Runaway Bridesmaid Read Free Page A

reminding me of what I’d worked so hard to forget.
    Not that any of this was Jen’s fault. Who knew?
    She sat for a long moment, staring out the driver’s side window at what was obviously Dean’s truck. This was no beat-up number on its last legs. Wheels, whatever. The color was understated enough—a dull silver, like her mother’s pewter candlesticks on the living room mantel—but it clearly had enough bells and whistles to make even the fussiest boy happy. Either he’d done very well or he was in hock up to his butt.
    A sudden crack of thunder startled her; she peered up at the clouds, which had been playing round-robin with the sun all day, then glanced back at the truck. Then her house.
    Not yet. She just couldn’t. She’d…just go check on the new pups first. Yeah. Good plan. She pushed open the door to the Bronco and hopped down.
    The door crashed shut behind her; she held her breath. After a few seconds, when no crowd appeared, she let out her breath in a little huff, then headed across her front yard toward the kennels, the wind whistling in her ears.
    The idea of seeing Dean again was wreaking more havoc with her gastrointestinal tract by the second. Right now, the last thing she wanted was to be anywhere near Jennifer’s wedding, let alone be in Jennifer’s wedding. An event she’d been looking forward to, despite her grumblings, until about six hours ago. Now, she’d rather eat Aunt Ida’s okra-and-ham-hocks casserole three times a day for the rest of her life—
    â€œSarah?”
    The voice was deeper, the edge harder. But it was his. Still gentle. Still featherbed warm. And ingenuously seductive. And the instant she heard it, she knew she was in seriously deep do-do.
    Cursing fate, she turned, her arms tucked tightly against her chest. She couldn’t get a real good look at him; the light was fading quickly as the storm approached, and he stood on the porch at least thirty feet away. One hand, she thought, was braced against a white trellis laden with blueberry-hued morning glories, now tightly closed and flinching in the ruthless wind.
    Apparently, however, he could see her just fine. “GoodLord!” he shouted over the wind. “What the hell happened to your hair?”
    That these should be the first words out of his mouth, after all this time, came as no surprise. What was startling, though, was that it was as if no time had passed at all. There he stood, like he had hundreds of times before when he’d been waiting for her to get back from school or shopping or whatever.
    But it was very different, even so.
    Instinctively, almost protectively, her hand cupped her head. “What’s wrong with it?” she called, simultaneously annoyed and pleased at his reaction. “It turn green or something since I last looked in the mirror?”
    He shook his head in slow motion. “Not green. Gone. ”
    â€œOh, right.” She shrugged. “It got to be a pain. So I chopped it off.”
    Dean now descended the porch steps, one hand anchored on the banister, each step deliberate, careful, as if he knew she was a breath away from bolting. The wind whipped dust and leaves in Sarah’s face, so she still couldn’t clearly see him, even as he came closer. When he’d narrowed the gap to five feet or so, he stopped, blatantly staring at her. The debris finally ceased its assault long enough for her to stare back.
    â€œYou’ve changed, too,” she said, crossing her arms again to support her roiling stomach.
    He smiled, but it wasn’t real steady, she didn’t think. “Yeah. Guess you’re not the only one with shorter hair.”
    He fidgeted with his hands, like a little boy giving a speech in front of his class, then slipped them into the pockets of pleated-front chinos. That was something, right there: a new pair of jeans was about as dressed up as Sarah had ever seen Dean get. The