Read Online Mother of the Bride by Lynn Michaels - Free Book Online Page A

dropped the leaf blower and raced toward him, skidding onto her knees beside him. “Are you all right?”
    He didn't move, just lay sprawled on his face, the shoulders of his navy suede jacket and the backs of his blue-jeaned legs scattered with leaves. Cydney's hands fluttered around him. Did she dare touch him? Could a person suffocate in leaves?
    “Uncle Gus!” She glanced up as Aldo came pelting toward them. “Uncle Gus! Are you all right?”
    Cydney laid a hand on Angus Munroe's shoulder and felt him groan. So did she, certain that this time he'd call his attorney.
    “Uncle Gus?” Aldo leaned over him. “You okay?”
    Angus Munroe pushed himself up on one arm. The bill of his ball cap was crushed, his sunglasses bent and hanging off his face by one twisted earpiece. He plucked a hand-size red maple leaf out of his right ear and squinted a bruised eye at Cydney.
    “I think I found your wicket, Miss Parrish.”
    A joke? Was that a joke? Cydney wasn't sure, but Aldo grinned as he caught his uncle by the arms and helped him up. Angus Munroe took a step as he stood and stumbled, favoring his right foot. Oh no, Cydney thought. All aboard for the emergency room, her little voice said.
    Cydney dropped her gaze to the chrysanthemums. He'dfallen on them and crushed them as flat as her last hope that he'd like her. That's all she'd wanted. Angus Munroe to like her, and to make a good impression for Bebe's sake. She picked up the bouquet and touched the squashed blooms. Was that so much to ask?
    “I'm sorry about the flowers, Miss Parrish.” So was she. They weren't peach roses, but Angus Munroe had bought them for her. It wasn't her fantasy but it was close enough.
    “That's all right, Mr. Munroe. It's the thought that counts.” Cydney handed the flattened mums to Aldo and crawled toward the fence. She found the wicket, stuck tight in the ground like it was embedded in concrete, pulled and tugged but couldn't budge it. She rose on her knees, grasped it in both hands and gave a mighty heave. It came free and tumbled her over on her fanny at Angus Munroe's feet.
    He stood brushing leaves off his jacket and looking down at her, his sunglasses in his pocket, his crumpled hat pushed back on his head. Both his eyes were turning black, his nose so swollen it hurt just to look at it. Cydney realized she was staring at him and that he was staring back at her. Like she was depriving a village somewhere of an idiot.
    “Got it,” she said, raising the wicket in her gloved left hand.
    “Good,” he said. “For God's sake, don't drop it.” He offered her a hand. Cydney took it, noting the wince he made as she pulled herself to her feet.
    “I think you've hurt yourself again, Mr. Munroe.” “Again, Miss Parrish? I didn't hurt myself the first time.” “Oh no. No, of course not. Bebe hit you, then Aldo and I dropped you and—” You're blithering, her little voice interrupted. Like that idiot with no village. “Never mind. I'm sure you remember what happened.”
    “Actually I don't. Just bits and pieces.” “Can I get you anything? An ice bag?” “Relax, Miss Parrish. You warned me about the wicket. I'm not going to sue you.”
    “Thank God,” she blurted, and Angus Munroe scowled. She snatched up the leaf blower and backed away. “Excuse me. I'll just put this away. And hide the croquet set where I'll never find it again.”
    Cydney hurried across the yard, gritting her teeth and crunching leaves beneath her feet. Damn Angus Munroe. She'd never again be able to enjoy watching leaves blow around her backyard. Or let them pile up until November, when she spent a whole Saturday raking and bagging. She loved those Saturdays. The spring of the rake tines in the grass, the ripe smell of leaves half decayed into compost. Her flushed cheeks and sore muscles, the hot chocolate and sleeping like a hibernating bear afterward.
    The inside of the garage felt cool after the hot sun and the heat of Angus Munroe's scowl. Cydney