Stop The Wedding!: Night Driving / Smooth Sailing / Crash Landing. Lori Wilde
looked surprised. “Really? You two look so good together, I just assumed.”
“She’s just giving me a ride to Miami.”
Wow, Boone couldn’t wait to set Paul straight, as if being married to her was such a terrible notion. Tara felt as if she’d swallowed a walnut whole and it had gotten stuck in her throat.
Paul’s smile turned sly. “Well, you never know. Road trips have a way of breeding romance. That’s how I fell in love with Peggy. Senior class trip to Padre Island. Before that, we couldn’t stand each other. Her family had money and she was a cheerleader and I thought she was stuck-up. She thought I was a know-it-all, but by the time we got to the Gulf of Mexico we were madly in love. Been happily married thirty-seven years and countin’.”
“That’s such a sweet story,” Tara said.
“You never know when love is gonna sneak up on you,” Paul waxed philosophical. “Just remember, there’s a reason they say opposites attract. If you’re both the same, where’s the spark? Where’s the sizzle? Where’s the mystery?”
“But you have to have some common ground in order to stay married for so long. I bet you and Peggy have more in common than you think,” Tara argued.
“You’re right there. We both value family, tradition and the American farm.”
“See, there. Not so opposite after all.”
“You’re a pistol, Tara. Smart and pretty.” Paul leaned forward, to get a better look at Boone. “You’re dumber than you look, son, if you let this one get away. She’s a treasure.”
Tara’s cheeks heated and she cast a quick glance over at Boone to see how he was taking Paul’s advice. His face was impassive.
“She is special,” Boone said.
Hmm. Special. What did that mean? The word had so many connotations. Not all of them good.
Thursday, July 2, 8:02 a.m.
PAUL DROPPED THEM off at a local garage and they spoke to a mechanic, who agreed to go out to Paul’s farm and tow Tara’s Honda and the U-Haul trailer back to his shop to replace the tires.
“You folks might as well relax,” said the mechanic, who had the name Ross embroidered across the front pocket of his work shirt. He had a Tweety Bird tattoo on his left forearm, wore his hair slicked back in a greasy ducktail like a 1950s rebel and had a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth. “It’s gunna be a few hours. I’m here by myself until nine.”
Boone grunted, looked displeased.
Tara gave Ross a friendly smile. “Is there a place nearby where we might clean up? We spent the night in Paul Brown’s field and I really need a shower.”
Ross got a lascivious grin on his face, as if he were imagining Tara in the shower, and stared pointedly at her breasts. She pretended she didn’t see the look.
Boone saw it. He growled, clenched his fists at his sides. She could tell he was about to say something. In order to stop him from upsetting Ross—they had to stay on the mechanic’s good side if they wanted her tires repaired in a timely manner—she linked her arm through Boone’s, rested her head against his shoulder and mentally sent the message shut up. If they came across as a couple, Ross was much less likely to ogle her.
Boone took the hint. Or maybe he was just unnerved by the fact she’d taken his arm.
She tried not to notice how powerful his biceps were or how the feel of his muscles stoked her engines. Canting her head, she studied Ross expectantly. “Any motels within walking distance?”
“No,” Ross said. “But there’s a bed-and-breakfast at the end of the block. Tell Mrs. Hubbard I sent you over and she’ll give you a discount rate since you just need a shower and a place to crash until your car is ready.”
“Thank you.” Tara rewarded him with a cheery smile.
Ross grinned back. “I’ll have your car ready by noon.”
“I do so appreciate it. C’mon, honey,” she said to Boone, and with her arm still linked through his, guided him out the door.
“‘Honey’?” Boone said, amusement in his voice after they’d stepped into the early morning sunlight.
“A reminder. You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.”
“Sometimes you make no sense to me at all,” he admitted.
“Just putting on a show for our friend back there.” Immediately, she slipped her arm from his so she could breathe a little easier. Standing so near him, touching him so intimately, knocked her off kilter. “Thank you for not going off on him like you did on the movers.”
“I’m learning,” he said. “Although it’s a challenge reining in my inner caveman around you. Every guy wants you.”
“Not every guy.”
“Damn near. You’re too gorgeous for your own good.”
Flattered, she briefly pressed a palm to her mouth. “It’s not your place to defend me.”
“I know,” he said and sounded so regretful that Tara sent him a sharp look. “I have no claims on you.”
“Nor do you want them,” she pointed out.
“Nor do I want them,” he echoed half-heartedly.
A prickle of something she couldn’t name poked at her. Don’t read anything into it. Even if he does like you, what does it matter? You’re going to be living at opposite ends of the country.
“There’s the B&B,” she pointed out, happy to have something else to discuss.
The Rose Garden Resort was a stately Victorian home, painted blue with yellow gingerbread trim. Numerous rosebushes bloomed in profusion along a white picket fence. A red paving-stone walkway led to the front door. Boone followed her up the path. She could feel him behind her.
This is a man who will always have your back.
Too bad it didn’t matter. He wasn’t her man. Never would be. But she found herself hoping that one day she’d have a partner like Boone, someone who’d have her back, no matter what.
Strange. She’d never had an impulse or wish like this before. She was an independent, free spirit. She didn’t need anyone sheltering her.
Didn’t need it, no, but suddenly, she wanted it.
You’re worn out from packing, moving and driving. You’re dirty and hungry. That’s all it is. You’re exhausted and the idea of having someone take care of you sounds good. What you’re feeling is nothing more than that.
They stepped up onto the wide, welcoming, wraparound veranda. On the front porch was a sign that instructed them to come on in. Tara opened the screen door. The sound of Mozart and the scent of lavender greeted them. To the left was a sweeping staircase with an ornate cherry-wood banister. To the right was a small reception desk constructed from the same cherry wood.
A smiling older woman, who looked exactly like a Mrs. Hubbard, stood behind the desk. She wore a gingham apron and oversized tortoiseshell spectacles. She was dusting a shelf of knickknacks, and oddly enough, given that Mozart was on the sound system, she sang an off-key rendition of B.B. King’s “When Love Comes to Town.”
“Good morning!” she greeted them.
“Ross from the garage sent us,” Tara said. “We’re just passing through and need a place to freshen up while we’re having our car worked on.”
“So