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

“I think you’re deeper than that.”

“What?”

“I think you choose to be happy because you’re scared what will happen if you let yourself experience negative feelings.”

Alarm had her smiling doubly hard. How had he guessed that about her?

“You pump up the energy around you by laughing and joking and having a good time, but it’s just a cover.”

“It’s not,” she said, concerned that he’d seen through her most basic insecurity about herself and annoyed by the little flare of panic that ignited in her at his assessment. He’d cut close to the bone.

“You’re afraid of painful feelings.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

He shook his head. “No. Pain is a part of life. You can’t truly appreciate joy until you’ve suffered.”

“Well then, you must be on the verge of becoming Mr. Freaking Sunshine because you’ve suffered a hell of a lot.”

His smile was rueful. “I’ve made you mad.”

“Me?” She screwed up her face in an expression of denial, shook her head, shrugged.

“See? You don’t even want to feel that negative emotion.”

“You’re pushing your luck, Boone. I’m just a happy person.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, what was the first thing you did when you heard about your mother’s breast cancer diagnosis?”

Tara squashed a blueberry with the back of her fork. “I went to play softball.”

“I rest my case.”

“What? It wasn’t like I could change the diagnosis. What was I supposed to do? Wring my hands? Gnash my teeth? Shake my fist at the sky and curse God?”

“Most people would have done some version of that, but you go play softball.”

A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Does that make me a terrible daughter?”

“No, it makes you the kind of person who masks her pain by trying to lift her mood.”

“What did you do?” she asked. “When you found out your dad had died?”

“I got my pistol, went to the junkyard my friend owned and shot the hell out of an old rusted-out car.”

“Oh, yes, that’s so much healthier than playing softball.”

“I’m not saying the way you handle negative emotions is wrong, simply pointing it out because I’m not sure you’re aware of it.”

“Thanks, now I know. I enjoy having my flaws brought to my attention.”

He reached across the table, touched her hand. “You need to know that it’s okay to feel bad sometimes.”

“You should know. You’ve made feeling bad a true art form.”

He raised his palms. “You’re right. I’m out of line. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

But he wasn’t out of line. He’d hit the nail on the head, and Tara knew it. The character trait that had caused her the most trouble was the inability to take life seriously.

Boone was looking at her with such kind compassion that her gut wrenched. Here she’d been trying so hard to get him to cheer up when he’d actually seen benefit in his low mood. It was a foreign concept to her.

Opposites attract.

Tara quickly pushed back her plate. “I’m ready for a shower.”

A wry smile lifted one corner of Boone’s mouth.

Hmm, that sounded suggestive, too. “Um, could I have the room key?”

He pulled the room key Mrs. Hubbard had given him from his shirt pocket, but made no move to come with her, thank heavens. Her chest felt oddly tight as she scurried from the dining room, up the creaky stairs and located room 201. Not that it was a challenge. There were only three bedrooms on the second floor.

She rushed in, dropping her overnight bag on the floor in her haste, barely even noticing that the room was decorated in rose floral wallpaper. She went straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. That’s when she caught sight of her reflection in the oval mirror over the white porcelain sink.

Holy tornado. She looked like she’d been through a Kansas twister and Tara knew firsthand what that was like.

Her hair was a mess. No, mess was too kind. It was a tangled rat’s nest. The mascara she hadn’t removed last night before falling into the tent had smeared, making her look like Cleopatra on a drinking binge. Lovely.

After a sizzling-hot shower, she felt infinitely better and came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her wet hair done up in a French braid.

Boone lay stretched out across the lone queen-sized bed, his hot gaze eating her up.

She startled and clutched the towel tighter around her. “What are you doing here?”

“You were the one who wanted one room. Consecutive showers, remember? I hope you left some hot water for me.” He waved at the steam rolling out the bathroom door behind her.

“You were supposed to stay in the dining room until I finished.”

“You never explained the rules,” he said, his dark eyes searing her to the spot.

“How’d you get in?”

“You didn’t lock the door behind you,” he said, and then added, “I locked it.”

The door was locked? They were locked in here together? Tara gulped, felt her stomach twitch. This was one of the negative emotions he’d been talking about.

Fear.

Not of him, but of herself and the impulse sprinting through her.

“Anyone could have followed you in here,” he said in a calm, measured, but no-nonsense tone.

“So, that’s it,” she said. “You’re trying to teach me a lesson. People can’t be trusted. Duly noted. Now please get out while I get dressed.”

“You’re throwing me out of the room I paid for?” he drawled.

“Only until I get dressed.” She was very self-conscious and acutely aware of how little there was between them. Her towel. His jeans.

“You can dress while I’m in the shower.” He eased off the bed. His fingers curled around the strap of his knapsack and he came toward her.

Her pulse raced. Her heart thundered.

Get out of his way, you silly twit .

She stepped aside, held her breath as he passed within touching distance.

Just before he stepped into the bathroom, he reached behind her, and gently tweaked her braid. “Love the hair,” he said and shut the door.

Lightning-quick, in case he popped unexpectedly from the shower and caught her naked, she changed into a pair of white shorts and a red-and-white-striped V-neck T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves and exchanged her flip-flops for sneakers. She wore white “no show” socks with jaunty red pom-poms at the heels. She glanced at the clock. It was barely past nine. They had hours to kill before the car would be ready.

The shower came on.

Unbidden, instant images of Boone’s naked body underneath the spray of water shot into her mind. She traced two fingers over her bottom lip, remembered the kiss they’d shared the night before. The kiss of the year? C’mon, it was more like the kiss of the decade. Decade? Right. Be honest.

It was the kiss of a lifetime.

She’d had the kiss of her lifetime. No sense trying to repeat it. Any further kissing was bound to be a letdown, nothing to do but seal that pristine kiss in her memory and move on.

Sure, and she had the willpower for that. Ha! If she stayed in this room alone with him, she would kiss him again, and if he kissed her like he kissed last night she wouldn’t be able to stop. There was a reason she didn’t eat potato chips. She couldn’t stop with just one.

Boone was a potato chip.

She had to find something else to occupy their time. Determined, she bound downstairs to find Mrs. Hubbard watching Good Morning America on a tablet computer.

“Hi!” Tara greeted her breathlessly. “What do people do around here for fun?”

Mrs. Hubbard glanced up. “Usually guests come here from Lincoln or Omaha for a quiet romantic getaway.” She winked. “Most never leave their bedrooms except to come out for food.”