The Maverick's Accidental Bride. Christine Rimmer
pained grimace became a frown.
With great care, she turned her head toward the nightstand at her side. It was rustic, that nightstand, of what appeared to be reclaimed, beautifully worked old wood. It bore no resemblance to the simple pasteboard one she had at the boardinghouse. A clock stood on that nightstand—not her clock.
And wait a minute. How could it possibly be past noon?
Her stomach did a forward roll. She swallowed down a spurt of acid and carefully, torturously, rolled her head the other way.
Dear, sweet Mary and baby Jesus. Will.
She blinked, looked away—and looked back again.
He was still there, still sound asleep beside her, lying on his stomach with his face turned away from her, his hair night black against the white pillow. His strong arms and broad, muscular shoulders were bare. So was his powerful back tapering down to his tight waist. Below that, she couldn’t be sure. The sheet covered the rest of him.
The sight of Will Clifton possibly naked right next to her in the bed that was not her bed was the final straw. Her stomach rebelled.
With a cry of abject wretchedness and total mortification, she threw back the covers and raced for the open door that led to the bathroom.
* * *
The slamming of the bathroom door woke Will.
With a loud “Huh?” he flipped to his back and bolted to a sitting position. “What the...?” He pressed both hands to his aching head and groaned.
But then he heard the painful sounds coming from the bathroom.
“Huh?” he said again. Apparently, he wasn’t alone. There was someone in the bathroom. Someone being sick.
“Ugh.” Still only half-awake, he raked the sleep-scrambled hair off his forehead. His gaze skimmed past the bedside chair—and then homed right back in on it.
His clothes from last night were tossed in a wad across that chair. On top of them, the hem drooping toward the floor, lay a pretty blue dress topped by a woman’s small sparkly purse and a wilted red bouquet. Will shut his eyes as the heaving noises continued in the other room.
But then, well, keeping his eyes shut wouldn’t make the sounds from the bathroom go away. So he opened them again—opened them and let them track lower, to the foot of the chair and the pair of sexy, sparkly, red-soled blue bridesmaid’s shoes that had toppled sideways beneath the filmy hem of the blue dress.
Will knew that dress, those shoes, that bouquet...
Jordyn?
Jordyn Leigh Cates, in the bathroom? Sweet Jordyn Leigh, in his hotel room without her dress on? Little Jordyn Leigh...had spent the night in his bed?
He clapped his hands to his head again and tried to think it through.
Okay, he remembered spending the afternoon and evening with her yesterday. They’d had a great time.
But what had happened later? How did they get here to his hotel room together?
Damned if he could remember.
He threw back the covers and saw he was wearing only boxer briefs. Did that mean...?
Damn it all to hell. He had no idea what it meant.
And poor Jordyn. The sounds coming from the bathroom were not good.
He jumped to his feet and whipped his black jeans out from under her pretty blue dress. He was pulling them on as he hopped to the bathroom door. Zipping up fast, he gave the door a cautious tap. “Jordyn, are you—?”
She let out a low groan, a sound of purest misery. “Leave me alone, Will. Don’t you dare come in here.”
“Let me—”
“No! Stay there. I’ll be out in a minute.”
His head drooped forward until his forehead met the door. Jordyn Leigh? He’d had sex with little Jordyn Leigh? He wanted to beat the crap out of himself. Her younger brother, Brody, probably would beat the crap out of him—and he would deserve every punch. And what about her parents, who were good friends with his parents? Dear God, he should be tied down spread-eagled in the noonday sun for the buzzards to peck to a million pieces. “Jordyn, I’m so sor—”
“Go away, Will!”
He raised his knuckles to knock again—but then just let them drop. “Uh. Just call. If you need me...”
She didn’t bother to answer him that time. The heaving sounds continued.
He stood there, undecided, wanting to help, not knowing how. And that made him feel even more like a low-down dirty dog, because he couldn’t help and he knew it.
And he had no business just standing there, his head against the door, listening to her being sick.
So he dragged his sorry ass back to his side of the tangled bed and sat on the edge of it. He braced his elbows on his spread knees and let his head hang low in shame.
And that was when he spotted the document on the floor.
“Huh?” He picked it up.
Then, for a long time, several minutes at least, he just stared at the damn thing in stunned disbelief.
But it didn’t matter how long he stared, the document didn’t magically become something else. Uh-uh. No matter how long he stared, it was still a marriage license, complete with the embossed seal of the county clerk declaring it a true certified copy.
The county clerk...
Last night there was a guy, wasn’t there? A little guy in black-rimmed glasses. Yeah. Elton or Eldred, something like that. And the little guy was married to that big woman, the judge...
Will blinked hard and shook his head. It didn’t seem possible. He had zero recollection of any actual ceremony. But still. He was reasonably sure the county clerk had been there last night, the county clerk and his wife, the judge.
So it could have happened. It was possible...
More than possible.
Because he held the proof right there in his two hands.
Around about then, he spotted the gleam of gold on the third finger of his left hand. Or maybe that gleam was brass. He couldn’t be sure.
But gold or brass, the ring looked a hell of a lot like a wedding band. And that signature on the marriage license? Definitely his own. His—and Jordyn’s, too.
It wasn’t possible. But it had happened.
Somehow, he and Jordyn Leigh had gotten married last night.
Will heard a click when Jordyn opened the bathroom door.
He set the marriage license on the nightstand by his side of the bed and slowly rose, turning to face the woman he’d apparently married the night before.
Jordyn Leigh stood in the doorway. Her big blue eyes had dark shadows beneath them. Her peaches-and-cream skin looked slightly green, and her soft mouth trembled.
She’d put on the complimentary terry-cloth robe that had been hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Her hands were stuck in the pockets, and she kept her head pulled in, like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell. Her wheat-gold hair lay smooth and wavy across her shoulders. She must have used his comb before opening the door and facing him at last.
The sight of all that shining hair made him feel worse than ever. It sent random images of her, scenes from their shared past, sparking and flashing through his brain.
He saw her as a toddler with wispy yellow curls,