Kristin James - The Last Groom On Earth

For a long moment they were lost in intense pleasure, their mouths locked together, their bodies straining against each other. Then there was a knock on the door, breaking into the enchantment, and a bored voice drawled, “Room Service.”

Angela jumped, startled, and her lip came into painful contact with Bryce’s teeth. She stepped back, one hand pressed to her smarting lip, and stared at Bryce dazedly. This couldn’t be happening. Bryce Richards had just kissed her—and she had enjoyed it.

“Room service,” the disembodied voice repeated outside the door, and Bryce jerked into movement.

“Yes. Coming.” He started toward the door.

Angela cast a wild look around the room, then sank into a chair, pushing her hands back into her thick, curling hair. She tried to pull her thoughts back into some semblance of order while Bryce dealt with the hotel employee.

She had done some impulsive things in her life, but it occurred to her that this was probably the worst. Bryce Richards disliked her; he hadn’t kissed her because he was attracted to her. He had done it because she had made him mad. He had done it to establish that he was in control, to prove her wrong. She had insulted him, more or less accused him of being without passion, and he, of course, had to show her that he was not.

And she, like an idiot, had responded to his kiss! Angela couldn’t imagine what was wrong with her that she had acted that way. He was handsome, of course— in a cold way, she reminded herself—but he was all the things she disliked in a man: a staid workaholic with no sense of humor, a man who did things only because they made sense. She could not imagine Bryce Richards, skipping a day of work to go out and have a picnic. He was the sort of man who would bring a woman flowers because that was the accepted thing to do, but he would never think of surprising her with some odd little present that had irresistibly reminded him of her. He would make plans for an evening and follow them to the letter. In short, he was the sort of man with whom she would be bored in an hour or two—no matter how much she might feel an utterly inexplicable physical attraction to him.

It also occurred to Angela that right now Bryce was probably regretting what he had just done just as much as she was. She looked up.

Bryce was shutting the door behind the waiter. He turned and gazed across the room at her, every line of his body screaming that he was uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Well…”

Angela popped to her feet. “I better be going now.”

“What? Oh, yes, I suppose so. Look, Angela, I’m sorry—”

She shook her head, putting on what she hoped was a cheery, nonchalant face. “Nonsense. Happens to me all the time. Men stop me on the street to kiss me. It’s my irresistible charm.”

She nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Bryce stood still for a moment after she left, gazing blankly at the door. Finally he turned to the room service cart and absently lifted the covers. His earlier hunger had vanished, and he studied the food with uninterest.

Room service had come just in time, he thought. Who knows what might have happened if they had not been interrupted?

Stifling a sigh, he sat down and began to eat.

Angela drove home in a fury. She parked her car in the single garage assigned to her condominium and stomped up the stairs to her condo, still seething over her encounter with Bryce Richards.

The condominium complex where she lived was small and secluded, surrounded by large, spreading oaks. It was an elegant place without being pretentious, and its occupants were by and large young professionals without children. Angela’s condo, toward the rear of the complex, was a small, utilitarian, down-to-earth place with little decoration. She didn’t spend much time here. Her real home was the lake house, and it was there that she had put in most of her effort of furnishing and decorating. This condo was simply a place to sleep during the week, and its primary advantages were that it was quiet and close to work.

The furniture was simple and comfortable; some of it she had had from the tiny first apartment she had shared with Kelly when their business was beginning. It looked old and well lived-in, and the stacks of books all around—in bookcases, on tables and in piles on the floor—added to the casual, cozy ambience. At odds with the furniture, however, were the array of electronic machines and gadgets around the place.

Angela had always been intrigued by gadgets and time-saving or energy-saving devices, and when the company had started making good money, she had allowed herself to indulge in the clever machines that caught her fancy. Though she was not fond of cooking, her kitchen was a treasure trove of bread machines, cappuccino makers, electric steamers, icecream machines and various sorts of food processors. The second bedroom, which served as her office at home, was stocked with a fax machine, copier, two computers and an assortment of hand-held computerized games, translators, calculators and electronic novelties. Her favorite was the home theater setup at one end of her living room, where a large-screen TV and a multitude of speakers, VCRs, laser disc players, tuners, tape players, etc., provided sensational sound and view for any movie.

Tonight, however, she had no interest in popping any cassette into the VCR. Nor did cooking a dinner appeal to her. She was too restless, too agitated; her mind kept jumping from her tax troubles to Bryce Richards to her bizarre behavior in his hotel room. She rattled purposelessly around the condo for a few minutes and finally wound up on the small balcony in back.

The balcony was shielded from the sun and neighbors by large, sheltering oaks, but it had a clear view of the balcony next door. There a slim, curly-haired, middle-aged man fussed over a group of hanging plants, watering them and carefully breaking off dead leaves.

“Hi, Jim.” Angela leaned against the railing and smiled at the man, who turned and beamed at her. Jim had more or less adopted Angela when she first moved into her condo six years earlier, telling her she was the daughter he had never had, and they had weathered many an emotional storm with each other over the intervening years.

“Sweetheart!” He came over, the empty watering pot dangling from his hand. “My, aren’t you home early? What happened?”

Angela grimaced reflexively. “Trouble, probably.”

“Really?” His brows arched in amused curiosity. “Do tell. Is it interesting or some boring business thing?”

“It’s people, not business. Or maybe a combination of both.”

“Well, why don’t you come over and tell Daddy all about it? I have hot water on the stove and I’ll fix you a nice cup of herbal tea if you want.”

“Sure. That sounds great.” Angela turned and walked back through her condominium.

Jim opened the door for her just as she reached it and led her inside, chattering all the way as he walked back into the kitchen to fetch her tea.

His condo was a mirror image of hers structurally, But there would never be any mistaking the two. Jim’s place was done in the same campy, flamboyant style in which he spoke and acted. Having been around him in moments when he was quite serious, direct, and even practical, Angela had never been quite sure whether this flamboyance was real or merely something he assumed as befitting the owner of a trendy art gallery.

“So what happened?” he asked as he bustled back out of the kitchen, carrying a small tray on which sat two cups.

Angela, who had kicked off her shoes and leaned back in an ultramodern turquoise canvas chair, reached up and took the steaming cup gratefully. “Mmm…smells delicious.”