Runaway Groom (7 page)

“No, you’ve just reduced me to needing help with basic hygiene.”

She sighed. “How long are you going to milk that cow?”

His gaze held hers. “For as long as I think it’s going to work for me.”

“We agreed it was an accident.” She carefully scraped the razor along his jaw, trying to remain detached like she imagined nurses must do with their patients. “Lie back and enjoy this. After all, it’s only temporary. Some people need help their entire lives,” she said, thinking about a family she knew who had a child with severe muscular dystrophy. The charity she’d founded at M.M. Enterprises had helped them purchase a special bathroom hoist.

A lump formed in her throat. That rat bastard Jonathon had even claimed Kids Plus as his own.

“Steady, Amy.”

She realized her hand was shaking and she went on the offensive to cover her momentary lapse. “You’re the one freaking me out because you think I’m going to cut you.”

“Prove me wrong,” he said, his gaze catching hers with a combative glint.

She rinsed the razor and did another three sweeps before using the washcloth to remove the remains of the cream. Then she opened the vanity and picked up a tube of men’s facial cream she’d noticed earlier. She flicked open the lid and squeezed some into her hand.

Cupping his cheeks, she started to rub the moisturizer gently into his skin and tried not to acknowledge how good he felt under her hands.

His entire body went rigid. “What are you doing?”

“Moisturizing your skin.”

A horrified look crossed his face. “I’m a bloke.”

“And what?” she said, laughing. “Your gender means you don’t get dry skin?”

“Jesus. My skin just is—okay? I’m not some metro-sexual who needs a regime of lotions and potions like your boyfriend.”

She frowned. “My boyfriend?”

He didn’t seem to notice her confusion. “Or your brother or whoever else this stuff belongs to.”

Concentrate!
He thinks this is your house
,
remember?

“At least they’re not threatened by the fact that they take some care in their appearance.”

“I don’t get any complaints about my appearance,” he said, sounding delightfully grumpy.

I’m sure you don’t.

She quickly splashed some cologne on her hands and patted his face.

“Bloody hell.”

His yelp of pain made her jump. “What now?” she said, her surprise making her sound short.

“That stings like no tomorrow.”

She’d forgotten about the cut. “Sorry.” God, she was so bad at all of this helping stuff. She quickly used the washcloth to remove any of the remaining cologne and covered her mistake with a brisk, motherlike, “There you go, all better now.” Without thinking she dropped a kiss onto his cheek as if he were her little nephew.

The moment her lips touched his smooth, warm skin she stilled, shocked into immobility by what she’d just done. What she was still doing. She saw the moment surprise hit him, making the vivid green of his eyes vanish under a pool of shimmering black.

Pull away now.

But his heat fused her mouth to his skin, his fresh, clean scent filled her with an intoxicating need to keep breathing him in and some strands of his hair softly caressed her face. Half of her wanted to run from acute embarrassment at what she was doing and the other half of her wanted to stay.

Now.

She closed her eyes, preparing to immediately retreat, desperately trying to think of a clever and witty retort to cover what she’d just done.

Her mind was beyond blank.

His cheek moved under her lips.

Oh
,
God
,
I’ve left it too long.
He’s pulling away.
I
want to die.

The texture of his skin suddenly changed and his lips grazed hers, the touch so soft, she momentarily thought she must be imagining it. But then she felt the slight touch of moisture on her lips, the hint of peppermint toothpaste and the flare of heat.

Then it was gone.

“Thanks,” he said, rising abruptly to his feet. “You did a fair job but I think it’s best for both of us if I skip shaving until I can manage it myself.”

“Good idea,” she said, taking the out he’d just offered her with both hands and running with it. “I suck at this sort of thing.”

She hurried from the warm bathroom and tried hauling in a steadying breath to slow her thundering heart. What the hell was wrong with her? Wasn’t her life already in enough disarray without making a complete fool of herself by kissing Ben? They didn’t even like each other and women like her were never given a second look by men like him. The kiss had only made her look needy and she hated that. It took her back to being a teenager when boys had called her Ginger and used a friendship with her to date her best friend.

Reminded her of every mistake she’d made with Jonathon.

This kiss was just one more piece of evidence that her life was now utterly out of control.

Everything changes now.
It was time to take charge. She knew how to do that. She’d been doing it for years.

She’d had twenty-four hours of chaos and feeling sorry for herself. It ended now. She was making a list and tomorrow things would be very different.

* * *

“So here we are again—Saturday night,” Melissa said out loud to an empty room, as she gazed around her sitting room. She noticed a giant cobweb hanging off her light fixture. “You, me and nothing to do but dust.”

Her lack of a social life hadn’t been quite so obvious to her over the busy summer wedding season, but in fall there were fewer weddings and today’s had been a daytime function, leaving her with an empty evening. She picked up the phone to call Emily, her fellow single sidekick, and to arrange to meet her at the Udder Bar. She immediately set her phone down with a sigh, remembering her friend had left straight after delivering the wedding flowers and was out of town until Monday.

She checked her calendar, ever hopeful that she’d forgotten it was one of Lindsay and Keith Leiderman’s themed movie nights at the cinema, but no, that was still a few weeks away. Maybe she could just go eat at Sven’s Swedish Smörgåsbord. After all, she knew everyone in town so if she wanted company she just had to step outside her front door. The thing was, there was company and then there was
company.

The dating pool in Whitetail was limited and if she was honest with herself it was nonexistent. At thirty-four, with her ovaries shriveling daily, she didn’t have time to waste on men who didn’t want to commit, or on men with emotional baggage and difficult ex-wives, on men whose behavior indicated that their genetic makeup should never be passed on to future generations and on men too old to be good father material. It had been a sad day when she’d had to cross Luke Anderson off her list. He had the genes to make beautiful babies, he’d been the right age and there wasn’t an ex-wife in sight. Sadly, the moment Erin Davis had swept into town with her camera and can-do attitude, Luke had suddenly gone from avoiding commitment like the plague to embracing it like a second skin.

She sighed again and picked up her keys. She refused to be a woman who stayed home and dusted on a Saturday night. That was too tragic. Besides, she and Emily had made a pact on New Year’s Eve that this was going to be
the
year that both of them got married. With that end in mind, they’d determined that every wedding weekend they’d hit the Udder Bar no matter what because those were the days when there was a bigger chance of meeting a guy from out of town.

She thought of walking into the bar without Emily and her resolve wavered.

Why not stay in and do the accounts for the store?
Wimp!
She told herself sternly,
Staying in won’t get me a husband or a baby.

The urge to have a child had gotten so strong lately that it had become a permanent ache in her chest. Technically, she supposed she could go ahead and have a child on her own but she didn’t want to do that. She had firsthand experience watching her sister struggle with single parenthood. Call her old-fashioned, but she wanted to raise a child in a loving family with both parents living in the same house, just the way she’d grown up. That wasn’t going to happen if she didn’t meet someone, and she couldn’t meet someone if she didn’t leave the house.

Tonight might be the night
, she said to herself, slipping her arms into her fall coat. She pulled open the front door and marched down the street.

As she lived behind her boutique, it was a very short walk to the Udder Bar, which was both a brew pub and a restaurant. The chef made the best sweet potato tots and waffle fries she’d ever tasted and recently, she’d been eating there more and more often. Pulling open the inner door to the bar, she was immediately struck by the lack of noise emanating from inside and her heart sank. Of course. Brianna’s wedding had a lunchtime reception and people had already left Whitetail to drive west to Minneapolis.

“May I help you?”

She glanced up with a start to find a bespectacled and unfamiliar man, who looked to be in his late thirties, standing behind the bar. “Where’s Johan?”

“He’s out back tapping a keg but I assure you, I can pour beer or wine just as well,” he said mildly as if he’d heard the same question quite a few times already.

“Sorry. It’s just Johan’s been behind that bar for as long as I can remember.” She put her purse on the bar and extended her hand. “I’m Melissa Bergeron and I own the boutique five stores down.”

“Scott Knapp. Good to meet you.” His large but narrow hand enveloped hers with a firm, dry shake. “What can I get you to drink?”

“I’m planning on eating so...” She glanced around, scanning the tables and booths hoping to spot someone she could share a meal with.

Erin and Luke Anderson were dining with Nicole and Tony Lascio and they all gave her a wave but Melissa had learned long ago that dining with couples only worked if she had a date. She saw Lance Peters motion her over but she ignored him. He’d gotten into the habit of proposing to her every time they were alone, regardless of the fact she’d said no on at least five separate occasions. Despite hitting a lot of essential points on her list of what she wanted in a husband—single, no ex-wife, mid-thirties, own business—Lance still lived with his mother and Mrs. Peters had never loosened the apron strings. Melissa knew if she married Lance, Hettie would be right there in bed with them.

John Ackerman and his wife were sharing a table with Mrs. Norell, Al and a few others, obviously informally debriefing today’s wedding as they loved to do. She should probably go over and add her contribution but as a formal meeting would be held on Monday, she’d wait until then.

There was a group of twenty-one-year-olds loudly celebrating a birthday but she instantly ruled out joining them. She had no intentions of being a cougar or—in what she knew would be a lot closer to the mark—a second mother to them. She sighed. She really should have stayed at home and done the accounts.

“I can arrange for you to eat a meal at the bar if that suits you better?”

She turned back to see Scott flicking a cloth over his shoulder and handing her a menu. His hazel eyes met her gaze full on, their depths filled with a question and something else she couldn’t quite decipher. She wasn’t certain if he was helping her out of a dilemma or feeling sorry for her that she was dining along. It sent a ripple of irritation through her.

“I’ll have the grilled salmon with salad, a side of waffle fries and a glass of the honey-sunflower beer, please.”

He didn’t comment on her choice, just tucked the menu back into place, dexterously poured her beer, slapped down a coaster and set her glass in front of her before producing a bag of nuts. Then he tapped her order into the computer, sending it direct to the kitchen and set about clearing some dirty glasses and wiping down the bar.

For some reason she found herself noticing that he had really long fingers and neatly clipped nails. He moved with remarkable grace and his fluid actions spoke of years of experience in bar work.

“You’ve done this before?”

He smiled at her again, a professional smile that neither gave nor took—it just was. “Just a bit. I put myself through college pulling beer.”

As he looked slightly older than her, college hadn’t been in the past year or ten. “So why are you still doing it?” She blurted out the words before she thought to censor them and she immediately recanted. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

He tilted his head as if he could read her most intimate thoughts and she squirmed on the bar stool. “I get the feeling you don’t see working in hospitality as a career.”

She did not but she also didn’t like the way he’d just read her so easily. “I...well...no...unless of course you owned the bar,” she finished quickly, feeling distinctly uncomfortable and wishing she’d ignored his question.

“Owned the bar or owned the debt?” he asked, mixing up an order of drinks the waitress had just handed him.

“True, there is an element of that,” she said, thinking about the bank loan on her store, “but at the end of each day wouldn’t you prefer to be working for more than tips?”

“There’s more to life than money,” he said quietly.

She took a moment to study him. He wasn’t overly tall but then again he certainly wasn’t short either. His shoulders didn’t declare he worked out but they weren’t thin or slumped. He wore the distinctive Udder Bar polo shirt—black, white and with a splash of pink—which he’d tucked into the belted waistband of clean jeans. His chocolate-brown hair was cut neatly in a way that hinted at it being barber-styled rather than unisex salon and his glasses gave him a serious, professor look.

He wasn’t the type of man she ever gave a second glance but habit made her look down at his ring finger on his left hand. Was that a faint white line? Not that she needed to know because he’d already failed at least five “must-haves” on her “What I’m looking for in a guy” list without adding in an ex-wife. She knew what she wanted in a man and she was determined to hold out for the perfect guy and avoid the nightmare her older sister had fallen into of marrying down both financially and intellectually. It hadn’t ended well.