The Rent-A-Groom by Jennifer Blake Page A

in the band, only one wore a real shirt, while the rest made do with some form of vest over their bare chests.
     
    One reason for choosing Montague’s instead of The Terrace was the casual atmosphere, since neither she nor Race had felt like getting into formal wear again. They had both settled for comfort instead, though Gina thought there was true Texas elegance in the open-necked white dress shirt Race wore with his jeans. The main purpose for changing restaurants, however, had to do with Bradley and Sandra. The best way to avoid a meeting seemed to be to steer clear of the Terrace, where they had eaten the night before.
     
    For the first part, they were fine. The second didn’t pan out.
     
    They had just filled their plates from the buffet and sat down with them when they heard a hail. Bradley, with Sandra in tow, was winding his way through the tables toward them.
     
    “Hi, guys!” her ex-fiancé called, teeth flashing as he smiled. “I caught sight of you two as we were walking past. Mind if we pull up a chair?”
     
    Bradley didn’t wait for a reply, but seated Sandra, then plopped down himself. Gina fully expected Race to put a stop to the intrusion since he had not been bashful about it earlier, but he did no such thing. After a curt greeting, he only signaled for the waitress to bring two more place settings.
     
    Sandra was less than happy, that was easy to see. Gina felt sorry for her. Because of it, she was as pleasant as she was able as the other two settled in and placed their orders. At the same time, she glanced at Race, wanting to share her discomfort and also her entertainment at the odd picture they presented: the jilted bride, guilty bridegroom, substitute wife, and sham lover all sitting down to dinner together. So modern, so false, and such a farce.
     
    He avoided her gaze, or so it seemed. Face impassive, manner perfectly polite, he began to talk about soccer, sliding easily from that into football, then making brief forays into other realms of manly sport. She would have been impressed if she had not been half convinced that his interest was genuine.
     
    The conviction grew as the minutes ticked past. The two men seemed to be getting along splendidly, comparing teams and players, capping each other’s stories of great games, arguing amiably about scores. They might, in fact, have been buddies. It was a peculiar phenomenon—a man thing, no doubt—using sports to form a bond of mutual interest. They did it by instinct, it seemed, even when a bond was the last thing that was needed. Or perhaps it was only a method of defusing unacceptable aggression.
     
    Whatever the reason, it was annoying.
     
    Gina began to feel the beginnings of a tension headache behind her eyes. There was a time when she could have laughed and talked with the woman who sat next to her at the table, a time when they had been close. They both knew that time was over, and nothing was ever going to make it possible for them to communicate on the same level as the two men across from them who barely knew each other.
     
    “What do you think?”
     
    It was Race who broke into her preoccupation with the question. His gaze was so intent that it seemed the fate of mankind waited on her answer. She was in no mood for such games. “I wasn’t paying attention,” she said shortly. “What were you saying?”
     
    “Is accepting money for making commercials a violation of an athlete’s amateur status? Should American athletes be penalized for it in international competition, for instance, when other countries subsidize their athletes—in effect paying them for their ability?”
     
    “Good grief,” she said. “How on earth did you get on that subject?”
     
    Bradley let out a bark of laughter. “Where has your mind been, sweetheart? Never mind, Bannister; I can tell you exactly how Gina will answer.” A sardonic smile curled his mustached upper lip. “She’ll tell you that anybody who knows the rules and doesn’t