Janelle Denison - The Wedding Secret

Stifling a grin, he motioned for the bar waitress and ordered the woman a cup of strong, black coffee. When he glanced back at the bride, he found her brushing at an unmanageable curl along her cheek, which kept springing back into place. A look of utter disgust flitted across her face.

“I hate my curly hair,” she grumbled, blowing a frustrated stream of breath at the unruly strand. “Stupid curls never stay where I put them. Did you know I wanted straight hair when I was a little girl?”

“Uh, no.” How could he have possibly known something so personal when he’d never met her before this evening?

Her eyes drifted closed, and just when Garrett thought she’d fallen asleep she spoke in a soft, wistful voice. “Every birthday I’d blow out the candles on my cake and wish for straight hair like my friend Cindy. It never happened.”

He took in the long, lustrous hair she seemed to curse, too fascinated by those springy, natural curls and the way they might cling to his fingers…or how the caress of the sun might turn the strands to rich gold.

Her eyes fluttered open a moment later, a wealth of vulnerability shining in their depths. Unsure how to reply to her strange conversation, and feeling way out of his element, he played it safe and remained quiet.

“My other wishes didn’t come true, either,” she confessed quietly. “I was supposed to marry a prince charming, and live happily ever after. I guess I’m just not very good at making wishes.”

Becky arrived with the coffee, saving him from having to formulate some kind of response. He knew the liquor was partially responsible for loosening her tongue, but he sensed her babbling about prince charmings and wishes somehow tied into the reason why she’d skipped out on her wedding day.

“Today was suppos’ to be the happiest day of my life,” she said once they were alone again, her soft voice quivering with emotion. “That’s what my mom told me before she died, but it’s the worst day of my life. All I wanted was a teensy-weensy bit of re-spec-ta-bil-ity, but I’ll never, ever be respectable.”

Aw, hell. What offense had she committed that was so awful she believed herself unworthy of respect? Compassion stirred within him, along with a good dose of curiosity over her comment. He quickly stifled both, refusing to tangle himself in this woman’s emotional turmoil. Once he gleaned some pertinent information from her so Harlan could contact someone to pick her up, his duty would be done and he could get back to that cold beer Harlan had promised him.

And forget about this complex, periwinkle-eyed angel who seemed so lost and alone, and very vulnerable…and a possible scandal waiting to happen. The last thing he wanted or needed was speculation into his private life, and this mysterious woman would definitely provide that.

Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he reached for the cream and sugar and poured a generous amount of each into her coffee, as she’d requested, and pushed the mug in front of her, urging her to drink.

She took a great shuddering breath, and lifted her troubled gaze to his. “Do you think when I wake up tomorrow this will all be just a bad, horrible dream?”

He wished he could offer her that assurance, but instead tried to console her with an easy smile. “If you don’t drink some of this coffee, tomorrow you’re gonna end up with a bad, horrible hangover.”

A frown marred her delicate brows and she picked up the mug, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic. “I’m fine. Jus’ great.”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed, humoring her, knowing if she tried to stand at the moment she’d fall flat on her pretty face. Resting his fingers beneath the bottom of her mug, he guided it toward her mouth. Her lips settled over the rim, and she took a drink and cringed, at the sweetness or the strength of the coffee, he couldn’t be sure.

“What’s your name?” he asked, figuring he’d start with simple questions and work his way up to the more difficult ones as her mind cleared.

“Jenna Chestfield…” Confusion etched her expression as she considered that name, then she shook her head, causing more of those unruly strands to spill from the top of her head and curl on the soft swells of her breasts straining the bodice of her gown. “No, we never said ‘I do’, so I guess I’m still just Jenna Phillips.”

Just Jenna Phillips. There was a story in that, Garrett was sure, one he didn’t want to get involved in, he reminded himself as his gaze drifted to her left hand. The absence of a ring on her finger backed her claim that no marriage had taken place.

She propped her chin in her palm again, as if her pretty head was getting too heavy for her shoulders to support. Her eyes grew soft, slumberous. “What’s your name?”

“Garrett,” he replied, deciding to keep things between them on a first-name basis.

“Garrett,” she repeated, her husky voice making his name sound very intimate coming from her lips. “That’s a nice, strong, respectable name. Are you respectable?”

Abrupt laughter rose in his throat, but he had the good manners to catch it before it escaped. Wanting to get his chivalrous deed over with, he asked, “Jenna, is there someone we can call to come pick you up?”

She didn’t have to think long. “No.”

He found that hard to believe. “Any family?” Remembering that she’d mentioned that her mother was deceased, he prompted, “Your father, or other relatives?”

She blinked, and an inexplicable sadness filled her eyes, a deep-rooted loneliness that struck a chord in him. “Nope,” she whispered in an aching voice. “No one.”

“How about your fiancé?” he asked. “Can we call him?”

She flinched at the mention of the man who would have become her husband, and her distress returned. He caught a wealth of regret, remorse and insecurities in her eyes before she cast her gaze downward.

“No, he wouldn’t want me anymore,” she said in a voice choked with certainty. “Not after the way I humiliated him and his family. I can’t ever go back.”

Another frustrating surge of sympathy gripped Garrett, and he valiantly tried to ignore it. He didn’t want to care about this woman and her predicament, or why she believed she was such a big disappointment to the man she’d been engaged to marry.

Great. Now what should he do? He glanced over at the bar and met Harlan’s questioning gaze. Other than the woman’s name, and learning that Jenna Phillips was seemingly as much of a loner as himself, he didn’t have much more information on her than he had when he’d first sat down.

Well, he’d done his duty. Now, it was up to Harlan to figure out what to do with the lone bride for the night. He started to ease back out of the booth, but she grabbed his arm, which immediately stopped him. Her hand was soft and very cool against his heated skin, throwing images into his mind of how supple the rest of her body might feel beneath his calloused fingers, against his lips. He inwardly cursed—had he been that long without a woman that a stranger, and someone else’s bride at that, could make him burn with a mere touch?

She’d latched on to him for security, that much was obvious. Meeting her suddenly desperate gaze, he banished those former thoughts from his mind, reminded himself he was done rescuing women, and tipped his head in inquiry.

“Are you leaving me?” Panic tinged her voice, as if she’d just realized that she was in a strange, distant town, in a rowdy, honky-tonk bar filled with men eager to take the place he was about to vacate.

“I just need to go talk to Harlan. Nobody will bother you,” he promised, feeling uncharacteristically protective toward this woman he didn’t know. Not a good sign. He wanted to say it was the same kind of paternal feeling he experienced with his daughter, but there was nothing nurturing about the awareness Jenna evoked. No, his response to her was all male and too threatening to the secure, stable life he’d built for himself and Chelsea the past six years.