A Bravo Christmas Wedding

by Christine Rimmer

  He couldn’t just leave her standing there. “Hold on.” Lonesome was whining at the front door. He went over and opened it. The dog wiggled in, thrilled to see him. He scratched him behind the ears as Lucky came in behind him.

  The cat went straight to Rory, and Rory picked her up and buried her face in the silky black fur. She asked, “Well?”

  “Come on.” He turned for the great room at the back of the house, the dog at his heels. “You want something? Coffee?”

  Still holding Lucky, she followed. “No, just to talk.”

  He stopped by the couch. She put the cat down and dropped to the cushions. He went and turned on the fire, which he’d converted to gas two years before. The cat and the dog both sat by the hearth, side by side. When he went back to her, she’d lifted her right foot to tug off her tall black boot.

  “Here,” he said. A boot like that was easier for someone else to get off. “Let me.”

  “Thanks.” She stuck out her foot in his direction.

  He moved around the end of the coffee table, took the boot by the toe and the heel, eased it right off and handed it to her. She tucked it under the end table and offered the other one. He slid that one off, too. And then he stood there, above her, boot in hand, staring at her socks. They were bright red with little white snowmen on them. Cute. He had the most bizarre urge to bend down and wrap his hand around her ankle, to take off that red snowman sock, to run his palm over the shape of her bare heel, to stroke his hand up the back of her slim, strong calf...

  He was losing it. No doubt about it.

  “Here.” She took the left boot from him, stuck it under the table with the right one and patted the sofa cushion beside her. Apparently, she had no clue as to his sudden burning desire to put his hands on her naked skin.

  And that was good. Excellent. He sat down next to her.

  She turned toward him and drew her knees up to the side. “There’s tension between them—and not the sexy kind. Did you notice?”

  Tension between who?

  Right. Rye and Clara. And he had noticed. “Yeah, but only until Clara finally busted to the truth about the baby. After that, everything seemed just like it used to be.”

  She flipped a big hank of silky hair back over her shoulder. “Exactly.” He thought about reaching out, running his hand down that long swath of dark hair, feeling the texture of it against his palm, maybe bringing it to his face, sucking in the scent of it, rubbing it over his mouth. “Walker?”

  He blinked at her, feeling dazed. “Huh?”

  Her pretty dark brows had drawn together. “You still with me here?”

  “Uh. Yeah. Of course I am. You said things were tense with Clara and Ryan. I said that by the end of the night, it was just like it used to be.”

  “Walker. Think about it. ‘Like it used to be’ is that they were friends. We were friends, the four of us.”

  He wasn’t following. Her shining hair and soft pink lips weren’t helping, either. “Yeah. We were friends. And we still are.”

  “But I mean, with Clara and Ryan now, shouldn’t there be more?” She paused, as though waiting for him to speak. He had nothing. She forged on. “I do understand that with a baby coming, marriage might be an option. But is it really the right option for them? Lots of people have babies now without thinking they need a wedding first. I can’t help but wonder why the two of them are racing to the altar—and seriously, I...well, I don’t know how to say this, but...”

  He knew he shouldn’t ask. “Say what?”

  “Well, frankly, I just can’t picture Clara and Ryan having sex.”

  Through the haze of ridiculous lust that seemed to have taken hold of him, he felt a definite stab of annoyance—with the direction of this uncomfortable conversation in general, and with Rory in particular. “Just because you can’t picture it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  “It’s only...” She stared off into the fire.

  “What?” he demanded.

  And she finally turned and looked at him. “I don’t feel it between them.”

  “What do you mean? Because they’re friends, is that what you’re saying? You can’t picture two lifelong friends suddenly deciding there’s more than friendship between them?”

  “Well, no.”

  “No?”

  “I mean, yes. I could picture that, picture friends becoming lovers.”

  Why were they talking about this? “So what’s the problem?”

  “It’s just that Clara and Ryan, they’re not...that way with each other.”

  “You’re overcomplicating it.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah. You are. She’s a woman. He’s a man. They’re together a lot—you know, being friends and all. It happens. I don’t see anything all that surprising about any of it. And as for them getting married, well, Rye’s a stand-up guy and Clara’s having his baby. And he was only a baby when our loser of a dad took off never to be heard from again. He’s always sworn no kid of his will grow up without him. He just wants to do the right thing.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying. Maybe for Clara and Ryan, it just isn’t the right thing. They’re great together, as pals. But as husband and wife? I’m not seeing it. And you know how Ryan is.”

  “Now you’re going to start talking trash about my brother?”

  She flinched and sat back away from him. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”

  He glared at her, feeling agitated, angry at her and knowing he really had no right to be, all stirred up over her snowman socks and her shining hair, every last nerve on edge. “What exactly do you mean, ‘how Ryan is’?”

  “Walker.” Her voice was careful now. “It’s not talking trash about Ryan to say the truth about him.”

  “Right. The truth. That he’s a dog, right? That it’s one woman after another with him.”

  “I did not say that.”

  “It’s what you meant, Rory. You know it is.”

  “I meant that he likes women. In a casual kind of way. He’s a great guy, but he’s also a player. Will he really be capable of settling down? Especially with Clara, who doesn’t seem all that thrilled to be marrying him?”

  Okay. Now she was just plain pissing him off. “What are you saying? You think Clara’s too good for Rye, is that it?”

  “No, I most definitely am not saying that.” Now she was getting pissed. She always sounded more like a princess when she was mad, everything clear and clipped and so damn superior.

  “It sure does sound like it to me.” He got up so fast she let out a gasp of surprise.

  “Walker, what...?”

  He glared down at her, with her shining eyes and her silky hair and those damn cute snowman socks with all that bare skin underneath them. “I’ve had about enough.”

  She gaped up at him, bewildered. “But—”

  “Good night.” And he turned on his heel and got the hell out of there.

  Chapter Four

  Walker felt like about ten kinds of idiot by the time he was halfway up the stairs. But he just kept on going to the top and onward, along the upper hallway to his room across from hers.

  Inside, he shoved the door shut and headed for the bathroom, where he stripped off his clothes and took a cold shower. He stood under the icy spray, shivering, wondering when it was, exactly, that he and his rational mind had parted company.

  But then, he knew when it was: the moment he saw those snowman socks. He’d looked at those socks and they’d taken him somewhere he never planned to go—not with Rory. Uh-uh. She was his friend, for God’s sake. And too young for him. And about a thousand miles out of his league.

  And was that what had happened with Clara and Rye, then? Some kind of snowman-sock moment, when everything changed and they ended up in bed
together, resulting in Clara’s pregnancy, making it necessary for Rye to step up, messing with their friendship—and worse, with their lives and the lives of an innocent kid.

  No way was he letting that happen to him and Rory.

  He turned off the freezing water and groped for a towel, rubbing down swiftly with it and then wrapping it around his waist. And then just standing there in the middle of the bathroom, staring into space, thinking...

  It was both really great and damn confusing, having Rory around all the time. Great because he liked her so much and she was low-maintenance, ready to help out, flexible and fun. Confusing because he wasn’t used to having someone else in the house round the clock, not for years, not since Denise walked out on him. He wasn’t used to it, and he couldn’t afford to get used to it.

  Rory would be gone in a couple of weeks. She was leaving right after the wedding. Her brother Max was getting married in Montedoro a few days after Rye and Clara.

  She would go. And he would be alone again. That was just how it was—how he wanted it.

  And was any of what was eating at him her fault?

  Absolutely not.

  She was probably calling her mother about now, asking to have a real bodyguard sent ASAP so that she could move back to the Haltersham, where nobody jumped down her throat just for saying what was on her mind.

  He dropped the towel and reached for his jeans.

  * * *

  When he opened his bedroom door and stuck out his head, Lonesome was there waiting on the threshold. The dog eased around him and headed for his favorite spot on the rug by the bed.

  Walker stared at Rory’s bedroom door, which was shut. It had been open before.

  She must have come upstairs.

  He stepped across the hall and tapped on the door. And then he waited, more certain with each second that passed that she was in there packing her bags, getting ready to get the hell away from him. He was just lifting his hand to knock a second time when the door swung inward, and there she was.

  In a white terry-cloth robe with her hair piled up loosely and the smell of steam and flowers rising from her skin.

  “Uh,” he said.

  She looked so sweet and smelled so good...and whoa. He should have thought twice before knocking on her bedroom door in the middle of the night.

  And then her soft lips curled upward in a slow smile, and that cute dimple tucked itself into her round cheek. Pow. Like getting hit in the chest with a big ole ball of wonderful, watching her smile. It was bad, worse than seeing her snowman socks, to be standing there staring at her fresh from a bath.

  She said, “Ready to apologize for being such a jackass?”

  He nodded and made himself get on with it. “That’s right. I’m sorry.” It came out gruff, not smooth and regretful as he meant it. But it was the best he could do at the moment, given the smell of her and the sweet, pink smoothness of her skin that he was having a real hard time not reaching out and touching. “I’m sorry for being a complete douche bag.”

  She smiled wider. “Why, yes. You were quite the douche.”

  “You’ve got on your princess voice.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When you’re pissed off, you always sound...” What in hell was he babbling about? “Never mind. And you didn’t have to agree, you know? You could tell me I wasn’t that bad.”

  “I just call it like I see it.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. Better. With his arms folded, he was less likely to do something stupid like try to touch her, and leaning against the door frame made him almost believe he felt easy and casual. He said, “Well, this is the deal. The real truth is, I’m a little worried about Rye and Clara, too.”

  Her bright, hard smile turned softer. “Yeah. I kind of thought that you were.”

  “I don’t think there’s much we can do about it, though.”

  She stared up at him, so earnest now, so sweet. “It’s just good to know I’m not the only one who’s got doubts about this wedding.”

  He thought back over the evening at Clara’s. “A couple of times tonight, they seemed...I don’t know, good together, tight with each other.”

  She nodded. “Like when I brought her back into the kitchen after she got sick, when Ryan jumped up and went to her. He put his arm around her and asked her if she was all right...”

  “Yeah, then. And also when she took his hand, a little later, at the table.”

  “So you’re thinking it could be that we’re worried for nothing?”

  “It’s possible.”

  She nodded again. “Yeah. You’re right. And I really, truly, did not mean to be insulting to Ryan. He’s a great guy and I love him.”

  “I know that you do.” Say good-night, warned the voice of reason inside his head. He peeled himself off the door frame. “Well...”

  She gave a little chuckle and the sound made a hot pass along his nerve endings, tempting him to want things he had to keep remembering he was never going to get. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s late. And there’s Rocky Mountain Christmas in town tomorrow.”

  “How could I forget?” All the local crafters and clubs set up booths in the town hall. Then at night, there was a Christmas show put on by the schoolkids in the newly renovated Cascade Theater. He used to go to it every year. But about a decade ago, he’d realized that when you’d been to one Rocky Mountain Christmas, you’d pretty much been to them all. “I take it we’re going.”

  “Oh, yes, we are.”

  Say good-night, you fool. Do it now. “’Night, Rory.”

  “’Night, Walker.” She stepped back and shut the door.

  He stood there for several seconds before turning away, staring at that closed door, arms wrapped extra tight across his chest, his pulse hard and hungry in his own ears.

  * * *

  In the morning before dawn, Rory got up and splashed cold water on her face. She put on a pair of comfy long johns and thick wool socks. Over the long johns, she wore jeans and a warm shirt. She pulled on sturdy boots. And then she put on her heavy jacket and a watch cap. Grabbing her winter riding gloves, she went out to help Walker and Bud Colgin with the horses.

  An hour later, Bud went back to his house. Rory and Walker tacked up a couple of the horses and rode out toward the mountains as the sun was coming up. It was great, just the two of them and the horses in the freezing winter dawn, with Lonesome trailing along in their wake.

  They got back to the house at a little after nine, both of them really hungry. He fried eggs and bacon. She made the coffee and toasted the bread.

  “This isn’t bad at all,” she told him when they sat down to eat.

  He grunted. “What isn’t bad?”

  “This. Ranch life. When I move to Justice Creek, I might just get my own spread.”

  “Princess Aurora, Colorado rancher?” Was he making fun of her? If so, at least he was doing it good-naturedly.

  “Smile when you say that.”

  He ate a piece of bacon and played along. “So, you planning on running cattle, too?”

  “Just a few horses. I want a big, old house and a dog and a cat. Kind of like the Bar-N. But with chickens.” She sipped her coffee. “Yeah. I see my ranch with chickens.”

  He shook his head. “What about your career as a world-famous photographer.”

  “I can do more than one thing, you know. I’m guessing I could fit fiddling with my cameras in somewhere between grooming the horses and feeding the chickens.”

  He mopped up the last of his eggs with the toast. “You’re never really going to move to Justice Creek.” He kept his eyes focused on his plate when he said that.

  She studied his bent head, his broad shoulders, those strong, tanned hands of his. “My sister Genevra
? She’s a year older than me. Married an English earl last May. They live at his giant country house, Hartmore, in Derbyshire.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her then, those eyes so blue—and so guarded. “I know who Genevra is. And what has she got to do with your moving to Justice Creek?”

  “Genny loves Hartmore. She says that from the first time we visited there, when we were small, she knew it was meant to be her home. Justice Creek is like that for me.”

  He pushed back his chair and picked up his plate. “Winters are long and cold.”

  “Is that supposed to be news to me? Because guess what? It’s not.”

  He carried the plate to the sink, set it down and turned to face her. “It’s fun for a couple weeks. You can call the ice-cold mornings brisk, get all excited over a few snow flurries. But wait till the snow is piled past the windowsills. You’ll be dreaming of Montedoro by about February.”

  “So then I’ll get on a plane and visit Montedoro.”

  He folded his arms across his chest the way he’d done the night before, when he came to her bedroom door to apologize. And he muttered gruffly, “You make it all sound so simple.”

  “Well, maybe for me it is simple. I like Justice Creek—scratch that. I love Justice Creek. And I’ve been thinking about moving here for a long time.”

  “You never mentioned it to me.”

  “I think about a lot of things I don’t mention to you.” Oh, did she ever. “And are we about to have another argument? Because if we are, I think we should just...not.”

  He stared down at his boots. A small smile curved his wonderful mouth. “I think you’re right.”

  She decided to take that at face value. “Great, then.”

  And she rose and helped him clean up the kitchen, all the time wondering what was going on with him. There was that argument last night. He really had seemed angry with her, though at least he’d had the grace to apologize later. And then just now, getting all hostile when she said she might make a home in Justice Creek.

  Did he have some problem with her moving there? Maybe they should talk about that...

  “Hey.” He bent to put the frying pan away in a low cupboard.