Sex Drive. Susan Lyons

was hearing. When she said, “Can’t weigh more than eighty pounds. If a man hugged her, she’d snap in two,” he had to open his eyes and glance over.

      What he saw made him laugh. She had a bridal magazine open. “Wedding gowns? What happened to all the work you had to do?”

      Her cheeks flushed to match her sleeveless top. “I thought you were asleep.”

      “Hard to sleep with all that muttering,” he teased.

      “Oh damn. Sorry. It’s a bad habit.”

      “No worries. But I’m curious. A six-thousand-dollar strawberry parfait?”

      She flipped pages and he stared at a lacy concoction the color of a strawberry milkshake. He let out a hoot. “That’s ridiculous.” Its droopy lines made him think of melting ice cream, and there was a big pouffy red something-or-other at the waist that was probably a bow but looked like a giant squishy strawberry. “Aren’t wedding gowns supposed to be white? I mean, unless you’re Asian or something.”

      “Pink is the latest trend. But yes, most are white or off-white. Look at this.”

      Another page flip, and he gazed at a pale, sad-looking woman whose thin body was wrapped round and round in what looked like gauze bandaging. A mummy’s wrappings. “She looks like a corpse, so I guess it’s fitting she’d be wrapped like one.”

      Theresa giggled. Eyes sparkling, she turned another page. “How about this?”

      No tits or ass on this one either. But God, she went beyond skinny to emaciated. “Jeez. A stick-woman.” He winced. “Scary. How could anyone find that attractive?”

      She shook her head firmly, auburn hair lifting then settling. “I sure don’t.” Grimly she added, “What a horrible message it sends to young women.”

      “Yeah. And take it from me, if they look like this, no guy’s ever going to marry them.” He couldn’t imagine any red-blooded man wanting to have sex with a skeleton.

      And speaking of sex…Damien took the excuse to undo his seat belt, lean over, and let his arm brush hers, feeling a zing of connection.

      Then, quickly, he shifted away. Shit, what was he doing? Obviously she was engaged, despite her ringless hands. So much for trying to seduce her.

      Didn’t mean they couldn’t talk, though. He flipped another page, then another. “Well, this girl’s got curves. At least below the waist. Man, look at the arse on her.” Then he peered closer. “Or is that the dress, making her look so big?”

      “I gather it’s called mermaid cut. Yes, it does accentuate the, uh, bottom, curving in like that then flaring out again so she can walk. Or at least hobble.”

      “Yeah, she sure as hell wouldn’t be doing any waltzing in that one.”

      “Waltzing?” She glanced at him quizzically. “You don’t look like the waltzing type.”

      “Hey, I’m from Oz. ‘Waltzing Matilda’?” The truth was, he was one hell of a dancer.

      “Yeah, right.” Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Isn’t that song about a swagman—i.e., a hobo—dancing with his swag, meaning his skimpy bundle of possessions?”

      “Damned academics,” he groused. “Take everything so literally.”

      “How did you know I’m an academic?”

      “Grading exams from the uni?”

      “Oh, of course.”

      He glanced back to the magazine. “Hate those dresses with the rigid tops that don’t move when the woman does. And why do so many of these models look miserably unhappy?”

      “Way to sell a dress, eh? What’s the myth they’re selling? Isn’t it supposed to be, this is the happiest day of your life?”

      “Myth? You mean you don’t buy into it?”

      She shrugged. “I guess it’s nice to start out feeling that way. Even if the reality is, you’ve got more than a fifty percent chance of being miserable.”

      Whoa. A cynical bride? Of course, she must figure she and her fiancé would beat the odds. “How’d you come up with that depressing statistic?”

      “Roughly half of marriages end in divorce. And lots of spouses are unhappy but don’t get divorced. Ergo, there’s probably something like a quarter of marriages that are actually happy.”

      Ergo? What kind of woman said ergo? As for her statistics…Damien shook his head, bemused. He was thirty-three and had never met a woman who’d made him want to settle down, yet he’d kind of figured on getting married one day. Really married, in the traditional “grow old together” way. As the prof had laid out the facts, it sounded like he’d be crazy.

      Absentmindedly he flipped another couple pages. Hmm, here were some dresses that were actually nice, worn by models who looked like real, attractive, smiling women. If he was Theresa, that was the designer he’d be looking at.

      When he started to turn the page again, her hand caught his. “Wait.”

      Her touch felt great, but she didn’t even seem aware of the contact. Instead, she stared at the magazine, transfixed. “That one. It’s lovely.” Her finger brushed the page reverently.

      The ivory-colored dress was simple, but prettier than the fancy ones. The strapless top was soft rather than rigid, and decorated with pearls or lustrous beads. A band of lacy, pearly trim ran along the top and below the bustline, then the dress fell to the floor in a slim drift of fabric. A woman could waltz in it and it would bell out gently, romantically, drifting seductively around a guy’s legs. And under his hands, her back would be bare, soft, warm…

      Not that he was into weddings or anything.

      But for some reason, he felt a weird twinge at the thought of Theresa in that dress, whirling around the dance floor with another man. Then later, in the honeymoon suite of a fancy hotel, being unzipped. Or did the back have buttons? The dress would slip down her body to pool on the floor, leaving her clad in something white and lacy, very brief, showing off her slim but definite curves.

      Double whoa. He shouldn’t be thinking this way about another man’s bride.

      He cleared his throat and tried to sound objective. “It’s pretty and you’d look good in it. It’d show off your neck and nice arms. The model’s got that long hair all over her shoulders, but the dress’d look better with short hair like yours.”

      She was staring at him, looking stunned. Shit, was he sounding all gay?

      “Me?” she squeaked.

      “It’s the prettiest wedding dress you’ve looked at.”

      “Ooh! Are you getting married, Ms. Fallon?” Carmen was back, resting a hand on Damien’s shoulder so she could lean across and peer at the magazine. “Let’s see. Oh, those are too plain.” She dismissed the page he and Theresa had been studying, and flipped a few pages. “Look! Isn’t this one stunning?”

      He peered at the picture. “Why’s it all caught up in those flouncy things? It looks like mosquito netting.”

      Carmen’s hand squeezed his shoulder. Rolling her eyes, she said to Theresa, “Men. They have no taste when it comes to this kind of thing.” Using Damien’s shoulder for support—and getting in another squeeze—she straightened. “This calls for champagne. I’ll be right back.”

      “I don’t—” Theresa started to say, but Carmen had gone. The prof turned to Damien with a mischievous grin. “I’m with you. That dress does look like mosquito netting.”

      “Unless your guy’s into the whole wilderness safari thing, I’d stick with the other one.”

      “It’s not me who’s getting married. It’s my baby sister.”

      “Ohhhh.”