Runaway Bridesmaid

by Karen Templeton

  And tomorrow?

  She tilted back her head and finished off the tea.

  Well, what was the point of being a Southern girl if you couldn’t have a good “fiddle-dee-dee” now and again?

  A note in his aunt’s precise script lay on the kitchen table, informing him she’d gone to Montgomery with Vivian and Katey to spend the night with Vivian’s sister. Dean chuckled to himself; the old girl was turning into a regular gadabout in her golden years. That last shopping trip, she’d even bought herself a pair of slacks.

  He stripped out of his clothes right there in the kitchen, dumping the shirt, socks and underwear into the washer, putting the tux back in the rental bag. He wondered what the rental place was going to say about the condition of the suit. Well, if it was beyond hope, they had his credit card number. If the tux symbolized what he thought it symbolized, it was a small-enough price to pay.

  Never had a shower felt so wonderful. He stood under the pummeling water for twenty minutes, scrubbing every vestige of barn smell off until his skin began to smart. At last, when he could sniff and not smell cow, he emerged, then stood in his briefs in the center of the room, deciding what to wear. Which should have required the minimal expenditure of brain cells. T-shirt and jeans, right?

  Somehow, that seemed…inappropriate. After all, this was his last night.

  No. Well, yeah, he did have to go back to Atlanta tomorrow, if for no other reason than to prevent his murder at Forrest’s hand. But he refused to accept that this was his last evening with Sarah, he declared to himself as he slipped into a pair of dress slacks, a white shirt and a silk sports jacket filched from a small group of clothes in Lance’s closet that for some reason hadn’t been moved to the new apartment. This was not his last chance. But, he thought as he threaded his tie into a Windsor knot, he wasn’t taking any chances, either.

  By this time his stomach was chiding him for not having eaten at the reception, and he was more than willing to take his chances with Sarah’s cooking. Just so long as whatever she served didn’t talk back to him, that was okay with him. He grabbed his keys off his dresser and headed for the front door, then stopped, his hand over the knob.

  Should he…?

  Naw, that was being just a little presumptuous.

  Wasn’t it?

  And why would they still be here, anyway? Lance wouldn’t have been foolish enough to leave them where his aunt would find them.

  Would he?

  He swallowed, his hand tensing, releasing around the cool brass.

  All that about not taking any chances…

  Aw, hell.

  Before he could change his mind, he backtracked to his brother’s room, and yanked open the nightstand drawer. His brother had indeed been that foolish.

  Chuckling at what their aunt’s reaction would be when she found the rest, Dean selected a few items, tucking them discreetly into his pants pocket.

  Sarah hoped to God there would be no more cows giving birth or sheep with broken legs or any animal with any ailment for the next twenty-four hours. Or at least until Ed got back from Atlanta.

  She’d brought a portable radio into the bathroom with her, and a sultry mix of jazz and blues kept her company while she soaked in a bubble-filled tub. Now she understood why Jennifer liked long baths so much—not only were they relaxing, but somehow, Sarah felt…prettier. More feminine. Qualities that had never been of overmuch importance to her before.

  Before tonight.

  This might be her only shot. Her only chance at loving Dean Parrish, in every sense of the word, again. Jen had even left her a box of condoms—which she’d never gotten a chance to try out, she said—so she’d be safe. From disease and pregnancy, at least. From heartbreak…well, nobody’d come up with protection against that, had they? After tonight, after she told Dean about Katey, all bets were off as to the outcome of their relationship. So, tonight, she would pretend that there was no past, no future, no secrets, no guilt. There was only the present, which she intended to make as perfect as possible.

  As if in a dream, she pulled herself out of the tub and dried herself off, then padded back to her room, tucking the towel around her breasts.

  The dream came to an abrupt halt when she opened her closet door and was faced with the same pathetic choices that had so appalled her sister the night before. And no Jennifer to bail her out, this time.

  “Got any ideas, Bali?” she said to the cat sprawled across her bed.

  He yawned and flipped onto his back.

  Frowning, she tramped into her sister’s room, only to remember that Jennifer—and her clothes—now lived in an apartment in Opelika. She’d taken the last of them over last night, after the rehearsal dinner.

  That left her mother’s closet. Great. Romantic dinner for two and Sarah would be wearing something stylish from Ample Duds. Well, one of her mother’s big shirts over a pair of shorts might look…sexy, maybe?

  Who was she kidding? She might as well just throw on a flour sack and be done with it… Hold the phone—what was that? Deep in the furthermost recesses of her mother’s closet, a sliver of bright teal winked at her. Sarah squeezed herself back into the closet, fumbling for what she hoped was the mystery garment. After a couple of tries, she latched onto whatever it was and extrapolated it from its hiding place.

  “Oh…!” Sarah sank back onto the edge of her mother’s bed, the dress—for that’s what it turned out to be—clamped in her hands.

  Her mother had saved it. All these years.

  Nine years ago, a heartbroken eighteen-year-old had stuffed her just-purchased prom dress, box and all, into the garbage can out by the kitchen, slamming down the lid loud enough to set off all the dogs. Vivian must’ve retrieved the dress later. The dyed-to-match shoes were even there, hung around the neck of the hanger in a muslin bag, like a lump of garlic to ward off vampires.

  Sarah’s hand drifted to her cheek as she sat there, staring at the dress and shaking her head. Why? What on earth had possessed her mother to save it?

  Slowly, Sarah stood and walked back to the closet, pushing the door closed in order to see herself in the floor-length mirror hanging on the back. She undid the towel and let it fall to the floor, then held up the strapless dress to her breasts.

  Nine years and one broken heart later, it was still some dress.

  She bit her lip, considering, then unzipped the back and stepped into it.

  It probably doesn’t even fit—

  It fit. Better than ever, because she filled it out more in all the places where more is good. Looked terrific with the short hair, too, which now showed off more of her neck and shoulders…

  He’ll probably be wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  She stood, ogling herself in the mirror like a character in one of those cereal commercials.

  It’s either this or one of Mama’s shirts.

  She stood for several seconds, contemplating this dilemma, before finally slipping off the dress and laying it on the bed, then shrugging into one of her mother’s tents. After all, she couldn’t very well cook in it, now, could she?

  Besides…it needed to be pressed first.

  Dean followed the smoke signals out to Sarah’s backyard, where he found her valiantly trying to get a fire going in the grill, alternately puffing and swiping at the billowing smoke.

  “Omelets on the grill?” Dean queried as he came up behind her and gently clasped her waist, moving her to the side and away from certain disaster.

  Sarah folded her arms across what sure looked like one of her mother’s shirts. “I found steaks in the fridge. The baked potatoes are just about done. And I made a salad.” She shrugged, staring at the now complaisant fire. “I figured that would be safe. Although I didn’t figure on starting an infer…no…?”

  He caught the unspoken question at the end of that last sentence. Puzzled, he turned to her and realized she was staring at his clothes.

  “Am I overdressed?” He regarded her attire in turn with a wry smile as he p
lopped the steaks onto the hot grill, where they hissed their protests to no avail.

  She slowly shook her head, a wide grin suffusing her face. “Not at all. In fact…” He could have sworn she was blushing. “Can you handle things from here while I go change? If the steaks get done before I get back, I’ve got the table set on the summer porch.”

  Not on the picnic table ten feet away? A frisson of anticipation skittered through his chest at the possibilities. But he didn’t dare ask what was going on for fear of bursting the bubble.

  She was going to change? He chuckled as he flipped the steaks, which sizzled enthusiastically for the second time. Even in that whatever-it-was of her mother’s, she looked so appealing Dean was having trouble deciding whether to sample the steaks or the woman first.

  He finished grilling the steaks in short order, then transported them as directed to the screened-in porch on the side of the house. Sarah used to like to do her homework out here, he remembered, the blatantly Victorian room furnished with rattan and wicker and lined with a lush display of greenery—ficuses, palms, ferns—all waving sporadically in the gentle breeze that occasionally filtered through the protective mesh.

  At one end of the room sat an elegantly laid table for two, set with Vivian’s best linens and crystal and china. Not a piece of Corelle or stainless steel to be seen. The perfect setting for a seduction, unless he was way off base.

  “You little devil…” he said under his breath.

  A soft rustling in the doorway caught his attention. Smiling, Dean turned around, fully intending to compliment whatever she was wearing.

  Only to find his tongue stiff and uncooperative.

  “Sarah?” he finally managed to croak out to the vision in front of him, exquisitely displayed in a dress the color of the Mediterranean Sea. A dress that, despite its amazing brevity, still managed to allow its wearer to retain the dignity and grace that had always set her apart from every other female he’d ever known.

  Nerve cells he didn’t even know he had began screaming gimme-gimme-gimme.

  The vision laughed, shaking her head slightly so those tiny diamond studs in her ears—the only jewelry she wore—glittered in the candlelight.

  “I’m her evil twin sister Serena,” she said, leaning one arm against the door frame, the other hand on her hip, a position that had a decided effect on the already dicey position of her breasts in the strapless garment. The shiny fabric slithered down over her ribs and hips, only to explode in a full skirt that exposed lots and lots and lots of leg, ending in a pair of strappy four-inch heels. Tilting her head to regard him from beneath lashes thicker and darker than he remembered them, she added, “I’ve stuffed Sarah in the fruit cellar until after you leave.”

  “You don’t have a fruit cellar.”

  “I also don’t have a twin sister.”

  Dean swallowed. “Would you excuse me a moment? I need to push my eyeballs back in my head.”

  A brilliant smile told him how much his comment pleased her. “While you’re doing that, would you like a beer?”

  “You have beer?”

  “Rarely. But I ran over to the Jenkinses’ and bummed a couple off Percy.”

  “In that?”

  She laughed again. “No, no. Before I changed.”

  “Thank God. You’d give poor Percy a heart attack.”

  Almost afraid she’d disappear if he let her out of his sight, Dean followed her into the kitchen, lit only by a small fluorescent fixture over the stove. Hoping he appeared at least somewhat relaxed, he leaned against the counter as she opened the refrigerator, the sudden harsh illumination starkly outlining every nuance of the front of her body. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her legs as she bent over to pull two cans of beer out of the fridge. Legs like that should be licensed. Legs like that should not spend most of their waking hours stuffed inside baggy blue jeans inside a barn somewhere.

  Then again, maybe they should. Otherwise, they’d cause traffic accidents.

  Sarah started to hand one of the beers to him, then jerked it back with a sharp shake of her head. “I just can’t see chugging beer from a can in this getup. Wait a minute.”

  She vanished into the dining room, reappearing a second later with two crystal champagne glasses. “Isn’t beer called ‘poor man’s champagne,’ anyway?” She delicately poured the beer into the glasses and lifted hers to his in a toast, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  He’d heard the wobble in her voice, too, even though she clearly tried to hide it. It was more than nervousness, he was sure. Somehow, somewhere during those few seconds she had been out of the room, some doubt or other had resettled in her thought. He lightly touched her arm with his free hand.

  “Hey, honey—something wrong?”

  Her brows shot up underneath soft, wispy bangs as she sipped her beer. “Wrong? Of course not.” Her mouth twitched up a little. “I’m just starving, is all.” She set down her glass and snatched an oven mitt off a hook over the stove, then pulled out the baked potatoes, tossing them onto a nearby plate. “Get the salad, would you?” she called over her shoulder, suddenly a model of efficiency. “Let’s get this show on the road—”

  “Sarah. Put down the potatoes.”

  She was facing the counter when he spoke, and he could see her muscles tense in her bare back; then she slowly set down the plate.

  Dean took her hand and pulled her around to him. “You’re not really all that hungry, are you?”

  Her eyes entwined with his, wide and trusting and scared as hell, as a tiny sound like a whimper fell from her lips. Dean cradled the side of her face in his hand, letting his thumb skate over her cheek.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked softly, letting his forehead nearly—but not quite—touch hers.

  “Having dinner?” she replied, her voice squeaky, like a baby bird’s.

  “I don’t think so, honey.”

  She valiantly attempted a smile. “Then what the hell did I cook those steaks for?”

  “Hmm. I could have sworn it was me who cooked the steaks.” He tugged her into his arms, letting himself savor the feel of her, the soapy, womanly scent of her, letting the ache blossom into sweet, hopeful anticipation.

  “Oh. Yeah.” After a moment, she melted against him, her hands linked behind his back. He enfolded her completely, one hand stroking her silky bare back, his chin resting on the top of those soft curls.

  “I’m plumb crazy about you, Sarah Louise,” he said quietly. Carefully. “I always have been, even at my jerkiest. And I always will be, no matter what stupid things I may do in the future.”

  He could feel her swallow against his chest. “I know.”

  He waited. And then it came.

  “I’m crazy about you, too,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. “No matter what…” At this, her voice caught, and she didn’t finish her sentence.

  Dean had never yearned so intensely for anybody, for anything, in his life. He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. And he was well aware that, still, in spite of how things appeared, this might not work out. He could barely speak over his hammering heart. “So…what do you think we should do now?”

  “Have dinner?” she whispered.

  She wasn’t biting. Not yet, anyway.

  “Okay, baby,” he said with a soft laugh. “We’ll have dinner. Then afterward, I think we should go dancing.”

  Her face jerked up to his, the expression vintage Sarah Smart-ass. “This is Sweetbranch. Not exactly replete with nightclubs, you know.”

  He shrugged. “You do have a radio, don’t you?” His mouth hitched into a smile as he teased her shoulder with his fingertip. “Even out here in the boonies?”

  “Oh, um…” She shivered from his touch. “Yeah.” He went rock hard, pressed her closer, figuring there was little point in keeping it a secret. Her gaze zinged to his, her expression a curious, tantalizing mixture of amusement and cautiousness. “A CD player, even,” she said after one t
oo many beats had passed.

  “Any jazz?”

  “There, um, might be one or two pieces that would…fit.”

  “Then we’re set on the…dancing.”

  Oh, man…they were so close. In more ways than one. But he didn’t dare take things to the next notch. Not yet. If he did, everything she’d accused him of that first night would seem to be true. And making love was not all he wanted from her.

  Not all he wanted from her.

  He could feel her heart rate increase as he held her, saw her run her tongue over her lower lip, had to bite his own to keep from swooping down on her right then and there.

  She studied him for several seconds, then cocked her head to the side. A smile slowly, shyly pulled at her lips. He almost missed the tremor in her voice. “And after the dancing?”

  Now his own heart rate went ballistic; she wasn’t suggesting they watch TV.

  “After that,” he finally managed to say, “is up to you.”

  Chapter 13

  Sarah could feel Dean staring at her all through dinner. Except, somehow, she didn’t mind so much this time. It was, at least, an appreciative stare. Actually, he looked as though he wanted to devour her.

  For some reason, that made her feel…powerful. In charge. Oh, both of them knew what that dosey-do in the kitchen had meant, and she was well aware Dean had taken the “discretion being the better part of valor” route in not being the one to actually suggest they make love. Well—she bit back a smile, remembering—not in so many words, at least. But that’s what was going to happen. As soon as she gave the signal. Which, if she weren’t careful, she’d unwittingly give before she was really ready.

  Not that she wasn’t ready. Because she was. She just wasn’t right-this-minute ready.

  She refused to let herself even consider whether or not she was being fair. Which she wasn’t, was she? After all, if he knew, would he be quite so hot to take her to bed?

  Not a chance she was willing to take. Besides, how else was she going prove she’d forgiven him?