When I find it, I nearly giggle.
I give Mason’s hand a squeeze and sit back so I can better take in Maddie’s expression when I lob this grenade into her lap.
“I wholeheartedly agree! And I know just the girl for you, if I do say so myself. Bettina Walters will be so excited to meet you.”
Two bright spots of red appear on Maddie’s cheeks. Through stiff lips, she repeats slowly, “Bettina Walters? Are you crazy?”
She’s furious.
Lord forgive me, but this is gonna be so. Much. Fun.
Bettina Walters makes Jessica Rabbit look like a nun. The word “bombshell” was invented for women like her. When you look at her, it’s hard to decide what to focus on first: the hair, the boobs, or the caboose at the back end of it all, swayin’ like a metronome and mesmerizin’ all the males within a five mile distance.
“I think it’s a fine idea, dear niece,” I say airily, smiling at Mason. “This here’s a red-blooded American man—”
Maddie cuts in, “As opposed to a blue-blooded Amazonian reptile?”
“—who will surely appreciate the many God-given assets Bettina possesses—”
“Ha! If you count gold digging and ex-husband collecting as assets.”
“—along with the fact that she’s tryin’ to better herself by gettin’ closer to the Lord—”
“Or using church as a smokescreen for her reputation.”
“—and how she won’t be after him for his money ’cause she’s got a boatload of her own.”
Her eyes murderous, Maddie grinds her jaw. She doesn’t have a smart response to that, because it’s true. Divorced four times from an ever-wealthier succession of older men, Bettina Walters is richer than Midas.
She’s trash, but she’s rich trash, and always on the lookout for her next ex.
And if I’m readin’ this situation right, no amount of money or boobage is gonna sway Mason Spark toward the dark side, because his eye’s already been caught by someone else.
That someone else just needs a little helpin’ hand to see what’s right in front of her.
Leaning back against the pew and grinning, Mason says, “Well. This Bettina sounds like just my type.”
Maddie lifts her chin and sends Mason a look so freezing I’m surprised the boy doesn’t instantly turn to stone. She says darkly, “She is.”
Then she folds her arms over her chest and directs her frosty gaze toward the front of the church and the cross hanging above the altar. She appears to be prayin’ for the strength not to murder me and Mason both.
My job done, I slump abruptly against the pew and have myself a nice little nap just as the pastor begins his sermon.
I know it’s probably a sin, but faking a case of chronic narcolepsy seems so mild compared to all the other sins I’ve committed in my life, and is honestly so useful in so many situations, that I’m takin’ my chances the good Lord will overlook it.
I mean, look at giraffes. And porcupines. And politicians!
If anyone’s got a sense of humor, it’s God.
10
Maddie
I’m going to kill them both with my bare hands.
No—that’s just the indigestion talking. Why should I care if Mason wants to meet that man-eater Bettina?
I don’t. I don’t care one bit.
I’m disappointed, but only in a professional sense. Here I am trying to match him with women of quality and Auntie Waldine throws the East Coast’s most scandalous floozy right in his lap.
Was trying to match him with women of quality. Past tense. Now I’ll have to listen to him talk all about his “date” with Bettina after it happens, and give him advice about what to do next.
Because me and my big fat mouth insisted on being his dating coach instead of refunding him his money, which I would’ve been well within my contractual rights to do.
Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.
Maybe I’m coming down with the flu?
I touch my hand to my forehead, but it’s cool and dry. No signs of illness. Ignoring Auntie Waldine snoring on my right side and Mason vacuuming up all the oxygen in church with his massive gravitational-pull presence on my left, I try to focus on the sermon.
It’s useless. My brain keeps poking me and nodding in Mason’s direction.
I close my eyes and practice deep breathing until Mason leans over and whispers, “You okay?”
“Hunky dory.”
“Then why are you breathing like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a beached whale.”
I heave a sigh and open my eyes to look at him. “If I throw a stick, will you run away?”
He crinkles his nose. It’s boyishly adorable, and I hate him for it.
“So I’m a dog now?”
“Would you rather switch with me and be a whale?”
He sucks in his cheeks, and I get the feeling he’s trying not to burst into laughter.
When I turn my attention back to the pastor droning on at the altar, I know Mason’s still looking at my profile. I know because the left side of my face feels as if it’s on fire.
He leans in and whispers, “I’m sorry I said that thing about you sucking at being a therapist. I didn’t mean it. You would’ve been great.”
When I don’t respond or glance in his direction, Mason adds, “I’m sorry about the cat lady thing, too.”
Now I can’t help but glance over at him. “So you don’t really think I’m prim?”
“Oh, no,” he says instantly, shaking his head. “That was just a bad choice of words. I should’ve said…”
Intrigued, I lift my brows and wait with anticipation as he thinks.
When he pronounces, “Puritanical,” I have to physically restrain myself from ripping the Bible out of the little pocket on the back of the pew in front of me and smashing it over his head.
Looking at my expression, he breaks into a grin.
It’s so dazzling that for a moment I’m rendered speechless and simply stare at him in all his glory. Then I realize that he’s teasing me. He’s being playful.
Playful Mason is devastatingly attractive.
Originating somewhere just south of my belly button, an intense wave of heat spreads throughout my body, crackling over my skin and lighting every nerve on fire.
Auntie Waldine awakens with a snort.
“Hoo!” she declares, sending me a pointed look. “It’s hotter’n Hades in here all of a sudden!”
My voice comes out strangled. “Must be that flu going around.”
“The flu?” She cackles. “Oh, child.”
At that exact moment, Bettina Walters saunters past, booty swaying. She never fails to arrive late so she can make a grand entrance, because why bother with church if you’re not going to be seen?
And seen she is. An entire congregation of eyeballs swings in her direction and follows her as she makes her way slowly up the main aisle to her favorite spot in the front pew.
Her dress is electric purple, low cut, and so clingy she might as well be wearing plastic wrap for all it leaves to the imagination.
At the end of the aisle, smack dab in front of the altar, she drops her glittery little handbag.