Lori Wilde - Stop The Wedding! - Night Driving / Smooth Sailing / Crash Landing

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 you’ll just be needing the room for a few hours?”

“That’s right.”

Mrs. Hubbard shifted her gaze to Boone. “Just one room?”

“Two,” Boone said, reaching for his wallet.

“One will do,” Tara said. “No sense paying extra when we can take turns showering.” She didn’t realize how suggestive that sounded until it was out of her mouth. “I mean, not that we were both going to shower at the same time. We don’t shower together. We…” Ack! She was just making things worse. Tara clamped her mouth shut.

Behind her, Boone let out a soft chuckle. “One room. Consecutive showering.”

Mrs. Hubbard arched a speculative eyebrow. “Do you want to include breakfast?”

“Yes,” Boone said. “Charge us for two breakfasts.”

Her eyes twinkled behind her big glasses. “Consecutive?”

“Concurrent.”

“Very good. Breakfast is in the dining room, just through that door.” The woman pointed.

“Food or shower first?” Boone asked Tara as they walked away from the reception desk.

“Food,” she said, not just because her stomach was growling, but also because she just wasn’t ready to be alone with Boone in a bedroom.

The dining room was empty, save for a man in a business suit reading The Wall Street Journal by the window. The food was served buffet style from chafing dishes. The smell of bacon had Tara’s mouth watering. They filled their plates and sat down across from each other at a small table. Tara spread a napkin over her lap. Boone paused to look at his watch again.

“Staring at your watch isn’t going to make time go faster,” she observed.

“Don’t want it to go faster. Want it to slow down.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“Nothing we can do about it. Might as well relax and enjoy the day.”

He canted his head at her. “How do you do it?”

“What?” She speared a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs.

“The whole lemonade thing.”

She shrugged. “I’d rather be happy than in turmoil.”

He shook his head. “Wish I could do that.”

“It’s easy. Just look at the bright side.”

“Which is?”

“You’re still mobile.”

“Barely.”

“You’re good-looking.”

He snorted.

“What? You don’t think you’re good-looking?”

“Looks are inconsequential. They don’t last.”

“You’re a millionaire.”

“Thanks to my father.”

“You’re not balding.”

He finally cracked a smile and ran a hand through his thick head of hair. “You got a point.”

“See? There’s always a bright side.” The bright side for her was that she was having breakfast with the handsome man who would never have eaten breakfast with her back in Bozeman, but she didn’t tell Boone that, of course.

“These blueberry pancakes are really good,” he admitted.

“One way or another, bit by bit, I’ll seduce you to the sunny side of life,” Tara predicted.

Seduce .

Why had she said that word? It lay there between them like an unexploded hand grenade. Light shone in through the window, bathing Boone’s face in sunshine. Stubble ringed his angular jaw, lending him a dangerous air. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing the strong forearms thick with dark hair.