Christine Rimmer - Garrett Bravo's Runaway Bride

“That can be arranged.”

* * *

Cami decided she loved Garrett’s cabin.

On the outside, it was simple, of weathered wood with old-fashioned sash-type windows and a front porch with stone steps.

Inside, it was cozy and plain, just one big living area with the kitchen on one wall, the bed on another and a sofa under the front window.

When he ushered her ahead of him into the dinky bathroom, she grinned and brushed a finger along the wooden rim of the tub. “It’s half of a barrel.”

“That’s right, a whiskey barrel.” He hung back in the doorway. There wasn’t enough room for both of them in there. “A full-size tub wouldn’t fit.” He was tall and broad-shouldered with beautiful light brown eyes that made her think of melting caramel. Definitely a hottie, with a few days’ worth of scruff on his lean cheeks, dressed in old jeans, dusty hiking boots and a faded brown denim jacket over a white T-shirt. He was so easy to be with. Already, she liked him a lot and had to keep reminding herself that she hardly knew him.

“I put in the tub and hot water up here this spring,” he said. “Before that, it was sponge baths or nothing.”

She glanced around at the vintage sink, the milk-glass light fixture and the knotty-pine paneling. “I like it. It’s super rustic.”

He indicated the metal caddy hooked on the outside of the tub. “Soap and shampoo are right there. Towel and washcloth under the sink. There’s a new toothbrush and a comb you can use in the medicine cabinet. I’ll go back out to the fire and leave the window over the sofa open. Give me a holler if you need anything.”

“Would you undo the hooks at the back of my dress before you go?”

“Uh, sure.” He took a step into the tight space and she backed up to meet him.

Gentle fingers brushed the skin between her shoulder blades and then worked their way down. She pressed the dress to her chest to keep it from falling off. “All done,” he said after a minute.

She looked over her shoulder and met those melty eyes. “Take this thing?” To her, the dress represented all that was wrong in her life. It wasn’t even her style, so poufy and traditional. Her mom had coaxed her into choosing it. “I don’t think there’s room for both it and me in here.”

He had soft lips to go with the melty eyes. Those lips turned up slightly. “Uh. Sure.” He was looking at her kind of funny, like he still didn’t quite know what to make of her—which was nothing new. People often looked at her that way. Maybe he was thinking she shouldn’t be so quick to take off her dress in front of him.

Well, maybe she shouldn’t. But then again, why not?

She trusted him. He’d been nothing but kind to her, helping her all he could while at the same time respecting her wishes. Never once had he bullied her to do things his way. This man was not going to make a move on her—or if he did, he’d already proven that he understood the word no.

Cami dropped the dress. It plopped around her feet like a parachute, belling out, then collapsing. Underneath, she wore a tight white satin bustier that ended in ruffles at her hips. She’d thrown her silk stockings away back down the mountain somewhere. There hadn’t been much left of them after she dragged herself up to the road. As for her five-inch Louboutins and her giant half-slip covered in a big froth of tulle? She’d dumped those during the trek up out of the ravine.

The bustier, with satin panties underneath, covered her as well as a swimsuit would. It also showed the long, pale scar cutting down the outside of her right thigh—but she’d never been the least sensitive about that. She considered it a war wound, proof of an earlier attempt to escape a life that was always a prison for her.

Stepping free of the acres of dirty white lace, she held it up to him. “Burn it, will you?”

He took it gingerly. “What will you wear?”

“I don’t even care.” Unfortunately, she’d left her suitcases in Denver—turned them over to Charles yesterday to load into the limousine. She had nothing but the dress and her underwear, but she would go naked before she put that thing on again. “Burn it.”

“Up to you.” Garrett backed into the main room and shut the door.

Cami turned to the barrel tub and flipped on the taps.

* * *

Garrett had just doused the fire for the night when he heard the cabin door open.

Munch ran up the steps to greet their surprise guest as she emerged from inside wrapped in a towel. The light from the cabin outlined her curvy shape in gold as she knelt to give Munch the attention he’d come looking for.

As Garrett mounted the steps, she rose. “Thank you. Really. I feel so much better now.”

“Good—and it’s past midnight. You think you could sleep?” With a soft sound of agreement, she turned and went back inside. He and Munch followed her. Garrett shut the door.

She faced him with a sigh. “Did you burn it?”

“It’s nothing but ash.” He dropped to the old bentwood chair by the door and started taking off his boots.

When he looked up again, she was still standing there wearing a wistful smile. “Thanks.”

“Any time. You want one of my shirts to sleep in?”

Her smile turned radiant. “Yes, please.”

He got a faded Pearl Jam T-shirt from the dresser and handed it over.

“Thank you. Again.” She disappeared into the bathroom, emerging in the shirt that covered her to midthigh.

There was another awkward moment and it came sharply home to him that he didn’t know this woman at all. They were two strangers about to share the same sleeping space.

“I’ll just take my turn in the bathroom.” He eased around her, went in and shut the bathroom door. Hanging on the back of it next to his sweats was that sexy corset thingy of hers. It struck him all over again how bizarre this whole situation was.

When he came back out wearing the sweats, she’d already stretched out on the couch. She was settling his old afghan over herself.

He moved a few steps closer. “Cami, take the bed.”

“No way.” She wiggled her toes under the blanket and adjusted the thin throw pillow under her head. “This couch isn’t big enough for you and we both know it. Your feet would be hanging off the end.” Munch made himself comfortable in the space between the rickety coffee table and the sofa. She put her hand down and stroked his spotted coat. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not budging.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Oh, yes, I will. From this day forward, I will be suiting the hell out of myself, just you watch me.”

He got the extra pillow from the bed and gave it to her. “You’re allowed to change your mind. If you can’t sleep on those lumpy cushions, I’ll trade with you.”

She yawned hugely. “’Night.” Pulling the afghan up under her chin, she shut her good eye.

* * *

In the morning, her black eye had opened to a slit and she refused a fresh ice pack for it. “It’ll be fine,” she assured him. “I’m a fast healer.”

He put a couple of logs in the woodstove to get the coals going again and made coffee and scrambled eggs. She shoveled it in like she hadn’t eaten in weeks, and he felt ridiculously pleased with himself to be taking good care of her.

But then he said, “After breakfast, I’ll drive you down the mountain.”

She guzzled some coffee. “You said you were staying for three more days.”

“Cami, you really need to—”

“Uh-uh.” She showed him the hand. “Don’t say it. Don’t tell me what I need. For the rest of my life, I decide what I need. And what I need is to stay here with you and Munch until you have to go.”

“But you—”

“Not going. Forget it. I need a few more days up here in the peace and the quiet before facing civilization and calling my parents to say I’m all right.”