Mother of the Bride by Lynn Michaels

the short straw last time Gwen was home.”
    You always get the short straw, her little voice pointed out, but Cydney ignored it. From the corner of her eye, she saw Angus Munroe's grin widen behind his cupped hand.
    “But I'm sure we won't have that problem this time,” she added hurriedly. “After all, this is Bebe's wedding.”
    “What about your Grampa Fletch, Bebe?” Angus Munroe asked.
    “Oh, he's a writer, too,” she said brightly. “But I don't know if he has a cell phone. Does he, Uncle Cyd?”
    Angus Munroe shifted in his chair, made a fist of his hand and coughed. To keep from laughing out loud, Cydney was sure. He'd hurt her feelings when he'd choked at the thought of going out with her, but she would not tolerate him laughing at Bebe. One more snigger and she'd punch him in the nose herself.
    “Yes, Bebe,” she said. “Grampa Fletch has a cell phone.”
    “I know he's a writer, Bebe. I've read his books,” Angus Munroe said. “I meant, is he coming to the wedding?”
    “Hell no,” she chirped cheerfully. “Only Cramps said, 'Hell no, Bebe-cakes.' That's what he calls me, Bebe-cakes. 'I've been to enough weddings of my own,' he said, but he invited me and Aldo to Cannes for Christmas.”
    “His treat,” Aldo put in. “It's our wedding present from Mr. Parrish. Two plane tickets to Cannes.”
    “That's a very generous gift, Aldo.” Angus Munroe folded his arms across his stomach, reminding Cydney of last night when Bebe knocked him out. His sweater had ridden up when he fell, just enough to give Cydney a mouthwatering glimpse of his washboard abdomen. “Tell you what. I'll pay for your plane tickets to Cleveland.”
    What a guy, her little voice said. Rock hard, ripped — and cheap.
    “Oh, Mr. Munroe!” Bebe squealed, her eyes shining with happiness. “Thank you so much!”
    “Uncle Gus, Bebe.” He smiled at her. “Call me Uncle Gus.”

chapter
    nine
    Desperation, not inspiration, was the true mother of invention. Any writer who'd ever cranked out the last hundred pages of a four-hundred-page manuscript in twenty-four hours to meet a deadline knew it. And Gus was desperate.
    Aldo had defected. Gus had suspected it when he'd wakened in the hospital and found Cydney Parrish, not Aldo, at his bedside. He'd sold out for chicken and noodles, carrot cake and a hot chick. Gus could hire a chef, but he couldn't compete with Bebe and he knew it.
    He also knew a brick wall when he saw one, and one sat looking at him across the table, Aldo and Bebe with their hands clasped together. The twelve-thousand-dollar diamond Gus had had a stroke over blazed on Bebe's ring finger. He could yank Aldo's money but that wouldn't stop the wedding. It would only make Aldo hate him, and he didn't want that. He wanted them to wait—until spring, maybe—to make sure they knew what they were doing.
    Just a few months to be certain of their feelings, a few months to give Gus time to adjust to the fact that Aldo didn't need him anymore, to find a new focal point for his life. He didn't think that was too much to ask, but he was too proud to admit that he felt so vulnerable.
    He'd come up with a plan instead. A plan to make Aldo stop and think beyond Bebe's delectable figure, a chance to give himself time to formulate a new Life Plan. He thought he could pull it off, but not in Kansas City. He was outnumbered here and on Parrish turf, but now that he knew Fletcher Par-rish wasn't coming to the wedding, he could seize home-field advantage.
    “I see your problem.” Gus folded his arms on the edge of the table and spoke directly to Aldo and Bebe. “I don't understand it. I don't understand any parent who puts career ahead of children. But hey.” He shrugged. “I'm the guy who needs to get out of Crooked Possum.”
    “That's not all you need,” Cydney muttered into her teacup. Gus glanced at her. She smiled serenely. The lariat necklace she wore, a string of tiny jade beads, gleamed in the glow of the half-burned