Married To A Stranger. Allison Leigh
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Chapter Two
“Here. Hang these bows from the banister there.”
Tris heaved a sigh and lowered his arm that he’d laid across his eyes in a vain attempt to block out the light. “I didn’t think it possible, but marriage has actually made you more bossy,” he complained, looking up at his sister-in-law, Emily Clay. She’d been raised with Tris and his brothers after her parents had been killed when she was little. But she’d legally become a Clay when she’d married his brother, Jefferson. And now they even had two kids.
“And time has only made you more lazy. Move it.” Emily nudged him with her foot. “What are you doing lying here in the living room on the floor, anyway?”
“Trying to sleep,” he muttered. “So stop sticking your foot in my ribs.”
She crouched down beside him, propping her arms on her knees. Her long brown hair slid over her shoulder, rich and dark as coffee. A thought which immediately brought to mind Hope Leoni of the pink cheeks and sweet smile. He squelched a groan and concentrated on Emily, who was speaking to him, her eyebrows raised with curiosity. “You’re trying to sleep on the floor here in the living room because…?”
“The couch is hard as a rock.” He yawned and dropped his arm over his face again. “And because Gloria’s daughters are using the guest suite downstairs.”
“What about your old bedroom upstairs?”
“Full up with packing boxes from Gloria’s house. I’m told they were going to be gone by the time I was expected to arrive next week, but I have my doubts.”
“The couch in Matthew’s office?”
“Too short. And the rec room downstairs has paper doves and bells on every surface.” He flexed his fingers. “Doves, for God’s sake.”
“It’s for a wedding shower, ding dong. You could have stayed with Jefferson and me, you know. We’ve got room, even for a big dope like you.”
Tris knew that. He also knew that he could have bunked with Daniel or Sawyer, too. But staying at the main house of the ranch, the “big house,” as they all called it, had seemed the easiest choice. Whether or not his father ever said so, Tris knew that staying at the big house was what Squire expected. Available bed or not.
He sat up, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He needed a shave. He’d stayed at Sawyer and Rebecca’s place in town until nearly midnight. “What time is it? Where’s Squire?”
“Nearly two in the afternoon and he better be in town visiting the barber. Jaimie says you came in late last night, crashed out here and haven’t risen since. Hung over?”
“Listen runt, I haven’t had a hangover in a month of Sundays.” Hell, he rarely drank more than an occasional beer anymore. His days of excess had long passed.
“Then what? You sick?”
“No,” he said tolerantly. Em had been his best friend since they were bitty, so he made allowances for her that he ordinarily wouldn’t have. “Sleepy. It’s not a crime, last I checked.”
Her pansy-brown eyes narrowed. “I also heard you’ve been circling Hope Leoni. She’s a little—”
His “allowances” only went so far. “I don’t go around jumping the town virgins,” he said abruptly. “You know, if my love life was as active as everyone seems to think, I’d never get any work done.”
“And that work is…?” Her expression softened and she smiled peaceably. “Never mind. I learned just how close-mouthed you Hollins-Winword dudes are from my darling husband. Now, about these bows.”
Tris shook his head. “No wonder Jefferson finally succumbed to you. You’re worse than water torture.”
Her eyes danced. “That’s right. And only because I love you will I warn you that the dove-decorated shower is set to begin in less than an hour. There’ll be about twenty-five women trooping through this house, and I really don’t want to explain your presence on the floor. Might ruin your classy image.”
Tris made a face, but rolled to his feet. He rubbed Emily’s head, deliberately messing up her hair the way he’d done when they were kids, and headed upstairs, grabbing his duffel from where it still sat inside the dining room doorway.
He’d take a shower, then dive into a gallon of coffee. Then he’d consider hanging damned bows from the banister for his sister-in-law. Maybe.
Only, when he came out of the shower, considerably more alert and marginally more presentable in clean jeans and shirt, he could hear a horde of women chattering and laughing as they arrived. If he wanted coffee, he had to go down there among all of them to get it.
Not that he was ever averse to being among women. As far as Tris was concerned, it was one of the more pleasurable places to be. But this was a wedding shower.
Frankly, the whole notion made his skin itch.
He waited an interminable twenty caffeine-deprived minutes before he went downstairs to the now-empty kitchen, and the coffee pot that he prayed would be hot and full, as usual.
It was, and he stood there at the counter, singeing his tongue as he downed two fast cups, frowning at the playpen that sat on the floor on the other side of the table next to the wall. For now, it was empty of babies even though the family was full of them these days. Emily, Jaimie and Maggie had all had a baby within the last six months.
He shuddered, poured a third cup of coffee and carried it with him through the mudroom and outside.
The sun was bright. Warm. The air filled with the rich scent of mown grass. Across the gravel road separating the big house from the outbuildings and corrals, horses grazed and Matthew’s retriever chased a butterfly.
He squinted and poured more coffee down his throat. He was glad his brothers were busy with the hundred chores required every day to keep the place running. It meant that they were thoroughly busy, and Tris could find another place to grab a few more z’s, undisturbed.
He slowly wandered around the side of the house, past lilac bushes heavy with blossoms and immediately thought of Hope’s striking eyes. He stifled an oath. He’d learned a lot about Miss Hope Leoni while he’d been hanging out at Sawyer’s place the evening before. She was a paragon of virtue; an apparent candidate for sainthood.
Which meant the vivid dream he’d had about her that had awakened him around two in the morning was even more ill-advised.
He went up the front steps of the wide porch. Sighing with anticipation, he lowered himself onto the swing, propped his feet on the railing across from him, and dropped his head onto the wooden swing back.
Oh yeah. This was it. He yawned, scratched his jaw, and closed his eyes. This was the kind of break he needed. No noise, no tourists, no unexpected disasters at work. No wedding nonsense.
No damned dreams about innocent school teachers with violet eyes.
“Shhh.”
“Is he sleeping or is he dead?”
“His feet are big. They’re even bigger than Daddy’s, and I can put both my feet in his boot!”
“Girls, quiet down. You’ll wake him.”
“Do we have to share our juice with him? I don’t think we have enough for him. My mommy says Unca Twistin has a ’normous appa…appa—”
“Appetite.”
“Yeah. That.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t want any juice. Come on now, we’re going to have our picnic over there by those three trees. Remember?”
“But what if he does want some?”
“If he does, we’ll share with him. It would be impolite not to.”
“But—”