How To Romance A Runaway Bride. Teri Wilson
when she opened her eyes, she found herself looking at a pouf of tulle at the foot of the bed. Her discarded wedding dress.
Everything was not okay.
She tossed aside the sheets, climbed out of bed and headed down the curved, Victorian-style staircase to Emily’s kitchen. She needed coffee. A gallon of it, if possible.
“Good morning, dear. How did you sleep?” Emily sat at the kitchen table and looked up from the copy of the New York Times in her hands.
Allegra glanced at the front page. She spotted Spencer’s name in a headline just below the fold and pointedly averted her gaze.
“I slept great, thank you.” Allegra looked around the kitchen, with its blue-and-white-toile wallpaper and shelves crammed full of mismatched china teacups. It hadn’t changed a bit since the last time she’d stood in this spot.
“Come sit down.” Emily folded the newspaper closed. “I’ve got your breakfast warming in the oven.”
“You didn’t need to do that, Mrs. Wilde. Honestly, you’ve done enough.”
“Nonsense.” Emily planted her hands on Allegra’s shoulders and steered her toward the table. “And stop calling me Mrs. Wilde. We’re not in dance class. Besides, I’ve known you since you were so tiny that your head didn’t even reach the top of the ballet barre.”
Allegra sat and watched as the older woman removed a breakfast casserole from the oven that looked big enough to feed an army. Just how hungry did Emily think she looked?
“Here you go. Dig in while I get you some coffee.” Emily slid a plate in front of her.
Allegra couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked her breakfast. Or any meal, for that matter. She could get used to this kind of royal treatment if she stayed here for any length of time.
Which she most definitely would not.
She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. “This is delicious. Thank you so much. For everything. I’m not sure what I would have done last night if you hadn’t offered me your guest room.”
“You were in a bit of a pickle,” Emily said.
The understatement of the century. Allegra’s stomach churned. She set down her fork and forced herself to meet Emily’s penetrating gaze.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
Maybe.
No, actually. She didn’t. Not yet, and not with Zander’s mother. It was too soon and far too humiliating. “His name is Spencer Warren. But I’m guessing you know that by now.”
Allegra glanced at the folded newspaper and her throat grew tight. Her hands started to shake, and she had to remind herself to take a breath.
Not another panic attack. Not now.
“I’ve made such a mess of things,” she whispered.
“I’m sure you did the right thing,” Emily said, and even though Allegra knew she was just saying it to be kind, it still made her feel a little better. “You can stay here as long as you wish.”
“I can’t.” It was just too awkward. What would Zander say when he found out she was staying with his mother? A lot, probably. A whole lot.
“Of course you can. I’d love to have someone to dote on.”
“But I need to get my life in order.” Starting with a job. And something to wear. And a place to live. “I’m a mess, Emily.”
“Think of it as temporary, just until you get your feet under you. A month.”
“A month?” How many times would she run into Zander if she was living at his mother’s house for thirty days? Too many. “Absolutely not.”
Emily shrugged. “A week, then. Allegra, I hate to break it to you, but you can’t reinvent yourself in one day.”
She had a point.
And a week might not be too terrible. How often could Zander come by in seven measly days? He was a CEO now. He probably spent all his waking hours at his fancy hotel. He couldn’t even make it through a whole birthday party without working, which was a pretty good indication that he didn’t have time to hang around his mother’s brownstone. Plus seven days would give her time to come up with some sort of plan.
Still, something about this didn’t feel right.
You don’t have a choice. Be grateful.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll stay a week, if you’re sure it’s no bother.”
Emily waved a hand. “Why on earth would it be a bother?”
“Because I think I embarrassed your son last night. He seemed upset.” Yet another understatement.
Emily shrugged and sipped her coffee. “He probably had it coming.”
Actually he had. The misunderstanding was 100 percent his fault. He’d assumed she’d shown up in a wedding dress to marry him after all this time. What kind of person made such a nonsensical leap?
An egotistical one. One who was pathologically cocky.
One who’d just walked into the kitchen.
Allegra choked on a bite of eggs. “Zander.”
He stood staring at her from the threshold while snowflakes swirled around his head. A shiver coursed through her, and he slammed the door behind him.
“Allegra? What are you doing here?” Zander’s gaze dropped to her pajamas, then flitted back to her face. His eyes were red, his face wind chapped. He had a serious case of bed head, yet he was still dressed in his suit from the night before. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink since she’d watched him saunter out of his birthday party.
Allegra’s head spun a little. Never in her life had she seen such a handsome exhausted man. His shoulders seemed even broader than they’d been just twelve hours ago. It was baffling. And infuriating. She looked down and stared pointedly at her plate.
“She lives here,” Emily said.
Zander let out a bitter laugh. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. Stop being rude to our guest.”
Allegra blinked. Our guest? What did that mean? Then she remembered the enormity of the breakfast casserole. And the pajamas.
She lost her grip on her fork and it clattered to the table. She ignored it and fixed her gaze on Zander as the mortifying reality of the situation dawned. “Wait a minute. What are you doing here?”
“Zander lives here, too,” Emily said far too sweetly. “Did I forget to mention that, dear?”
For the second time in less than twelve hours, Zander couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
He blinked. Hard.
But it didn’t do any good. When he opened his eyes, Allegra was still sitting at the kitchen table—in his chair—with her hair piled on top of her head, staring right back at him. The Princeton coffee mug in her hand—also his—had paused en route to her pillowy lips.
The longer she gawked at him, the looser her grip on the mug became. Zander sighed and reached for it before she spilled coffee all down the front of the pajamas she was wearing, because yes, those were his, too.
The brush of his fingertips against hers as he plucked the mug out of her hand seemed to pull her out of her trance. Wide-eyed, she swiveled her gaze to his mother. “Um, Emily. You did indeed forget to tell me that Zander lives here.”
Zander