Tall Tales and Wedding Veils by Jane Graves Page B

nightmare.

    “Wow,” Tony said. “I don’t remember it being quite this . . . squashed. Maybe you’d better take my bed.”

    “No. It’s okay. You didn’t promise me luxury.”

    “Are you sure?”

    She was. Sleeping in Tony’s bed while he slept in here would make this already strange experience even stranger. “Yes. I’m sure. I’ll be fine.”

    He grabbed some sheets, pillows, and a blanket out of the closet and tossed them onto the bed. Heather winced at the thought of the dust they’d undoubtedly collected at the top of that closet, but as tired as she was right now, she could probably fall asleep in a filthy chair at the bus station.

    Just then, Tony’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “Excuse me,” he said to Heather. “Gotta take this.”

    He slipped out the door, leaving her alone to survey the hideous sofa bed and the boxes full of mostly naked women and the depressingly bare walls. She could certainly straighten things up a little, but no matter what she did, she was still going to feel as if she were living in a cross between a frat house and a homeless shelter.

    Then she peeked into the adjoining bathroom to discover that the bedroom was the least of her problems. Without constant cleaning and proper ventilation, Texas humidity could make a bathroom a moldy mess in a hurry. And in the case of this bathroom, it had.

    Just as she was searching under the sink for cleaning products, her cell phone rang. She grabbed it from her purse.

    Alison.

    Heather debated only a moment before letting the call ring through to her voice mail. Alison might be her best friend, but she dreaded telling her about what had happened in Vegas and about her living arrangements now. She could only imagine the barrage of questions, everything from
What does he look like naked?
and
Is he as good in bed as everyone says he is?
and worst of all:
You actually want to divorce him? Are you nuts?

    Tomorrow. She’d deal with it tomorrow. Tonight she had more pressing things to worry about.

    She headed for the living room, intending to ask Tony if he had a can of Ajax and an industrial-strength sponge. If that offended him, so be it. She simply could
not
spend the next month using a bathroom that looked like a science experiment.

    As she circled around the doorway and came into the living room, she saw him flopped on the sofa, still talking on the phone. Even in the midst of his chaotic apartment, with his shoes kicked off and his shirt rumpled and his feet on the coffee table, he still looked incredibly handsome.

    Stop staring at him. He’s not really your husband. And would you really want him to be?

    She started to duck back into her bedroom, where she’d wait until he was off the phone, only to have him hold up a finger, asking her to wait.

    Then he turned away, lowering his voice, but still she could hear what he was saying. “Take it easy, sweetheart,” he said. “Of
course
you have a right to be upset.” A pause. “Why, sure! I can be over there in twenty minutes . . . yeah, I know. You really could have used that thirty million.”

    Finally Tony hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket. “I have to step out for a little while,” he said, reaching for his shoes.

    “Is there a problem?” Heather asked.

    “You might say I have a friend in need.”

    “A friend?”

    “Rona. Every once in a while she needs a shoulder to cry on. She isn’t very good in a crisis.”

    “A crisis? What’s going on?”

    “Well, usually it’s something like getting dumped by her boyfriend. Or getting fired. Or having a fight with her roommate. Or getting a bad haircut.” He slipped on his shoes and tied the laces. “This time she missed the big jackpot in the lottery by four numbers.”

    “That’s a crisis?” Heather said. “Half the city missed it by four numbers.”

    “Yeah, but see, she had this flash of what the winning numbers were, but then her sister called, and by the time she went to