Stand-in Groom Read Free Page B

her fingers through her mass of red curls, making them even wilder than ever. “I know getting your family involved in Spencer/O’Brien Software is the last thing you want to do …”
    “If I let them lend me money, they’ll be breathing down my neck,” Chelsea said. “Every single little tiny minute obscure move I make will be criticized. ‘Are you sure you want to do that, sweetie?’ ‘Why not try it
this
way instead, Chelsea-bean?That’s the way
I
did it, kitten, and it worked for me.’”
    “… but it’s better than bankruptcy, isn’t it?”
    “No.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “No, it’s not. Believe me, you’ve never been called ‘Chelsea-bean.’ In front of a client.” Chelsea turned to look at Moira, her eyes narrowing. “Your brother Edward’s not married, is he?”
    Moira knew exactly where this was leading. “No, but he’s living with someone.”
    “Your older brother—Ron? He’s the lawyer, right?”
    “Chelsea, as your maid of honor, I have to advise you to cancel the wedding. This isn’t like some daytime soap opera where one of the actors calls in sick.” Moira assumed a television announcer’s ultrasmooth voice. “‘Today, playing the part of Chelsea’s groom will be Moira’s brother Ron.’”
    Chelsea stopped pacing. “Do you think he’d do it?”
    “Not a chance. He’s married. I was just using him as an example of your insanity—”
    “What about your younger brother?”
    “Jimmy? He’s thirteen.”
    But Chelsea had already dismissed him. “He’s also a redhead. I need to find someone who looks Italian. My parents haven’t met Emilio, and if I can find someone who looks—” She broke off, staring out the plate-glass window onto the street below. A white truck was driving past, bouncing and clattering as its wheels hit a pothole. “Giovanni Anziano,” she whispered.
    “Who?”
    Chelsea turned to face Moira. “If you were a truck driver, probably earning just a little over minimum wage, and someone offered you, say, seventy-five thousand dollars to get married, take a free trip to the Virgin Islands, and then get the marriage annulled, would you do it?”
    “Depends who I’d have to marry. Orlando Bloom, yes. Homer Simpson, no way. Who’s Giovanni What’s-his-name?”
    “Anziano. He’s the man who got my purse away from those kids.” Chelsea picked up the phone and dialed information. “He’s the man who’s going to save my butt again—Hello? Boston, please. I’d like the number for Meals on Wheels.”
    ——
    “See you tomorrow, Mr. Gruber! Remember, medium high for five minutes in the microwave.”
    “All right, Martin,” came the elderly man’s quavering reply. “Don’t let the cat out when you open the door.”
    “I won’t.” He wouldn’t let the cat out because the cat—as well as Albert Gruber’s son Martin—had been gone for nearly forty years. “And it’s Johnny, remember? Johnny Anziano from Meals on Wheels. Catch you later, Mr. G, all right?”
    Johnny locked the door behind him. He rolled his shoulders and neck as he took the stairs down from Mr. Gruber’s fourth-floor apartment. The old man was slipping further into the past. It used to be his moments of confusion were few and far between, but lately, Mr. Gruber had been calling him “Martin” more often.
    Johnny stepped out onto the sidewalk. Today had been a particularly bad day for Mr. Gruber. There was no way the old guy was going to remember to heat up that plate of food in the microwave come dinnertime. Johnny was going to have to call him from the restaurant’s office and remind him and—
    Chelsea Spencer was leaning up against his truck.
    Johnny stopped short, doing a quick double take. Yes, that was definitely his truck. There were no other Meals on Wheels trucks parked on this street. And yes, that was definitely Chelsea Spencer. Her blond hair was pulled back into a French braid and she was wearing some kind of dark business suit with wide-legged pants and