he glanced sidelong at me and smiled, a tiny dimple appearing on his right cheek.
    I tried not to notice, really I did. Just a single cute dimple and a smile in my direction, and I was feeling tingly inside all the way to my bare toes in my strappy sandals. That was just pitiful.
    And as quickly as that, the tension that had dissipated inside the truck cab was back and doing a pretty good job of stealing all the oxygen. If I were in the habit of being honest with myself, I might have admitted that this tension was different than the other—about awareness rather than avoidance—but why go and change my habits when they were working for me?
    The silence seemed louder this time, our chorused breathing and the air conditioner’s drone the only interruptions as we pulled into the parking lot of Gino’s Taste of Italy. Was Luke waiting for me to say something? If so, what did he expect me to say? And what if I didn’t want to be the one to speak up first? I sat for several long seconds, waiting him to give in and fill the silence.
    Say something, will you.
    Somebody spoke up, all right. It just wasn’t who I expected.
    â€œDaddy, what’s a matchmaker?”

Chapter Three
    I glanced down the long line of checkered-cloth covered tables that had been pushed together at Gino’s. Far too many of us were crammed into spots along those tables, but nobody seemed to mind. In fact, from the laughter coming from various spots throughout the room, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.
    Except Luke, the grouch.
    Sitting across the table from me, a few people down, he’d been quiet all through dinner, had barely touched his baked ziti. Every time I’d caught his eye, he’d scowled at me. Okay, I had to admit that he might have had a small reason to be annoyed. A forty-pound reason.
    I couldn’t help it that most of the seats were already taken when we’d arrived at the restaurant or that when there were two remaining side-by-side seats that Sam had begged to sit by me instead of his dad. With Luke’s sour expression, who would blame his son for making that choice?
    â€œHey, Miss Cassie, look. I have a mustache.”
    Sam looked up from his sundae to show me his upper lip, which he had now painted with chocolate fudge. While the rest of the adults were still finishing their entrées, the child had already moved on to dessert.
    â€œWow, that’s a pretty fancy job you’ve done there.”
    â€œIt’s chocolate.”
    â€œNo way. I thought it was a real mustache.”
    I didn’t mention the chocolate that had made its way down to Sam’s pale yellow polo shirt and had combined with the remnants of garlic bread and marinara sauce already there. Glancing at Luke, I caught him frowning at me again. I shouldn’t have been encouraging Sam’s mischievousness, but he was just so adorable that I couldn’t resist.
    Sam reached a grubby hand over to twirl his finger in one of the tendrils at my cheek. I could just imagine how stiff my hair would be when he was finished with it, but the sweet gesture made me smile. That same dull ache I’d felt earlier when he’d crawled into my lap and hugged me, settled in my chest, making me wish for things that might have been.
    To avoid the pain that came with wishing, I tucked the thought away as I looked up from the last of my fettuccini Alfredo. From across the table, I felt as much as saw Luke’s gaze on us, intense and not quite pleased. I wished my cheeks didn’t have to burn like that, letting everyone know what I was thinking.
    Luke blinked a few times and turned his head to look at the other end of the table, but I sensed that I’d seen something raw, something unmasked in him, beforehe’d shuttered it away. I stared at my plate again,