It was about time she introduced herself.
Maneuvering her way through the close set chairs, she reached him just as he was turning a page. She set her tray on his table and smiled at him. One of her best PR smiles. He smiled back, looking like he couldn’t believe his good luck.
“Hi,” she said, extending her hand.
He eagerly took her hand and started to stand up. A real gentleman.
“I’m Catherine Forsythe,” she announced. “I’m Ryder’s fiancée.”
His smile faltered. She’d been right. He’d thought she was interested. In him. As if that could happen.
He quickly recovered his smile, sat again and folded the newspaper, making room for her tray. “So,” he said, “we finally meet.”
“It’s about time, since you’re going to be―”
“Ryder’s partner. Yes, I’m Ryder’s partner.” He was smiling more now and nodding his head up and down.
It was done? “You mean he finally signed the papers?”
“Well, actually, no. He hasn’t signed the agreement yet. His lawyer wants to go over a few more things.”
One more time. She didn’t like Prometheus Jones. Normally Ryder listened to her opinion, but apparently only on house details or wedding details. He wasn’t taking her advice about his business. She said, “I guess you’re in charge today.”
“On the site, you mean?”
“Yes. Ryder won’t be there.”
“He won’t?”
“Doesn’t he tell you anything?”
“Not unless it’s really important.”
She laughed, happy to hear Jimmy admit that. “Then I’m not the only one. He never tells me anything, either. Unless I force it out of him.”
Jimmy grinned.
And then she made her proposal. “We should keep each other updated.”
“We should,” he agreed. “So where is he today? Going shopping with you?”
“Hardly.” Ryder shopping? The notion was laughable. “He left last night.”
Jimmy stared at her for a second. “Left?”
Not left, you idiot. As if Ryder could ever leave her. “His jerk lawyer has a cabin in the Kananaskis,” she explained. “Loaned it to him for a few days. Said he needed some time to think.”
Jimmy tipped his head and looked at the table, as if considering what she’d said. “That’s good.” He nodded. “Ryder needs a break. He did say he might take a day off this week.” He lifted his coffee mug and took a drink. “How long will he be gone?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t see Ryder staying away from a job site for more than twenty-four hours.”
Jimmy took a bite of his bagel, chewed and swallowed. “Why didn’t you go to the cabin with him?”
“A cabin? In the wilderness? I don’t think so.” She started to cut her muffin into pieces. “I’m not sure it even has flush toilets.” She laughed then, realizing she felt relieved. She hadn’t wanted to go. “You can’t take a Cadillac into Jeep country, I always say.”
“No,” Jimmy agreed, “you certainly can’t.”
And besides—she inhaled deeply, as her last conversation with Ryder replayed in her head—she hadn’t been invited.
· · · · ·
The trees dripped water on the cabin’s roof, but the rain had stopped. The sun was shining through the leaded windows.
Ryder smiled to himself, remembering. And realizing that it felt good to put the world on hold. To have the world gone.
And for some reason it also felt good to be crowded on this sagging couch, sleeping with this stranded bimbo waif. Who ate too many peaches and got drunk.
During the night, he’d roused her every couple of hours. And she’d woken up—enough to assure him she wasn’t drifting into unconsciousness. She’d told him to go away the first time, and then she’d called him “Isabelle” the next time, and the last time, she’d said, “Not now, Mom.”
He’d got up twice to load wood into the stove, and each time he’d returned to lie beside her on the edge of the couch, she’d snuggled into him, like she belonged there.
Maybe Pro had been right. About getting away for a few days. Nothing could be done, for now, about Jim redesigning the partnership agreement. And nothing could be done, for the moment, about the house plans. And nothing could be done about Catherine, and the wedding, and the poodle.
The poodle.
Dread shuddered through his chest. Maybe—just maybe—he could do something about the poodle.
The cabin was cold. The fire needed more wood. Toria wiggled in closer to him, mewing in her sleep.
So much for getting away for a few days. He’d have to get her to a hospital. Her ankle was probably okay, but it should be looked at. And she might have hit her head. They should check her head.
She’d object. But as soon as they had something to eat, he was driving her to Canmore, assuming the road was passable.
He heard a sound in the distance, lifted his head and looked over the back of the couch at the door. And listened . . .
A vehicle had driven up. He could hear the engine cut, hear someone running up the path, hear footsteps on the porch. And then the door swung open and Pro burst into the cabin.
They stared at each other for a beat. And then Ryder watched as Pro took in the scene—two pairs of jeans, her pink shirt, his blue jacket, and two pairs of socks draped over the chairs by the stove.
And a lacy white bra dangling off the back of the couch.
He should have moved that, but he hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted her to notice it. Stupid of him, but there it was.
Anyway, it didn’t look good. To be found here, sleeping with a woman other than Catherine.
But it didn’t matter. This was Pro. Pro would understand. But . . . Why―
“What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you,” Pro said, closing the door behind him.
“Me?”
“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”
“You were worried about me?”
“There’s a car back there, in the ditch, with the air bag―”
“She’s okay. She’s right here.” He glanced down at her. She was stretching, starting to wake up, and inadvertently rubbing against him in a way that was—not good. He looked back at Pro.
The guy seemed a little more relaxed now. His shoulders had dropped and he seemed to be exhaling, letting go of a tense breath.
Very odd. For Pro to worry about him.
Pro took a step forward. “So you were . . .”
“She was cold. It’s not what you think.”
Pro lifted his eyebrows. “What do I think?”
“Nothing.” Why was he feeling guilty? “She was freezing.” He wasn’t feeling guilty. “And I think she hit her head.”
“I didn’t hit my head,” Toria mumbled. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was frowning. “Why does my head hurt?”
“That could be from the peaches,” Ryder told her, trying to move his arm out from under her neck.
Pro walked around the couch to stand between the couch and the stove. “You found Aunt Tizzy’s peaches,” he said, looking at last night’s leftover supper.
“Right. Tizzy. I thought it was Dizzy.”
“Tizzy. Dizzy. Same thing. She has her moments, and she makes great peaches.” He paused. “You guys sure ate a lot of them.”
“I didn’t eat any.”
“No?”
“Yeah, she ate half the jar.”
“Oh.” That was all.
“Why does my head hurt?” Toria lifted her hands to her head, but her hands were tangled in the sleeves of his shirt.
“Because you’re hung over.” And then he noticed—the buttons of the shirt had come undone.
“I’m not hung over. I don’t drink.” She blinked, trying to wake up. “Why does my foot hurt?”
“Her foot?” Pro was somewhere behind him.
“Yeah. I think she broke it.”
“It’s a sprain,” Toria said, trying to wiggle away from him. “What are you doing? How come you’re on my couch?”
“So now it’s your couch?”
“Get off me.” She tried to push him away.
He held her tighter. “Why don’t you get the cooler from my truck? I’ve got breakfast.”
“Of course,” Pro said, as he moved toward the door.
“And we need more wood,” Ryder called over the top of the couch. “Then we’ll get her to a hospital.”
“I’m not going to a hospital.” She’d stopped pushing. Now she was pressing her sleeve-covered hands to her forehead.
Pro made his exit, closing the door behind him. And, knowing Pro, he’d give them a little time before he carried in the cooler.
“Who is that guy?”
“My lawyer.”
“Your lawyer?”
“Well, he’s my friend. And he does some work for me.”
“What are you doing?” She tried to push him away again. “Let go of me.”
“Take it easy, tiger. You’ve been sleeping with me all night.”
She quit struggling. “I have?”
“Yeah,” he said, still not releasing her. “I’ll carry you to the bathroom. You can have the shower first.”
“I can walk.”
“No. You can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“All right. Have it your way.” He kept holding her, watching her green eyes. “Hop to the bathroom. But give me my shirt first.”
She looked down at her shirt. His shirt. And she noticed the buttons.
“I didn’t want Pro seeing you . . . like that.”
She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “Could this get any worse?”
“Probably.” He let go of her and sat up. He could hear her moving behind him, rearranging the shirt, fumbling with the buttons. Then she was sitting next to him. After a moment, she stood up, then sat down again, holding her head in her hands.
“Did those peaches have . . .”
“Brandy,” he said. “Apparently, Aunt Tizzy makes a lot of interesting recipes.”
Toria pressed her fingers to her forehead and groaned. Soft and wavy, her hair fell forward, covering her face.
He leaned over and picked up her foot. She flopped back on the couch. Cradling her ankle, he unwound the loose tensor and set it aside. Her ankle was solid purple, but not too swollen.
“What’s wrong with going to a hospital?”
“I―I don’t . . .” She was pressing her hands over her eyes.
“Let’s deal with one thing at a time. Would you like a shower? Can you stand up?”
“Yes.” She sat up, carefully, then stood. Not so wobbly this time. Then she hopped and squeezed her eyes shut. “It hurts my head.”
“I thought so. Come on.”
He lifted her easily, brought her to the bathroom, and set her down. It was light in there now, with the light from the small window.
“Stand still. I’ll get your clothes.”
He did. Her shirt, and her jeans, and her bra. The lovely lacy white bra. He set her clothes on the shelf beside the stack of towels.
“My shirt?” He waited.
“You want your shirt?”
He turned around, facing the door.
With a brush of soft cotton, he felt the shirt land on his shoulder and felt her give him a little push out the door. Then the door closed behind him. He pulled the shirt off his shoulder and brought it to his face.
Warm. From her sleeping in it. And a scent like . . . spring. Fresh and real.
Pro cleared his throat. He was at the door with the cooler in his hands, looking over at the stove. Looking like he hadn’t seen what Ryder was doing.
Slipping the shirt on, he decided his mind was playing tricks on him. Why else would he be smelling his shirt? He needed to focus, and to make breakfast.
· · · · ·
Half an hour later they were sitting at the table in the cabin’s main room. Ryder had made bacon and eggs and fried toast. Pro had rebuilt the fire and made coffee. And Toria had been a big help and poured the orange juice. Her purple foot was propped up on the chair across from her. Ryder sat beside her and Pro sat across from him.
“I don’t need to go to a hospital.” Her hair was drying in cute little ringlets and she looked worried.
Pro looked unconcerned. Like he was at a normal Tuesday morning business meeting.
“Then what am I supposed to do with you?” Ryder asked her.
“I’ll get a ride back to Calgary with your friend. He can bring me to my apartment.”
“Not good enough.”
“Not good enough?”
“I’ll bring you to your parents’ house,” Ryder said. He scooped up the rest of his eggs with a piece of toast. “Except your father’s not there. Right?”
She stared at him.
“Last night, you told me he was expecting you. In Kalispell.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath, and held it. She must have remembered telling him that. “Yes.”
“How come he’s in Kalispell?”
“He’s . . .” She was looking at her lap.
“He’s not with your mother.”
“No.”
For some reason, she didn’t want to talk about her father. “Are they divorced?” Why would she not want to tell him that?
“No.” And then she looked up at him. “Are you sure you’re not the lawyer. I’m feeling interrogated.”
Pro laughed and, speaking to Ryder, he said, “You don’t have to come back to Calgary.”
“I’m not. I’m taking her to Canmore.”
“She might as well go to Calgary. She’s got to get back there anyway.”
“All right. Then I’ll take her to Calgary.”
“I can do that,” Pro said.
“Can you make her go to the hospital?”
“I can’t make anybody do anything.”
“Then I’ll take her.”
“Good,” Pro said.
“Good?”
“Yes,” Toria said. “What do you mean—good?”
“You’re not expected back at work,” Pro explained, not explaining at all. “We’ll have time to look at this.” He picked up a manila envelope from beside the frying pan and set it next to Ryder’s plate.
“The partnership agreement?” He didn’t want to face it.
“No. Your prenup.”
“Pre— I don’t need a prenup.”
“Everyone needs a prenup.”
Ryder turned to Toria. “Do you have a prenup?”
“I don’t think so.”
Naturally. She wouldn’t know if she had one or not. He couldn’t stand ditzy women. Catherine, at least, was logical.
He pushed the envelope back to Pro. “Catherine won’t go for it.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
Pro set his fork down, lining it up parallel to the knife balanced on the plate’s edge. He took a sip of coffee. “I’ve already given her a copy.”
“You what?”
“She wasn’t impressed.”
Resignation pounded into Ryder’s brain. Maybe he needed more caffeine. He reached for the pot. What he didn’t need was another argument with Catherine. “I doubt she’ll sign it.”
“No, of course not. She can’t. She’ll need her own lawyer to look at it.”
Terrific. He hadn’t even dealt with the poodle, and now this. “Pro, I know you mean well, but―”
“I’m your lawyer. I’d be remiss if I didn’t do this.”
“Pro,” Toria said, “why do I need a prenup?”
· · · · ·
Toria waited on the porch beside Pro, watching as Ryder carried the cooler down the path to his truck. The sun was shining and a few tentative clouds flitted across the sky.
A sense of safety enveloped her and she relaxed her guard, for just a moment. But then she tensed, making her foot hurt again.<
br />
Last night the thought of going to a hospital had scared her. But now, in the clear light of morning, going to the hospital didn’t seem like such a bad thing. It seemed like a practical thing. She needed to get her foot checked, to be sure it was only a sprain. And it wasn’t like Greg . . . would . . . like he would . . .
Her body tensed again, firing a blast of pain to her foot.
Ryder had rewrapped the tensor after breakfast. And he’d shaved. He was on his way back to the cabin now, looking so tall and strong and competent. And handsome.
No. She wouldn’t go there. Who cared about handsome? Best not to think about Ryder. So she thought about Pro, who was standing beside her.
Pro. What a funny name . . .
He was tall, like Ryder, though not as tall as Ryder. And, like Ryder, he had dark hair, though not as dark as Ryder. And where Ryder’s eyes were blue, this man’s eyes were brown. A warm, kind brown.
His navy polo shirt, navy pants with the tightly pressed creases, and dark leather shoes with laces seemed out of place. For a cabin. At least he wasn’t wearing a suit—although, now that she thought about it, he carried himself like he was dressed for his lawyer office. And for some reason, he seemed content with himself. Like he’d just won a round of negotiations.
Ryder had returned. As he stepped up on the porch, his heavy work boots dropped pieces of mud. He reached for her arm, ready to pick her up like a caveman and haul her to his truck.
She hopped back. “As long as we’re here, can I see what the rest of this place looks like?”
“Certainly,” Pro said.
Ryder let go of an annoyed sounding breath. “It’s not like she can move around, Pro. Let’s get out of here.”
“I can hop,” she said, touching Pro’s elbow. A second later, she felt Ryder lift her into his arms and she had a moment of dizziness. She clutched her hands around his neck. “Put me down. I can walk.”
“Yeah. Sure you can. With a broken foot.”
“It’s a sprain. Why do you have to keep making it worse than it is?”
Pro seemed to ignore them as he walked off the porch and headed along the brick walk that edged the cabin. Ryder followed, carrying her.
One of his arms lifted around her back, his fingers pressing over her ribs. His other arm pulled under her knees, pinning her snug against his chest.
On the Way to a Wedding Page 4
