Crystal Green - The Pregnant Bride

“Oo-oh, so he can manage to form a word or two.” Chad moved slightly, granting a slice of sunlight access to his golden hair. His royal-blue eyes glowed from the shade of his gelled bangs, and his turned-up alligator shirt collar lent him the plastic air of a Pez dispenser. “Are you tough enough to play Double Dare?”

Nick rose to his feet, holding out his hand to help up Meggie. She accepted the gesture, and the two of them stood, united, against their common nemesis. He hoped his silence was answer enough for King of the Creeps.

Chad stood, too. “If you want to prove how tough you are, meet me at Chaney’s Drugstore tonight at nine o’clock. We’ll see if your attitude matches my left hook.”

He turned and tossed a smug smile over his shoulder at Meggie.

After the group left, Meggie touched his arm, her eyes holding all the concern in the world. “You’re not going tonight. Come over to watch videos with me.”

Nick appreciated her easy-way-out alternative. Not many girls her age would understand a guy’s need to save face.

But deep in Nick’s heart, he knew where he’d have to be tonight. Facing Chad Spencer. Proving he wasn’t just some poor little foster kid who had no business in Kane’s Crossing.

October, present day

M eg Thornton stared at the man who’d just sauntered into her bakery. Six-feet-plus of leather jacket, cowboy boots and a frown.

“You chased off all my customers,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She clutched the counter, wishing that the families who’d been snacking on coffee, lemonade and pie merely moments ago hadn’t deserted her.

The stranger just watched Meg from behind a pair of sunglasses. She could almost feel his gaze running over her body—at least the part that wasn’t covered by the counter. The sweet little secret growing within her belly was hidden by the Formica countertop and tiled wood, safe for now.

Meg shifted, wondering if her gray sweater had grown too tight during the last month, if he was looking at her slightly swollen chest, judging her as harshly as the rest of Kane’s Crossing did.

When the stranger didn’t answer, Meg narrowed her eyes at him. “May I help you with something?”

She eyed his worn jeans, the hole in one pant leg revealing a glimpse of knee. Her heart stuttered.

What if he wanted to rob her? Not that the cash register was full enough to even buy a new pair of pants, but she had house payments, a baby on the way. Any loss of money would hurt.

A faint smile lingered at the tips of his mouth, probably in reaction to her obvious confusion, but she couldn’t be sure. At any rate, the specter of a grin disappeared, the tension in the room increasing tenfold.

Bitter aroma from a burned cake hung in the air, heavy as gunsmoke. Meg forced her chin up a notch, unwilling to be a victim of his intimidation.

Her voice was louder this time. “I’m not sure if it was you or the burned chocolate that killed the festive atmosphere.”

The stranger took a step forward, scanning the room while his boots scraped against her floor. “Maybe it was your good mood that did the chasing.”

His voice was low and gravely, the kind of voice that scratched down her skin in all the right places.

What was with this guy? In any other town but Kane’s Crossing, she’d be afraid. Here, against the scape of her already tumultuous life, he was nothing more than a dark storm cloud. Her bravery increased in proportion to her anger. “Jeez, you cleared the place. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

He took another step, so close that Meg could see the cleft in his chin, buried beneath a light dusting of stubble. A feeling of familiarity assailed her. Slowly, he took off his glasses, stealing Meg’s breath away.

Eyes as hot as the blue tip of a lightening bolt. Pale, fathomless in their clarity. But why did she feel as if he hadn’t doffed those shutter-like shades at all? He was no easier to read.

He just stood there, as if anticipating a reaction of some sort. Well, what did he expect? Maybe women all over the country sighed and collapsed at his feet when he ta-dahed and removed his glasses, but she’d never been one of the crowd anyway.

She used her words like a balled fist. “May. I. Help. You?”

This time there was a smile—a pensive tilt that lowered his gaze to his hands. Hands strong enough to break her heart in two if she was fool enough to allow him access. And that would never happen again, she promised herself. Not with any man, no matter how swoon-worthy the subject.

From a black-vinyl booth tucked into the bakery’s corner, Deacon Chaney, the so-called town “loser,” popped out his head. Great. At least some entertainment was being provided for her remaining customer.

The old man looked ready to shuffle through the stranger’s ID and wallet. “Well, kiss my pink places,” he bellowed. “You’d think this was the O.K. Corral here.”

The thought of this stranger just strolling into her place of business and emptying the room with his gunfighter stance irked Meg. “Listen. Maybe you’re that heavy breather who takes great pride in giving me prank phone calls twice a week. Maybe you’re just in here for a titillating little scare. Either way, you’re setting me on edge, and I’m about to call the sheriff.”

Yeah, as if Sheriff Carson would come running to her aid. He despised her about as much as the rest of this morally superior town did.

The stranger’s gaze lingered over her every feature, leaving a trail of heat. The resulting blush swallowed the rest of her body in one languid flame. Meg’s instincts told her to run to the back room and never come out again.

But she’d never run away. Not from this town, not from this man.

“You obviously didn’t hear me when I said I’m calling the sheriff,” she said, hoping he’d do the running.

The man actually laughed. Sort of. It was more like a chuff than an expression of mirth. “The sheriff in this place isn’t worth fool’s gold.” He started to put his shades back on, then reconsidered and shoved them into his flannel-shirted pocket. As Meg stared in disbelief, he perched on one of the bar stools, leaned on the counter and ran a thumb and forefinger over his stubble. After a second, he laughed again and shook his head.

His identity balanced on the tip of her tongue, but she still couldn’t place his face. She thought she knew this man.

She caught his glance once more and, after something jabbed her heart, just as quickly found a spot on the counter to stare at. Had she somehow caused the pain she saw in those startling blue eyes?

He looked so darned run-down Meg couldn’t stop a rush of pity from overwhelming her. She wasn’t sure how to apologize for misjudging him, so she poured a cup of coffee and set it on the counter. A peace offering.

Something was bothering this man, and the soft part of her wanted to comfort him.

Who was he? Maybe his familiarity came from the way he moved like a stream of mercury in motion. Maybe it was those eyes, the hurt. Hurt she knew all too well.

The stranger accepted the coffee, drinking it black and bitter. Meg backed away from the counter, crossing her arms over her chest, biting her lip. What could she say to this guy? Usually, she didn’t have much trouble with small talk. She’d perfected it with the tourists who frequented her struggling bakery. The regular citizens of this town hardly bothered with her—not unless they wanted to poke some fun at the “town witch,” the unwed mother-to-be who wouldn’t give out the identity of her baby’s father.

Much to her surprise, the stranger broke the tension between them. “Seen Chad Spencer around?”