Runaway Bridesmaid Read Free Page B

pants were topped by a conservative knit shirt in a remarkably unconservative shade of aqua, stretched across shoulders and a chest that had broadened nicely over the years. Another blast of wind made her squint.
    â€œYou…look good.” She had to say something. And it was true.
    Dammit.
    Another smile, this one perhaps a little more relaxed. “You, too.” Now he added a brief chuckle. “Crew cut and all.”
    â€œIt’s not that short—” She clamped her mouth shut, her face tingling from his knowing smile, the gentle teasing she’d forgotten how to handle. She used to encourage it, though. And give it right back.
    Why couldn’t she take her eyes off his face?
    Which was older, of course. But…more mature, too, which was not the same thing. Age, perhaps, had sharpened features that might’ve seemed severe save for the smile she knew came so easily and often to his lips. Well, used to, anyway. His hair seemed lighter, but she couldn’t tell if the streaks were sun-bleached or premature gray, blended as they were into the moderate style that hooded the tops of his ears, curled over the top of his collar. Age, again—and an overdose of sun from summers of lifeguard duty—had bestowed the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, a faint bracketing around his mouth.
    Time and gravity had wrought the physical changes. What had brought about the maturity, she had no way of knowing. But it was there, settled into his eyes. Even their color seemed more intense, like everything else about him, the gold-green she remembered now deepened to the color of damp moss.
    She saw wisdom, she thought. Understanding. Maybe a little regret, but that might be wishful thinking. But what she didn’t see—happiness or contentment or even satisfaction—she found threatening in some vague, unexplainable way. Not vague at all, though, was an almost irrepressible urge to skim her fingertips down his cheek. To see if he smelled the same. Felt the same.
    Tasted the same.
    Her heart now fairly thundered in her chest.
    His smile had faded in the wake of her extended silence. He glanced away for a second, then let out a short, nervous laugh. “Damn, this is awkward.”
    â€œYou could say that,” she allowed with a curt nod, mentallytucking away all those thoughts of touching and feeling and tasting.
    â€œAt least you didn’t claw my eyes out,” he said softly.
    She held up her hands. “No nails. Sorry.” Then, realizing her hands were shaking, tucked them behind her back. “Maybe some other time.”
    He blew out a puff of air that might have passed for a laugh. “Do you think…would you mind if we talked for a few minutes, alone? Before we have to face everyone else?”
    For some reason, probably to avoid his eyes, she found herself staring at his mouth and remembered with startling clarity just how his lips had felt on hers. With that, all the thoughts she’d so carefully tucked away came tumbling free.
    She snapped her gaze away from his mouth, from his face entirely, dragging her attention to a rhododendron bush a few feet away. But the image wouldn’t fade. She fisted her hands—maybe digging her nails into her palms would serve as a reverse aphrodisiac. If she’d had any nails. Rats.
    This was not the way it was supposed to happen. She had expected to see the Dean who had broken her heart. Not the one who had stolen it to begin with.
    And that screwed up everything. Big time.
    So she forced to the surface the one memory she would cling to with every fiber of her being, the one that would keep her heart from ever getting torn apart ever again. Not by Dean Parrish, anyway.
    â€œHey, remember?” she said at last in a level voice, daring to look up at him again. “I’m just a hick from boring Sweetbranch, Alabama? What on earth could we possibly have to talk about?”
    Then she reeled