The Bachelor Takes a Bride. Brenda Harlen

she admitted. “Actually, most of your conversation.”

      His heart was so filled with happiness it was overflowing, and he couldn’t hold back the smile that curved his lips. “She’s the one—I’ve finally found her.”

      His sister-in-law sighed. “Caro, why do you do this to yourself?”

      “Maybe because I see how happy you and Tony are, and I want to know the same thing.”

      “You will fall in love with the right woman at the right time, but if you keep throwing yourself headfirst over cliffs looking for it to happen, you’re only going to get hurt again.”

      “There was a spark,” he insisted.

      “It wasn’t a spark—it was a flame,” Gemma said. “You just crashed and burned, and you don’t even know it.”

      He was disappointed by her response. He knew that she cared about him—she’d been part of his family for so many years he’d thought of her as a second sister even before she became his sister-in-law—so he didn’t understand why she was determined to burst his happiness bubble.

      Or maybe he did. And maybe there was some foundation to her concern that he’d been trying too hard to find the right woman. Certainly, his recent relationship experience would substantiate her point.

      But the alternative—to passively sit back and wait for his soul mate to land in his lap—was inconceivable to him. Sometimes destiny needed a helping hand, and he was more than willing to give it.

      But first he had tiramisu to deliver.

Chapter Two

      The rain had lessened to a drizzle by the time Jordyn got home to the Northbrook town house that she shared with her sister. Tristyn met her at the door, offering a towel in exchange for the food boxes so that Jordyn could dry off.

      “Maybe the weather was an omen,” Jordyn said, kicking off her shoes. “As soon as I saw the forecast, I should have canceled the date and stayed home.”

      “Or at least taken a jacket or umbrella,” her sister teased.

      “Neither would have made this evening any less of a disaster.”

      “Was it really that bad?” Tristyn asked, setting the food on the table.

      Jordyn draped the towel over the back of her chair and picked up the glass of wine her sister had poured for her. “I don’t think there are words to adequately describe it.”

      “What did he do?”

      “Well, he opened the conversation by asking if I’d ever thought about changing my name.”

      Tristyn frowned as she lifted a slice of pizza from the box. “Why would you want to change your name?”

      “Because it’s misleading. Apparently when Carrie offered to set him up with me, Cody initially refused because he thought I was a guy.” And, he promised her in a mock deep voice accompanied by a leering grin, he was strictly and exclusively heterosexual. She shuddered at the memory.

      “I get that sometimes, too, but never on a date.”

      “Well, the criticism of my name wasn’t the worst of it—after that, even before I’d had a chance to peruse the wine list, Cody asked me what kind of birth control I used.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “I wish I was.” She peeled a slice of pepperoni off of her pizza slice, popped it into her mouth.

      “How did you respond to that?”

      “I think my jaw hit the table, because he actually apologized for the bluntness of the question—not the question itself, just the delivery of it.”

      Tristyn shook her head.

      “Apparently he’s got a six-year-old son from a short-term relationship with a woman who lied to him about being on the Pill. Now half of his paycheck goes to child support and he’s saddled with the kid every other weekend.”

      Tristyn choked on her wine, obviously shocked by the statement.

      Jordyn held up her hands. “His words—not mine.”

      “I should have realized,” her sister acknowledged.

      “And the whole time he’s talking, he’s looking at my breasts instead of my face.”

      “Well, you do have exceptional breasts.”

      “I’m flattered you think so,” she said drily.

      “And that dress really does emphasize your curves.” Her sister looked down at her own chest, sighed. “Even with Victoria’s very best secret giving me a boost, I can’t fake cleavage like yours.”

      “Does that make it okay for him to stare at my chest all through dinner?”

      “Of course not,” Tristyn immediately denied.

      “Not that I actually stayed through dinner,” she admitted, helping herself to a wing. “When I waved my hand in front of his face—for the third time—to draw his attention upward, he didn’t even apologize. He just said, ‘You’ve probably realized by now that I’m a breast man—and I’m so glad Carrie hooked us up tonight.’”

      “He didn’t.”

      “Oh, yes, he did.” She licked pizza sauce off of her thumb. “And when I assured him that we weren’t hooking up, he promised that he would change my mind before dessert.”

      Tristyn grimaced.

      “I’m just glad I met him at the restaurant, so that when I walked out, I didn’t have to wait for a cab.”

      “I’m so sorry,” her sister said sincerely. “Carrie told me he was a terrific guy.”

      “Obviously Carrie needs to raise her standards.”

      “I just wanted you to go out and have a good time. You’ve been a recluse since—”

      “I work with the public,” she interjected, because she knew what her sister was going to say and didn’t want to hear it. “I think that’s pretty much the opposite of a recluse.”

      Tristyn’s gaze was sympathetic. “But you don’t date.”

      “After tonight, do you really need to ask why?”

      “There are a lot of really great guys out there,” her sister insisted.

      “Probably,” she acknowledged. “But you’ve dated most of them, and that’s a whole other category of awkward.”

      “I haven’t dated that many men,” Tristyn protested.

      Jordyn’s only response was to pick up the bottle of wine and top up their glasses.

      “And why should I feel pressured to go out and meet guys who don’t interest me when I’m perfectly content with my life?”

      She reached down to rub Gryffindor, who had followed the scent of food into the kitchen and rubbed himself against her leg in a silent bid for attention—or scraps. Not that she ever fed him from the table, but the battle-scarred cat she’d rescued from the streets seven years earlier was eternally optimistic.

      “You should not be content hanging out with your sister on a Saturday night,” Tristyn said.

      “Which begs the question of what you’re doing home on a Saturday night.”

      Her sister shrugged. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

      “Are you ill?”

      “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

      “Like what?”

      “I had