GINA WILKINS - A Proposal at the Wedding

She hadn’t planned to go this far …

But she didn’t want to bring the night to a close. For the first time she wasn’t thinking about the future, about the inn. This night belonged solely to them—to her—and she wasn’t ready for it to end.

Paul cleared his throat. “Maybe I should go.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

She told herself he’d ask her out again and maybe they’d finish what they’d started. Or maybe they could just finish it now, she thought, nibbling his lips. She felt a quiver run through him.

“I’m a big girl, Paul. I haven’t had a vacation in three years. I have a rare few hours for myself, and a very handsome, occasionally charming man with whom to spend them. Now, I could light a candle and we could play gin rummy, or we could adjourn to my bedroom with no strings and no regrets.”

His smile flashed in the dim light. “Well, when you put it that way …”

* * *

Bride Mountain:Where a trip down the aisle is never far away …

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GINA WILKINSis a bestselling and award-winning author who has written more than seventy novels for Mills & Boon. She credits her successful career in romance to her long, happy marriage and her three “extraordinary” children.

A lifelong resident of central Arkansas, Ms. Wilkins sold her first book to Mills & Boon in 1987 and has been writing full-time since. She has appeared on the Waldenbooks, B. Dalton and USA TODAY bestseller lists. She is a three-time recipient of a Maggie Award for Excellence, sponsored by Georgia Romance Writers, and has won several awards from the reviewers of RT Book Reviews.

For my writing friends,

who commiserate the dark days, celebrate the good days, and are always there with encouragement and the occasional crack of the whip.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Excerpt

Chapter One

The farmers’ market bustled with shoppers on this warm Tuesday morning in early July. Bonnie Carmichael browsed the outdoor displays of fresh fruits, vegetables and herbs, occasionally making purchases and adding the bounty to the increasingly heavy canvas bags dangling from her arms. She should have brought her little wheeled market trolley, she thought with a shake of her head. She’d told herself that not having it with her would make her less likely to purchase too much, but instead she was simply juggling bulging bags.

She loved visiting the farmers’ market, surrounded by the bright colors of fresh produce, cut flowers, handcrafted pottery and jewelry, the scents of fresh-baked bread and pastries, the sounds of chattering shoppers and busking musicians. The market was even more active on Saturdays, but it was hard for her to get away on weekends from the bed-and-breakfast she co-owned and operated with her two older siblings. She was the chef at the inn, so shopping was both her responsibility and her pleasure. She came to the market regularly enough that most of the vendors knew her by name.

She was chatting with a local organic farmer, lifting a plump heirloom tomato for an appreciative sniff, when someone bumped hard against her arm, having been jostled by someone else in the milling crowd. The tomato fell to her feet with a squishy thump.

“I’m so sorry,” a man said immediately, his voice coming from approximately a foot above her head. “Are you okay?”

She looked up to assure him no harm was done, but felt the words freeze on her tongue when she recognized Paul Drennan.

This just couldn’t be happening again.

Twice, Bonnie had run into Paul—literally—at the inn in the Virginia Blue Ridge Highlands. The first time she’d met him, in May, she’d carried a box of stainless steel wine bottle stoppers that had scattered around her when she’d landed on the floor. He’d been with his twenty-one-year-old daughter, Cassie, who was planning an August wedding on the grounds of the inn, and Bonnie had been mortified to crash into a client. The second incident a few weeks later had been his fault; he’d been talking over his shoulder while walking and had barreled into her, though she’d managed not to fall that time.

It should have come as no surprise that the next time she encountered him, only a couple of weeks later, it would be with another collision. Or that once again she was as jarred by her immediate and powerful attraction to him as by the physical contact. Something about this man had taken her breath away the first time she’d looked up at him from the floor where she’d landed. She’d felt a spark between them when he’d offered his hand to help her to her feet, a clichéd reaction she hadn’t expected, but had seemed very real, all the same. Apparently, nothing had changed. Her pulse tripped again in response to seeing him here.

Beneath a thick shock of dark auburn hair touched with a few white strands at the temples, Paul’s jade-green eyes lit with a smile that meandered more slowly to his firm lips, drawing her attention there. “If this keeps happening, you’re going to file a protection order against me,” he said in the deep voice she remembered so well from those other two brief meetings. She’d heard it a few times in her daydreams since, she thought sheepishly. “I swear I’m not actually targeting you.”

“I believe you,” she assured him with a weak laugh. “It is getting rather funny, though, isn’t it?”

Using a paper towel given to him by the vendor, he quickly cleaned up the half-smashed tomato. “I’ll pay for that one,” he promised the good-natured farmer, who waved off the offer.

Handing some bills to the vendor, Bonnie accepted a bag of pretty little multicolored heirloom tomatoes in exchange. When she fumbled a bit with the new bag, Paul reached out to help. “Let me carry a couple of those sacks.”

He divested her of all but the smallest of the bulging bags before she could even respond. As he did, she smiled up at him—way up. She estimated him to be perhaps six feet three inches, in marked contrast to her own five feet three inches. The flat sandals she wore with her scoop neck mint top and summer print skirt gave her no extra height. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. How’s business at Bride Mountain Inn?” Paul asked as he shuffled with her through the throng to the next booth.

“The past few weeks have been hectic with June weddings,” she replied. “And July hasn’t slowed down much.” Trying to focus on her reason for being here, rather than the man who’d unexpectedly become her shopping assistant, she examined a crookneck squash in a display basket.

“Being busy with weddings is a good thing, right?”

“Absolutely.” Though she’d already bought so much, she couldn’t resist picking out a few squash.

“Those look good,” Paul said, nodding toward her selections. “I like squash, but I don’t know how to prepare them.”

“Oh, they’re easy to cook,” she assured him. Her momentary self-consciousness dissipated with this subject she could discuss comfortably. “Very versatile, baked, grilled, steamed or even raw in salads.”

She didn’t know if Paul had any interest at all in cooking, but he nodded attentively. “I like them all those ways. Just haven’t tried cooking them myself. Do you have time to help me select a few? I’ll look up some recipes online.”

“Of course.” Speaking briskly and casually, as she would with just anyone who’d asked for her help, rather than a man who happened to make her toes curl in her sandals, she gave him a quick lesson on checking the stems, skin and heft-weight for ripeness and freshness. She watched as he paid for four then stuffed them into his own market bag. A price tag still hung from one strap, making her suspect he’d purchased it when he’d arrived. It appeared to be almost empty.