Montana Passions: Stranded With the Groom / All He Ever Wanted / Prescription: Love. Allison Leigh
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away. Also, it had seemed to her that he was careful to avoid touching her. He kept his distance emotionally—and physically, too.
All evening she’d told herself to let it be. The guy didn’t have to be hanging on her every word every minute of the day. Maybe he just wanted a little time to himself. In such close quarters, there was no easy way for him to claim some private space.
But in her heart, she knew it wasn’t about lack of privacy. It was about them seeing each other after they got out of here.
It hurt a lot, to admit it to herself, but she was beginning to think she’d gotten things all wrong. She’d read more into this thing between them than was actually there.
Oh, not in terms of herself. She knew how she felt. It was real and strong and…maybe it was love.
Or something very close to it—something that could be love, given the time and space to grow.
But just because she was feeling something didn’t automatically mean he had to feel it in return.
She’d gone to bed, however long ago that had been, ahead of him. And she’d lain here waiting for him.
He’d yet to come in when she finally fell asleep.
Was he even here now?
She sat up.
Across the room, the too-short, too-narrow cot lay empty, the star quilt smooth and undisturbed, the flat little pillow without a wrinkle.
He hadn’t even come to bed.
Quietly, carefully—as if there was someone in the empty room she might disturb should she make a sound—she lay back down.
And popped right back up again.
No. This was wrong. If he didn’t want to get anything going with her, well, that was his prerogative and she would learn to accept it.
But she wasn’t going to just lie here, worrying. And what about tomorrow? What about whatever time they had left here until the plow came? If she spent that time tiptoeing around him, keeping her head down and her mouth shut, well, wouldn’t that be just like the woman she’d told herself she wasn’t going to be anymore? Wouldn’t that be like Katie, the cliché?
She needed to clear the air between them.
How, exactly, to do that, she wasn’t quite sure. But it certainly wouldn’t get done with her lying here in bed agonizing over what had gone wrong and him off somewhere in another room doing whatever the heck he was doing.
She shoved the covers back and slid her stocking feet to the floor.
“Justin.”
He turned from his own dark reflection in the window to find Katie standing in the doorway to the central room, wearing her wrinkled red pajamas and a pair of fat wool socks, blinking against the bright overhead kitchen light.
A slow warmth spread through him, just to see her standing there. It was that feeling of well-being and contented relief a man gets when he comes in from the cold and finds a cheery fire waiting—that feeling multiplied about a thousand times.
Damn, she looked good, all squinty-eyed with a sleep mark on her soft cheek and her dark hair a tangled halo all around her sweet face. Had there ever been a woman so outright adorable? Not in his experience, and that had been varied, if not especially meaningful.
She stuck out a hand in the direction of the book that lay open on the table in front of him. “Still on chapter three, I’ll bet.”
He glanced down at the book in question, then back up at her, an ironic smile twisting his lips. “Page sixty-seven, to be exact.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. Her soft mouth was pursed tight. “Look. Mind if I sit down?”
The set of her mouth, the determined look in her eyes, her defensive posture—they all told him more than he wanted to know.
No doubt about it. Katie had questions.
Which meant he would have to try to answer them honestly, but without ever telling her the whole truth.
Things got ugly when a man had too much to hide. He probably should have known that when he started this whole charade. Hell. He had known it. And he’d been willing to live with the ugliness.
Then.
He gave her an elaborately casual shrug and closed the book. “Sure. Take a seat.”
She marched over, yanked out the chair opposite him, and plunked herself down into it, unwrapping her arms from around herself and folding her hands in her lap.
“Okay…” He drew the word out, eyeing her sideways. “What’s up?”
She craned around to get a look at the kitchen clock. When she faced him again, she replied, “Well, you are. It’s three-fifteen in the morning and you’re just sitting here, staring out the window.”
He lounged back in his chair, displaying an ease he didn’t feel. “And this is a problem for you?”
“No. No, of course not.” She huffed out a frus-trated-sounding breath. “You can sit here all night if you want. What’s bothering me is…” She ran out of steam, sucked in another big breath, and started again. “Look. I spent most of last night staying out of your way, and you spent most of it avoiding looking, talking or getting too close to me. I just, well, I’d like that to stop and I came out here to ask you what I could do to make that happen.”
Her distress was palpable. He hated to see her so miserable, and he hated worst of all that he was the cause of her unhappiness.
But what the hell did he have to tell her?
Half-truths.
And when half-truths failed him, outright lies.
He wanted out of this—out of this damned museum, away from the reality that he was using her.
He didn’t want to use her anymore. It had been a bad idea from the first and he wanted to walk away from it.
But there was no walking away now. The damage was done. She cared for him. When it all went down, she would be hurt, and hurt bad. There was no getting away from that now.
Even if he gave up his original plan to see that Caleb Douglas paid—which he wasn’t about to do—he would still end up hurting her. It was simply too late to walk away and leave her untouched.
Untouched.
An interesting word choice given the plain fact that all he wanted to do was reach out.
And touch…
“Justin,” she prompted, when he went too long without answering her. “Did you hear one thing I said to you?” A deep frown creased her brow.
He resisted the powerful urge to rise, to go to her, to smooth that frown away. “I heard you. Every word. Go on.”
“Ahem. Well. The truth is I know very well why I stayed out of your way—because it seemed to me that you were avoiding me. Were you?”
“Yeah.” What else was there to say? “I was.”
“Why?”
Why? He should have known that one was coming. What to say now? How to weasel out of this one…
And then, out of nowhere, the exact right words seemed to well up of their own accord. “Because I want you. Because I want to be with you. And because it scares the hell out of me, that I do—and how much I do.”
The words took form and he let them out and…
Damned if they weren’t the absolute truth. More truth than he wanted to face himself, let alone share with her.
But he had shared them.
What did that mean?
Where