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Authors: Stephanie Bond
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them—
What was she thinking? She'd be better off bedding down on the loopy cotton rug situated outside the bathroom door, a small
island against the dark parquet floor. Wanting to wash her face, Janine kicked off her shoes and limped past Steve's and
Derek's suitcases to the oversize bathroom. She squinted beneath the flickering pinkish light over the vanity, but reveled in the
feel of the cool tile against her fiery feet.
The luxurious moss green bathroom—also vaulted—featured a large vanity area, a padded stool, an electric towel warmer
and a skylight over the large tub. The wall seemed curtained with thick cream-colored towels, one conspicuously missing from
the long chrome rack—the one now wrapped around Derek, she presumed.
One look in the mirror brought a flood of exhausted and humiliated tears to her eyes. She looked as though she'd been—what
was the saying, rode hard and put up wet? Her hair lay, or rather, stood, in disarray—big yellow loops out of place, and a
rat's nest at the nape of her neck. Black flecks of mascara dotted her cheeks.
The rest of her makeup had faded, leaving her skin streaked and blotchy. Her head hurt and her body ached and her pride
smarted. And she had to get out of this unbearable costume.
She lowered herself to the stool in front of the vanity, surveying her ragged hose, frowning at her short-lived fantasy of Steve
leisurely rolling them down over her knees, calves, ankles. She removed the thigh-highs with a series of frustrating yanks and
tossed them into a little shell-shaped wastebasket. After much tugging and cursing, she was finally able to loosen the lacings of
the bustier. Her ribs ached from their sudden release, and she inhaled deeply enough to tempt hyperventilation. Janine tossed
the offending piece of lingerie onto the vanity and scrubbed her face, then contemplated dragging herself back into the bedroom
to take up residence on the skimpy little rug.
Irritation at Derek Stillman welled in her chest—if it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in this mess. If he hadn't answered the
phone when she called, she would've stayed at her apartment, and none of this would have happened. And if he were half a
gentleman, he would've slept on the floor and given her the bed. When Steve heard about this, he'd undoubtedly find yet another
best man.
Steve.
She moaned and lowered her head, shoving her fingers deep into her hair. How was she going to explain this situation to
Steve? Steve, with his family's ultra-conservative sensibilities? Tears of misery streamed down her cheeks.
After a good hiccuping cry, Janine sniffed and pushed herself to her feet, then buttoned her coat over the ludicrous pink
panties. Everything would look better in the light of day, she told herself, then glanced in the mirror. Well, everything except
her hair, maybe.
Meanwhile, she was loath to go back into the bedroom with that, that … big uncouth man-person. She lifted her head, and
through bleary eyes saw the huge Jacuzzi-style bathtub and brightened. Why not?
It was certainly big enough to sleep in, and if she lined it with towels… She jumped up and spread several of the thick
towels in the bottom of the tub, telling herself it would sound much better if she could tell Steve that she and Derek slept in
separate rooms. And she had to admit, she hadn't discounted the possibility of acquiring Derek's illness—whatever it was—if
they shared the same air. She turned off the light and closed the door, then climbed into the deep tub, feeling only slightly
foolish. After the events of the past few hours, everything was relative.
The air hung damp around her, remnants of Derek's shower. The scent of soap teased her nostrils, evoking thoughts of the
intriguing man lying in the next room. She wondered suddenly if he was married, or engaged, or otherwise attached. Because
for some reason, the thought of her, Steve, Derek and someone else all lying awake thinking about each
What was she thinking? She'd be better off bedding down on the loopy cotton rug situated outside the bathroom door, a small
island against the dark parquet floor. Wanting to wash her face, Janine kicked off her shoes and limped past Steve's and
Derek's suitcases to the oversize bathroom. She squinted beneath the flickering pinkish light over the vanity, but reveled in the
feel of the cool tile against her fiery feet.
The luxurious moss green bathroom—also vaulted—featured a large vanity area, a padded stool, an electric towel warmer
and a skylight over the large tub. The wall seemed curtained with thick cream-colored towels, one conspicuously missing from
the long chrome rack—the one now wrapped around Derek, she presumed.
One look in the mirror brought a flood of exhausted and humiliated tears to her eyes. She looked as though she'd been—what
was the saying, rode hard and put up wet? Her hair lay, or rather, stood, in disarray—big yellow loops out of place, and a
rat's nest at the nape of her neck. Black flecks of mascara dotted her cheeks.
The rest of her makeup had faded, leaving her skin streaked and blotchy. Her head hurt and her body ached and her pride
smarted. And she had to get out of this unbearable costume.
She lowered herself to the stool in front of the vanity, surveying her ragged hose, frowning at her short-lived fantasy of Steve
leisurely rolling them down over her knees, calves, ankles. She removed the thigh-highs with a series of frustrating yanks and
tossed them into a little shell-shaped wastebasket. After much tugging and cursing, she was finally able to loosen the lacings of
the bustier. Her ribs ached from their sudden release, and she inhaled deeply enough to tempt hyperventilation. Janine tossed
the offending piece of lingerie onto the vanity and scrubbed her face, then contemplated dragging herself back into the bedroom
to take up residence on the skimpy little rug.
Irritation at Derek Stillman welled in her chest—if it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in this mess. If he hadn't answered the
phone when she called, she would've stayed at her apartment, and none of this would have happened. And if he were half a
gentleman, he would've slept on the floor and given her the bed. When Steve heard about this, he'd undoubtedly find yet another
best man.
Steve.
She moaned and lowered her head, shoving her fingers deep into her hair. How was she going to explain this situation to
Steve? Steve, with his family's ultra-conservative sensibilities? Tears of misery streamed down her cheeks.
After a good hiccuping cry, Janine sniffed and pushed herself to her feet, then buttoned her coat over the ludicrous pink
panties. Everything would look better in the light of day, she told herself, then glanced in the mirror. Well, everything except
her hair, maybe.
Meanwhile, she was loath to go back into the bedroom with that, that … big uncouth man-person. She lifted her head, and
through bleary eyes saw the huge Jacuzzi-style bathtub and brightened. Why not?
It was certainly big enough to sleep in, and if she lined it with towels… She jumped up and spread several of the thick
towels in the bottom of the tub, telling herself it would sound much better if she could tell Steve that she and Derek slept in
separate rooms. And she had to admit, she hadn't discounted the possibility of acquiring Derek's illness—whatever it was—if
they shared the same air. She turned off the light and closed the door, then climbed into the deep tub, feeling only slightly
foolish. After the events of the past few hours, everything was relative.
The air hung damp around her, remnants of Derek's shower. The scent of soap teased her nostrils, evoking thoughts of the
intriguing man lying in the next room. She wondered suddenly if he was married, or engaged, or otherwise attached. Because
for some reason, the thought of her, Steve, Derek and someone else all lying awake thinking about each
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