Lynna Banning - The Wedding Cake War

A door banged open and a rush of cooler air blew against her face and shoulders. As he descended the stairs, the colonel’s body sent a little jolt into hers at every step. She counted all eighteen.

“Miss Mayfield, where is your room?”

The sweet, drowsy feeling was spreading through her limbs. It was so delicious she didn’t want it to end. She shook her head.

He groaned. “You can talk now.”

“Dowanna,” she mumbled. “Wanna stay right here.”

He made the funny noise inside his chest and then groaned again. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, it would cause talk.”

“Don’t care. Been there before.”

A short silence. “For another, it would upset Dora Mae Landsfelter and the Ladies Helpful Society.”

Her lids flew open. “Oh! I forgot all about Dora Mae and…that. Tha’s why I was so scared all evening. Tha’s why I came to Maple Falls in th’ first plash. Place.”

“What is your room number?” he asked again.

“Ish room number…” Her mind went blank.

Kellen waited, breathing less steadily. “Yes?”

“Jush look for my shoes. I left them jush inside the door. Have pointy toes and they pinch.”

He guessed he had no choice. He stepped along the hallway with his burden in his arms, testing doorknobs, until he found one that opened. Sure enough, a pair of black leather pumps leaned against the baseboard. He kicked the door shut behind him, walked to the bed and laid her on top of the quilt. She curled up like a kitten, folded her hands under her chin and was asleep in an instant.

Kellen’s chest did something funny, as if a ripple had zigzagged from his throat to his belly. What the devil?

He spent a good five minutes just staring at her, noticing the scattering of freckles across her nose, the loose dark hair, sneaking from the bun at the back of her neck, the faint laugh lines in the outer corners of her eyes. She sure looked different from Careen and The Peacock.

And she sure felt different when he held her.

Damn. He had to get out of here. Now. Either that or risk a scandal that would destroy Miss Mayfield’s reputation.

He’d send Careen down to check on her. And tomorrow…

Oh, God, the Helpful Ladies and their bride competition! Tomorrow it would all start in earnest. How adept could a newspaper editor from dry, windswept Kansas be at greensward croquet?

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