“I can’t tell you much about anyone except Brontë and Marjorie. I don’t know the others.”
“That’s fine,” Smith soothed. “Let’s start with them. Tell me about Marjorie.”
He tensed, listening.
The woman laughed, and Rob immediately got offended. Was she laughing at his Marjorie? That fucking bitch. But her next words eased his mind a little. “I love Marjorie. How can you not? Hating her would be like hating puppies or flowers or something. She’s a sweet kid.”
Rob relaxed and moved back to his chair, listening as the interview went on.
“Have you worked with Marjorie long?”
“A few years. She’s a favorite with a lot of the customers.” Another laugh. “Pretty much anyone over the age of eighty. They all adore her. I guess she’s the grandkid they never had or something. She has a lot of regulars and I’m pretty sure they’re all geriatric, but Marj remembers all their names and their birthdays and makes them feel special. You can tell when some people are bullshitting, and she’s not. She genuinely loves older people.”
Rob mentally noted that. All right, his Marjorie enjoyed the company of the elderly. Not a bad thing, really, but he couldn’t recall the last conversation he’d had with anyone over the age of sixty. Huh. Clearly he had a crowd different from hers.
It seemed that once Angie was started on the subject of Marjorie, she didn’t stop. “Yeah, that girl’s kind of an odd one. I mean, I don’t say that in a bad way. It’s just that . . . like, okay, she goes to knitting circles and antique shows. She quilts. I mean, who fucking quilts nowadays? Marjorie, that’s who. I don’t think she has hobbies like normal girls her age. She’s not into clubbing or sleeping around—she does crosswords and volunteers at a nursing home.”
“She’s an old lady trapped in a young lady’s body?” Smith supplied helpfully.
“That’s exactly it,” Angie said. “An old lady. I mean, like I said, you can’t help but love her. Sweet kid. Built like a stork, but sweet. And it’s easy to see that she’s lonely.”
“Lonely?” Smith asked in a mild voice.
“Yeah. I think she was raised by her grandparents, right? So she’s never exactly ‘blended’ with normal kids. Add in the height and I’m guessing it does a number on her self-confidence. Like I said, she doesn’t have any friends—other than the diner ladies—under the age of eighty. And she sure doesn’t date.”
“No?”
“Nope. If I bet money, she’d be a virgin for sure. I’d say the girl’s never seen a dick before, but what do I know?”
They both laughed, and Rob clenched the recorder in his hand. If he ever saw this Angie person, he was going to personally take her down a damn peg.
“Now let me tell you about Brontë,” Angie continued. “You want to know someone that’s lucky as hell? It’s her. She’s marrying a billionaire, you know.”
He fast-forwarded through the rest of the conversation, but it seemed to be about Brontë and not Marjorie. Disgusted, he tossed the recorder aside and drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.
All right, he knew a fair amount about his Marjorie. She was old fashioned, a good girl, and a virgin.
The last part flummoxed him a bit. Rob didn’t date virgins. They weren’t his type. The friend could always be wrong . . . but he wasn’t sure about that. Girls shared that kind of information with each other, didn’t they? And Marjorie had that air of innocent awkwardness that he found so intriguing . . . and different.
So yeah, she was likely a virgin. Well, fuck.
He didn’t know how to date a virgin. He didn’t even know how to begin. But he wanted Marjorie. With every ounce of his being, he wanted that girl. He craved her in inexplicable ways. Rob was a man who always went with his gut instinct, and right now it was telling him that Marjorie was the girl for him.
But he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be her type. He drank. He cussed. He had one-night stands. He paid girls to show their tits on TV. He was crude and rude and a loudmouth. And all the reasons that Logan Hawkings wouldn’t give him the time of day would work against him with Marjorie Ivarsson, too.
Well, then. Rob rubbed his jaw. He’d just have to show her that he could be the kind of guy she needed. He could behave . . . if he wanted to.
And for Marjorie? He wanted to.
Chapter Six
For the tenth time that day, Marjorie wished she’d packed more clothing. She studied her dress in the mirror and frowned. “You don’t think this is too . . . I don’t know. Floral?”
Seated on the bed, her friend Angie flipped through Marjorie’s magazine and didn’t even look up. “Did he say formal dress or just to wear a dress?”
“I . . . I don’t know. My head was spinning a little,” Marjorie confessed. Okay, it had been spinning more than a little. It had been whirling like a carnival ride. She’d been sleepy from the late hour as they’d returned from the pre-bachelorette party, and even though she hadn’t been drinking, she was exhausted from watching the antics of Brontë, Gretchen, Maylee, and the newcomer, Violet. They’d taken a ferry a few islands over, and it had made poor pregnant Audrey seasick, and she remained sick all night. So Marjorie, being responsible down to her bones, had taken charge of the evening. She’d shuttled the drunks (and the one sick pregnant lady) from dinner to the nightclub then on to the strip bar, where they’d lost all the money they’d brought and Audrey proceeded to get sick at the table, and then Marjorie spent the rest of the evening holding a damp cloth to poor Audrey’s forehead while the others partied.
Still, Brontë had enjoyed herself, and that was all that mattered. Marjorie did her best to ensure that the bride had a truly wonderful time at her pre-bachelorette party, since Gretchen (as the maid of honor) was determined to drink and have just as much fun instead of running things. That was fine with Marjorie—she liked to see the others enjoying themselves.
But she’d been more than a little exhausted when the cab had pulled up to the hotel, and it had stunned her to turn around and see the man she’d been daydreaming about right at her elbow.
He was just as good-looking as she’d remembered, too. Handsome, with that dark hair, chiseled jaw, and those gorgeous eyes she could stare into for hours.
He was also shorter than she remembered. That had been disappointing, and she’d worn heels that night since it was just girls, and standing on the curb, she’d towered over him. Just standing next to her in heels made most men retreat. No one wanted to date a string bean, as she’d been told a million times before. But her dream guy hadn’t commented on her height at all. In fact, he’d kissed her hand, charmed her figurative socks off, and invited her to dinner.
And now, here she was with less than four hours of sleep, after running around with Brontë and Gretchen and the girls for additional fittings and a last-minute change of shoes because Audrey’s feet were swelling and wouldn’t fit in the Louboutins that Brontë had elected for all the women, she was now getting ready for her date.
Her date.
Just the thought of having a date made Marjorie’s breathing speed up. She’d dated all of twice while in high school, and in college, she’d flirted with a guy at a party who hadn’t seemed to mind how tall she was . . . until the next day, when he’d sobered up. He’d then gone to his friends, laughing about how he’d been so drunk that he’d made out with “the flagpole.”
So yeah. Other than that, she really didn’t date. Any guy she was vaguely interested in, she was too terrified to ask out, and no one ever asked her out. Other than that one night at the frat party, she’d never even made out with a guy. Second base was as far as she’d ever gotten.
It was downright embarrassing. And it made her feel like an idiot.