The Bff Bride. Allison Leigh
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He just wanted things the way they’d been.
When they’d been as comfortable and familiar as a pair of old, beloved boots.
He dropped his hand and looked at Tabby from the corner of his eye. “If I let you punch me in the nose, would you finally get over your anger?”
She stabbed her fork into her pie, seeming to focus fiercely on it. “We’re not five.”
“We were nine.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I remember it vividly, since you managed to break it.”
“I never intended to break your nose,” she muttered.
“I know.” He waited a beat. “We survived that. So can’t we survive another kiss, even one—I hate to admit—as badly executed as the last one was?” It had been a helluva lot more than a kiss, but he didn’t figure she wanted to get into that territory any more than he did.
“It doesn’t matter. It was years ago.”
He leaned over the arm of his chair toward her. His gaze caught on the wedge of creamy skin showing between the unbuttoned edges of her shirt. Stupid, because there wasn’t anything like that between him and Tabby.
Except that one time they were both trying not to think about.
A frequent name on bestseller lists, ALLISON LEIGH’s high point as a writer is hearing from readers that they laughed, cried or lost sleep while reading her books. She credits her family with great patience for the time she’s parked at her computer, and for blessing her with the kind of love she wants her readers to share with the characters living in the pages of her books. Contact her at www.allisonleigh.com.
The BFF Bride
Allison Leigh
MILLS & BOON
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For my daughters and the fine young men who love them.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Nineteen years ago
“Come on, Tabbers.” The boy holding the chains of the swing leaned closer to her and grinned. His weird bluish-purple eyes were full of mischief. And goading.
But that was something Justin Clay had always been good at.
Goading. And a whole lot of it.
Usually, it led to her getting her rear end in trouble with her mom and daddy.
“I told you. I go by Tabitha now,” she said firmly. She’d just turned nine. Tabitha seemed more fitting than Tabby, much less Tabbers.
Justin’s eyebrows skyrocketed, and he hooted with laughter, giving the swing’s chains a shove so that she shot backward then forward again so unevenly that her bare toes dug into the sand beneath the school’s swing set.
“That’s bat-crap crazy. You’re Tabbers,” he said with the annoying superiority he’d developed lately. Catching her chains again, he stopped her forward progress with such a jolt that her chin snapped against her chest. “And you might as well just kiss me. It’s gonna happen, one way or another.”
She glared at him. “You made me bite my tongue.”
If anything, he looked even more devilish. “You going to cry about it?”
She curled her lip. “Not ’cause of you, that’s for sure. And I’m not gonna kiss you just so you can make Sierra Rasmussen jealous!”
His eyebrows drew together. “You’re my best friend,” he complained. “We’re supposed to help each other out.”
Now it was her turn to snort. “Good thing your best friend isn’t a boy, then. And I’m still not kissing you!”
“One day you’re gonna wanna kiss me,” he warned.
Annoyed at the absurdity, she shoved her hand against his chest and pushed him away far enough that she could jump off the swing. Even though his daddy was the tallest person Tabby had ever met, for now, she and Justin were exactly the same height. She looked him straight in the face. “Try it and I’ll punch you in the nose,” she warned. “I’d sooner kiss a toad than you.”
His skinny chest puffed out. “Lotsa toads down at the swimmin’ hole, Tabbers.”
She puffed out her own chest. It was just as skinny as his. And as flat. Which was fine with her, since boys seemed to have more fun than girls did. At least all the ones she knew around Weaver, anyway. Who wanted to be all prissy and perfect when there were baseball games to play and cow chips to throw and worms to be threaded onto fish hooks? Summer was short enough in Weaver without spending half your time playing indoors with dolls and dress-up. And Justin’s granddaddy had the best swimming hole around, out on his