Stop The Wedding!: Night Driving / Smooth Sailing / Crash Landing. Lori Wilde
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creaky stairs and located room 201. Not that it was a challenge. There were only three bedrooms on the second floor.
She rushed in, dropping her overnight bag on the floor in her haste, barely even noticing that the room was decorated in rose floral wallpaper. She went straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. That’s when she caught sight of her reflection in the oval mirror over the white porcelain sink.
Holy tornado. She looked like she’d been through a Kansas twister and Tara knew firsthand what that was like.
Her hair was a mess. No, mess was too kind. It was a tangled rat’s nest. The mascara she hadn’t removed last night before falling into the tent had smeared, making her look like Cleopatra on a drinking binge. Lovely.
After a sizzling-hot shower, she felt infinitely better and came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her wet hair done up in a French braid.
Boone lay stretched out across the lone queen-sized bed, his hot gaze eating her up.
She startled and clutched the towel tighter around her. “What are you doing here?”
“You were the one who wanted one room. Consecutive showers, remember? I hope you left some hot water for me.” He waved at the steam rolling out the bathroom door behind her.
“You were supposed to stay in the dining room until I finished.”
“You never explained the rules,” he said, his dark eyes searing her to the spot.
“How’d you get in?”
“You didn’t lock the door behind you,” he said, and then added, “I locked it.”
The door was locked? They were locked in here together? Tara gulped, felt her stomach twitch. This was one of the negative emotions he’d been talking about.
Fear.
Not of him, but of herself and the impulse sprinting through her.
“Anyone could have followed you in here,” he said in a calm, measured, but no-nonsense tone.
“So, that’s it,” she said. “You’re trying to teach me a lesson. People can’t be trusted. Duly noted. Now please get out while I get dressed.”
“You’re throwing me out of the room I paid for?” he drawled.
“Only until I get dressed.” She was very self-conscious and acutely aware of how little there was between them. Her towel. His jeans.
“You can dress while I’m in the shower.” He eased off the bed. His fingers curled around the strap of his knapsack and he came toward her.
Her pulse raced. Her heart thundered.
Get out of his way, you silly twit.
She stepped aside, held her breath as he passed within touching distance.
Just before he stepped into the bathroom, he reached behind her, and gently tweaked her braid. “Love the hair,” he said and shut the door.
Lightning-quick, in case he popped unexpectedly from the shower and caught her naked, she changed into a pair of white shorts and a red-and-white-striped V-neck T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves and exchanged her flip-flops for sneakers. She wore white “no show” socks with jaunty red pom-poms at the heels. She glanced at the clock. It was barely past nine. They had hours to kill before the car would be ready.
The shower came on.
Unbidden, instant images of Boone’s naked body underneath the spray of water shot into her mind. She traced two fingers over her bottom lip, remembered the kiss they’d shared the night before. The kiss of the year? C’mon, it was more like the kiss of the decade. Decade? Right. Be honest.
It was the kiss of a lifetime.
She’d had the kiss of her lifetime. No sense trying to repeat it. Any further kissing was bound to be a letdown, nothing to do but seal that pristine kiss in her memory and move on.
Sure, and she had the willpower for that. Ha! If she stayed in this room alone with him, she would kiss him again, and if he kissed her like he kissed last night she wouldn’t be able to stop. There was a reason she didn’t eat potato chips. She couldn’t stop with just one.
Boone was a potato chip.
She had to find something else to occupy their time. Determined, she bound downstairs to find Mrs. Hubbard watching Good Morning America on a tablet computer.
“Hi!” Tara greeted her breathlessly. “What do people do around here for fun?”
Mrs. Hubbard glanced up. “Usually guests come here from Lincoln or Omaha for a quiet romantic getaway.” She winked. “Most never leave their bedrooms except to come out for food.”
“Isn’t there anything to do around here?” she asked, desperate to fill the time until her car was ready. If she and Boone were caged up in the bedroom, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Being in close quarters with him was just too intoxicating. Cheap wine didn’t go to her head as quickly as he did. Keeping her distance was the only way to play it safe and how did she keep her distance when she was stuck in a car or a room with the guy?
“There’s Pine Lake. It’s about three miles north of town.”
“Anything within walking distance?”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Hubbard stroked her chin. “On the weekends we have cooking and gardening classes, but this is Thursday.”
“Golf course? Exercise class?” Tara was grasping at straws, knowing he couldn’t do either of those things, but she and Boone both needed something to release the tension.
“Well…” The old woman paused.
“What, what?”
“There is the shooting range,” Mrs. Hubbard suggested. “It’s two blocks over.”
“Perfect!” Tara said. This was exactly what she needed to keep Boone occupied.
Thursday, July 2, 9:23 a.m.
WAS THERE ANYTHING sexier than a good-looking woman who knew how to handle herself? Until this minute, Boone had not realized exactly how erotic that scenario could be.
Tara stood at the firing line gripping the rented 9mm Smith & Wesson Sigma in both hands. A pair of protective safety glasses perched on her pert little nose. Her hair was still damp and pulled back in that fancy-looking braid that showed off her profile. White denim shorts hugged her shapely ass and he couldn’t stop his gaze from tracking down her long, lean legs. Oh, those legs.
Instantly, his body tightened.
Boone wasn’t even sure why he was here, except it beat sitting around Ross’s greasy garage and watching him ogle Tara. Or hanging out at the B&B, getting lathered up over Tara prancing out of the bathroom in a towel.
The air smelled of gunpowder and gun oil. Downrange was a life-sized paper target of a human male. Tara gazed coolly along the sight of her gun. Her biceps tensed, showing off nicely toned arms. With steady precision, she fired off three rounds. Boom. Boom. Boom. She absorbed the recoil of the gun without flinching. The echo rang around the concrete bunker as each shot struck the target in the torso.
Tara turned to grin at him.
“Not bad.” Boone shrugged, trying to pretend that he wasn’t duly impressed. Who knew she possessed such skills?
“Would it kill you to say ‘well done’?”
“Might.”
“You’d rather saw off your arm than pay someone a compliment, huh?”
“You