Bridegrooms Required. Sharon Kendrick
push open the door to the general store at the end of the street, telling herself that she was glad to see the back of him.
She unlocked the shop door and stepped over a stack of old mail and circulars. She hadn’t been here since the summer, on one of the most beautiful, golden days of the year, when she had taken the lease on, and she found herself wondering what the shop would lopk like in this cold and meagre November light.
Inside it was so gloomy that Holly could barely see. She clicked on the light switch and then blinked while her eyes accustomed themselves to the glare thrown off by the naked lightbulb, and her heart fell It obviously hadn’t been touched since the day she had signed the lease.
The air wasn’t just thick with dust—it was clogged with it, and cobwebs were looped from the ceiling like ghostly necklaces, giving the interior of the shop the appearance of an outdated horror movie. It might have been funny if it hadn’t been her livelihood at stake.
Holly scowled, then coughed. Dust was the enemy of all fabrics, but it was death to the exquisite fabrics she tended to work with. So. What did she do first? Unpack the car? Make a cup of tea? Or make inroads into the neglect?
She half closed her eyes and tried to imagine just what the place would look like all decorated with big mirrors and fresh paint. Dramatic colours providing a rich foil for the snowy, showy gowns. But it was no good—for once her imagination stubbornly refused to work.
A dark shadow fell over her and Holly turned her head to see the man with the denim-blue eyes standing in the doorway. He stepped into the shop as if he had every right to.
He made the interior feel terribly claustrophobic. Holly found herself distracted by those endless legs, the dizzying width of his shoulders, and she felt a warm, unfamiliar tightening in her belly. He was, she noticed inconsequentially, carrying two cartons of milk, a box of chocolate biscuits and a newspaper. So—whoever he was—he certainly didn’t have much in the way of domestic routine!
‘Well, hello again,’ said Holly, and smiled into the denim-coloured eyes.
‘What in hell’s name are you doing in here?’
‘I’m admiring all the dust and cobwebs—what does it look like?’
‘That isn’t what I meant and you know it!’ he growled. ‘How did you get in here?’
Holly stared at him as if he’d gone completely mad. ‘How do you think I got in? By picking the lock?’
He shrugged his massive shoulders as if to say that nothing would surprise him. ‘Tell me.’
‘I used my key, of course!’
‘Your key?’
‘Yes,’ she defended, wondering if he always glared at people this much. She waved the offending item in front of him. ‘My key! See!’
‘And how did you get hold of a key?’
‘I clutched it between my fingers and thumb, just like everyone else does!’
‘Don’t be facetious!’
‘Well, what do you expect when you come over so heavy? How on earth do you think I got it? It’s mine. On loan. I’m renting.’
‘Renting?’
Her mouth twitched. ‘Do you know—you have a terrible habit of repeating everything I say and making it into a question?’
‘You’re renting the shop?’ he persisted in disbelief, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘This shop?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why?’
Holly smiled at his belligerence. ‘Well, you’ve barged in here as if you own the place, asking me questions as though I’m on the witness stand, so I suppose one more won’t make any difference. Why do people usually rent a shop? Because they want to sell something, perhaps? Like me—I’m a dress designer.’
He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed slowly, and an ironic smile touched the corners of his mouth. ‘Yes, you look like a dress designer.’
Holly noted the disapproving look on his face and was glad she wasn’t opening an escort agency! ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so. I fit the stereotype, do I?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess you do.’ His eyes flickered to the gauzy shirt, where the stark outline of her nipples bore testimony to the cold weather. ‘You wear unsuitable clothes. You drive a hand-painted, beaten-up old car—I wasn’t for a minute labouring under the illusion that you were a bank clerk!’
‘Nothing wrong with bank clerks,’ Holly defended staunchly.
‘I didn’t say there was,’ came his soft reply. ‘So tell me why you’re renting this shop.’
‘To sell my designs.’
He frowned as he tried to picture the insubstantial and outrageous garments in which emaciated models sashayed up the catwalk. He tried to imagine Caroline or any other woman he knew wearing one. And the only one who could get away with it was the leggy beauty standing in front of him. ‘Think there’ll be a market for them around here, do you?’ he mocked. ‘It’s a pretty conservative kind of area.’
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘I certainly hope so! There’s always a market for bridal gowns—’
His dark eyebrows disappeared beneath the tawny hair. ‘Bridal gowns?’
‘There you go again,’ she murmured. ‘Yes. Bridal gowns. You know—the long white frocks that women wear on what is supposed to be the happiest day of their lives.’ She waited for him to say something about his wedding day, which was what people always did say. But he didn’t. And Holly was both alarmed and astonished at the great sensation of relief which flooded through her at his lack of reaction. He isn’t married! she found herself thinking with a feeling which was very close to elation, and then hoped she hadn’t given anything away in her expression.
‘You design bridal gowns?’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘Maybe that’s because I am. You aren’t exactly what most people have in mind when they think of wedding dresses.’
‘Too young?’ she guessed.
‘There’s that,’ he agreed. ‘And marriage is traditional...’ his eyes glimmered ‘...which you ain’t.’
‘I can be. I know how to be.’
Interesting. ‘And you’ll be living—?’
‘In the flat upstairs, of course.’ She smiled in response to his frowned reaction to that, and wiped a dusty hand down the side of her jeans before extending her hand. ‘I guess we’d better introduce ourselves. I’m Holly Lovelace of Lovelace Brides.’ She smiled disarmingly. ‘Who are you?’
‘Holly Lovelace?’ He started to laugh.
‘That’s right.’
‘Not your real name, right?’
‘Wrong. I’ve got my birth certificate somewhere, if you’d like to check.’
He looked down at the hand she was still holding out, and shook it, her narrow fingers seeming to get lost within the grasp of his big, rough palm. ‘I’m Luke Goodwin,’ he said deliberately, and waited.
‘Hello, Luke!’
There was another brief pause as he savoured a heady feeling of power. ‘You haven’t heard of me?’
‘You’re absolutely right. I haven’t.’
‘Well, I’m your new landlord.’
Holly was too busy blinking up at him to respond at first. Up this