Three Little Words by Susan Mallery Page A

wife to Eric. Being Ford’s pretend girlfriend couldn’t be more difficult than that.
    He put his arm around her as they continued walking.
    “How are the brides?” he asked.
    “They’re good. I dealt with the interfering mother, talked another bride out of a pale green gown that made her skin sallow and averted a bridesmaid mutiny. All in a day’s work.”
    “See, you’re impressive, too.”
    His arm made her feel secure, all tucked in against him. He was just tall enough that she fit against him perfectly. She could feel the muscles of his body shifting, bunching, releasing as they walked. Eric had been in decent shape, but leaner than Ford. He had narrow shoulders and a much smaller chest.
    Ford exuded power—both physical and mental. It wasn’t that he was a brainiac so much that he was determined. Mental toughness, she supposed. Something that had never been her forte.
    “You know what you’re doing in the store,” he said. “You’ve been away from it for a long time. Did it all just come back?”
    “Mostly. I have my grandmother to thank for that. I spent weekends with her and she was usually in the store. I learned by watching her. She was so great with the brides. She knew exactly what to say. Or not say. Sometimes she spent the whole afternoon keeping the mother-of-the-bride occupied. She kept games and toys in a box in the office in case there were younger kids.”
    His hand tightened on her shoulder. “You loved her.”
    “I still do. It was hard when she died.”
    “I remember.”
    His words surprised her. She glanced up at him. “The letters. I mentioned her passing.”
    “You were sad a long time. I remember how I felt when my dad died. It was like everything changed.”
    “Did me talking about my grandmother remind you of that? I didn’t mean it to.”
    “No. I understood what you were going through and I hoped it would get easier.”
    “How come you never answered my letters?” They walked past a display of seed-filled pillows that could be heated in the microwave and placed on sore muscles. “You probably need one of those.”
    He glanced over and smiled. “Or twenty. Depending on the workout.”
    She had a brief image of massaging him, her hands moving against his warm skin. Her fingers tightened reflexively on the cup she held as the imaginary Isabel bent down to kiss a shoulder.
    What on earth? Fantasizing about Ford? Sexually? It would be one thing if she was picturing them out to dinner or walking on a beach, but touching? Maybe she’d been out in the sun too long.
    She jerked her mind back to the present and retraced their conversational footsteps. But Ford got there before her.
    “At first it was because you were a kid and Maeve’s sister. I was over her, but pouting. I thought if I answered, you’d both think it was because I was trying to get her back.”
    “I would have assumed you were madly in love with me,” she said with a smile. “Or at least hoped.”
    “You were jailbait.”
    “Right. Because that was the only thing keeping us apart.”
    “You did okay without me.”
    “I had some disastrous relationships.”
    “That first prom didn’t go well, but I’m proud of how you handled yourself.”
    “Kicking Warren in his you-know-what? It made him throw up.”
    “It wasn’t the kick—it was the alcohol. And he deserved it.”
    “It wasn’t a great night,” she admitted. “And Billy wasn’t smart, either.”
    “You had a great time with Billy. You got highlights.”
    She stopped walking and faced him. “Seriously, you remember my hair?”
    He grinned. “I didn’t know what highlights were. I had to ask around. Then you sent a picture and I saw what you meant.” He removed his sunglasses. “I liked the pictures. Watching you grow up.”
    “It was dorky to send them.” She wrinkled her nose. “When you didn’t answer, I nearly stopped writing. But it was almost like a diary. I figured if you wanted me to stop, you’d tell me. Or that you