We'd just met, and already Jack and I were Nick and Nora Charles. Or maybe we were David and Maddie from that old TV show Moonlighting, but without the fighting. Either way, we had the witty banter going with just a hint of sexual tension, which had my gaydar pinging between and he isn't and is he?
Ten feet away, the bride was doing the chicken dance with her six-year-old nephew. Jack and I were on our third martinis. Mine was more mussed than dirty; his was blueberry.
"To open bars, darling." Jack clinked his glass against mine.
I leaned forward, my elbow on my knee, chin resting on my hand. There was another question I wasn't drunk enough to pop yet, so I asked, "How did a dashing urbanite like you get stuck at the reject table?"
"Dashing urbanite? Is that the new euphemism for men who watch Project Runway, Georgie?"
Was that an answer to the question I didn't ask?
Most guys tried to shorten my name to Georgia, which I hated. Jack was the first person to call me Georgie and not immediately break into a rendition of Hey There Georgie Girl, reason enough to crush on him. It didn't hurt that he looked damn fine in a suit.
"And why are you seated at the back table? Please tell me you did something scandalous." Jack wriggled his eyebrows.
"It's a sad tale, really. Full of woe. I was supposed to be a bridesmaid."
He sipped his martini. "Do tell."
"I refused to wear the hideous bridesmaid dress."
We cast glances at the head table. Really, only a sadistic bride would make her friends wear lime chiffon hoop skirts. It was a nightmare mash up of the 1970s and Gone With the Wind.
"If she'd meant it as an ironic ugly dress, I would have been game, but I'm afraid she was serious about it. I suggested white floppy hats and gloves to make it totally kitsch. She had the nerve to tell me that was tacky. So I told her I'd have to decline the honor of being one of her bridesmaids. Apparently, that effed up her usher/bridesmaid ratio, so I got banished to the leftover table."
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