Man of Honor

by Lori Wilde

  The wind was whipping so furiously she couldn’t get the door open. And the hail was coming down hard. She worried about Jiggs. Hoped he’d made it back to the stables after dumping her off.

  “Let me help.” The storm was so loud that Shane had to yell even though he was standing right next to her. He took hold of the handle, their hands touching, and together they yanked it open.

  The wind snagged the door, jerking it from their hands, flopping it open wide. The wind was all around them. A terrifying force. Gathering energy.

  Meg stared into the gaping darkness of the cellar. Hesitated. She had no idea what was down there. Spiders. Snakes. Varmints. But she knew for certain what was up here. A badass tornado.

  “In.” Shane directed her.

  She took a fortifying breath. Thank God for that. How beautiful it was to breathe. And plunged down the stairs into the unknown.

  Inside, the cellar was dank, musty, inky. The only light coming from the tainted sky above them.

  That bleak light was extinguished when Shane slammed the door closed behind them, dimming the sound of the storm.

  The blackness was complete. Midnight in the wilderness wasn’t this dark. Hail pinged against the tin door.

  Meg shivered.

  “Are you hurt?” Shane asked, low and concerned.

  “I’m okay.” She hugged herself in the tiny space, tried not to think about spiders and snakes.

  “What happened? When I saw the oak tree and you lying on the ground, I thought you’d gotten hit by lightning. I thought you were . . .” His voice bogged down. “Dead.”

  “Jiggs threw me when lightning struck the oak tree,” she said.

  “I figured. The horse came running up when I was talking to Harrie. That’s how I knew you were out here.”

  “So Jiggs is all right?” Thank heavens for that.

  “Scared, but your ranch hands were taking good care of him. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

  “I’m okay now. I landed hard. The fall knocked the breath out of me. I couldn’t make my lungs or legs work.”

  “When I think about what could have happened if I hadn’t come along when I did, I—” He broke off.

  “But you did come along.” She laughed, albeit shakily. “And rescued me like some knight in shining Jeep.”

  “You could have saved yourself. I didn’t know there was a storm cellar nearby.”

  “I could have saved myself, yes, but knowing I’m not in this alone makes me feel a whole lot better. What are you doing here, by the way?”

  “Dropped by to check out the place. I should have done it already, but I’ve been so busy with all the other man-of-honor stuff, this is the first chance I’ve had.”

  “Your sense of timing is impeccable.”

  “Pilot’s instinct.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that and they both fell silent. Outside, the storm railed. Inside, she heard a click, and the light of Shane’s cell phone illuminated his face. He looked so gorgeous with wind-tousled hair.

  Meg’s heart skipped a beat. Or two.

  “Damn,” he said. “I’m on eight percent charge.”

  “Quick, shine it around. We’re supposed to have alternative light sources stocked in here and you can save what little battery you have left.”

  He flashed the light around the room. The cellar was small, with dirt walls and floor. Thankfully, at first glance no snakes, and hopefully any spiders that might be lurking weren’t the poisonous kind.

  There was a wooden bench and a small shelf that held a flashlight, candles, matches, and a kerosene lantern. Shane turned on the flashlight and gave it to Meg to hold while he shut down his cell phone and lit the lantern.

  He set the lantern in the middle of the dirt floor, plopped down on the wooden bench. There was nowhere else to sit. Meg switched off the flashlight and sat down beside him.

  It fully hit her, then. She was in a tiny storm shelter.

  Alone.

  With Shane.

  The man who’d left her hot and bothered from the moment they’d shaken hands in the vegan bakery.

  She could smell him. His sexy scent overriding the earthy smell of the cellar. He was breathtakingly handsome in the reflected glow of the lantern, shadows honing the lines and planes of his masculine face.

  He leaned in and her breath stilled. She hoped, prayed he would kiss her even as she knew it was a stupid, stupid idea. She barely knew this guy, but she wanted him. Especially after he’d daringly rescued her.

  Oh how she wanted him! More than she had ever wanted anyone.

  Wind thrashed against the cellar door, demanding and relentless. Hail continued to batter, a sharp punctuation to her inner turbulence.

  Meg bit her bottom lip, stared at his mouth, thought about how he might taste, felt her body flood with warmth and moisture and sensation. “A tornado could ruin this wedding.”

  “Yes,” he said, his blue eyes murky in the duskiness.

  “Do you think it’s an omen?” she whispered. “A sign they shouldn’t get hitched?”

  “It’s just a storm,” he said.

  “Storms can be destructive. They can maim and kill.”

  “They can also purify.” He hooked her gaze and she saw something powerfully arousing in his eyes. “Purge.”

  That’s when she knew they were no longer talking about storms. At least not the kind that came from the sky.

  He touched her hand. A slight movement. His fingertips barely grazing the side of her palm.

  It was a big hand. A callused hand. Full of experience and vitality. She could feel his life force throbbing from his skin into hers. Blasting through that thin thread of contact. Stirring her nerve endings. Singing through her blood. Surging sweet heat into her pelvis.

  Spinning. Whirling. A storm all its own. Gathering speed. Growing. Accelerating. Annihilating any sense of reason or control.

  Gone. She was absolutely gone. He lowered his head, mouth millimeters above hers. Meg licked her lips and parted her teeth, ready to let him in if he wanted to go.

  Chapter Five

  When Shane had woken up that morning, he couldn’t have guessed he’d find himself in a dark, cramped storm cellar about to kiss Meg Stoddard.

  She peered at him, eyes wide open, moist lips parted. On her beautiful face an expression of desire, delight, and surrender. Sending a clear message. If you kiss me, I won’t complain.

  He wanted this. Craved it. Had been aching for her from the moment they’d met.

  Not smart, however. Not smart at all. His best friend was marrying her best friend. No two ways about it, they’d be seeing each other often. If they had a one-time fling, it would make for awkward moments at dinner parties, family celebrations, and holidays, when they were bound to run into each other.

  And that would cause him to avoid going to events with Ellie and Brady that Meg might be attending and probably vice versa.

  Think it through, Freemont. Calculate the risk. Is a few minutes of pleasure worth the damage that hot sex with Meg was bound to wreak on his relationship with Ellie?

  Watching Meg moisten her lips with that sweet pink tongue almost tugged a whimper from his throat.

  No. No, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  In the nick of time, Shane reined in his self-control, lifted his head, straightened his spine, moved back.

  Meg exhaled. Loudly. The sound signaling both relief and disappointment.

  Me too, babe. Me too.

  He cast around for something to say. Something that wouldn’t call attention to the fact he’d nearly kissed her. “Wonder how long this storm is going to last.”

  “We could look it up on weather tracker. Where’s your phone?”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket, turned it on. A weak signal. One bar. Switched it back off. “Not enough power for internet service. But from the sound of things, we’re here for a while.”

  “I hope it’s only hail and a tornado doesn’t touch down. Your poor Jeep
.”

  He shrugged. “I have insurance. We’re safe. That’s the important thing.”

  “I suppose.” She kept clasping and unclasping her hands.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Just worrying about the ranch.”

  “You’ve got a great staff. I’m sure they’re taking care of it.”

  “I know, but I tend to be a worrier. It’s in my DNA.”

  “You need a distraction.”

  Meg’s eyes widened and she audibly sucked in air, and he knew she was thinking what he was thinking. Making out would be one mighty fine diversion.

  “We could play twenty questions,” she said quickly.

  “I haven’t played that in years.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Hey, what about those questions you were telling me about? The ones from that dating service Ellie and Brady went to?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Are they too racy?”

  “No, surprisingly, they aren’t racy at all,” Meg said. “I found that confusing. I expected racy.”

  “Do you remember any of them?”

  “There were three levels of questions, each level supposedly leading to greater and greater intimacy.”

  “Wanna try it?”

  “Increase our intimacy?” Her words came out high and airy, scared.

  “No. No,” he rushed to say. “Bust the myth. Show it wasn’t the questions that caused Brady and Ellie to fall in love but rather they fell in love because they were looking to fall in love. It wouldn’t happen to us because we’re not interested in falling in love.”

  “No, we aren’t.”

  “I mean, we do have chemistry. We can’t deny that.”

  “We do,” she admitted.

  His pulse jumped and his body tensed involuntarily. “But that’s just sexual attraction. It doesn’t mean anything else.”

  “No siree.”

  “A few measly questions aren’t going to make us suddenly fall in love.” Shane rubbed his knee. Old football injury. Getting stiff from sitting too long.

  She scoffed. “No way.”

  “Do you remember any of the first-level questions?” he asked, perplexed as to why he was steering the conversation in the direction of love and intimacy. Playing with fire he was, and no good reason why except as a way to distract her from worrying about the storm.

  And to distract himself from thoughts of kissing her.

  Meg tucked one side of her lip up between her teeth. The sight of that plush pink lip sucked up against her pearly whites tightened erotic muscles below Shane’s belt and he was grateful for the camouflaging dimness.

  “Let me see. I think there was a question along the lines of tell your partner five things you like about them already.”

  “We’re not partners.”

  “It’s just you and me here,” she said. “So yeah, we kind of are.”

  “Partners-in-storm.” He chuckled, playing off partners in crime.

  “Besides that, we’re partners in a nontraditional wedding. Man of honor and best woman.”

  “Oh yeah. That too.”

  “Who goes first?” Meg asked.

  “Goes?” Shane blinked, so lost in her eyes he’d dropped the conversational ball.

  “I’ll go first.” She glanced away, mumbling. “I like the way you walk into a room as if you own it.”

  “Interesting.” He raised his eyebrows, perplexed that something as simple as walking into a room impressed her.

  “Your turn.”

  “I like how you stand up for yourself,” he said. “You don’t let anyone mow you down or take advantage of you.”

  “I have a strong-minded mother. She passed it on to me.”

  “Good genes.”

  Meg stretched out her legs in front of her, the tips of her boots almost touching the lantern in front of them. “I like your appetite for life. You’re earthy. A paladin.”

  “A what-a-din?”

  “Paladin. It means a champion.”

  “I like how you use big words,” he said, deepening his smile. “You’re smart. You would come in handy on Jeopardy!”

  “I like how practical you are.” She laughed. “Thinking of ways to make money off my smarts.”

  “I like the way you don’t take offense at my practically.”

  “And I like the way you fill out a pair of jeans.”

  “Well, if we’re going there, I like that you’ve got rockin’ hot legs.”

  “Leg man, are you?”

  He let his gaze linger on her breasts. “Among other things. Your turn.”

  “Hmm,” she purred. “I like the way you make me feel sexy.”

  “Same here.”

  They stared at each other. Breathed in sync.

  “Well, that was pretty painless,” he said. “I don’t feel increased intimacy. Do you?”

  “If you don’t count being jammed into a tiny storm cellar alone with you and talking about our sexy bodies, no.”

  “That’s physical. Nothing mental or emotional for me. You?”

  “Me neither,” she denied.

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  “Terrific.” Why did he feel so unsettled? “Do you remember any more questions?”

  Meg tapped her chin with her index finger. “Oh. This one’s easy. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

  “Chuck Yeager.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s the Yeagermeister,” Shane said.

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “He inspired me to become a pilot.” Shane notched up his chin. “How about you? Who would you invite to this dinner party?”

  She paused, reflected on that. “Living or dead?”

  “You want a ghost at your party?” he asked.

  Her giggle surprised him. He hadn’t pegged her for the giggly type. “Let’s assume because this is a fictional dinner party, the deceased guests can appear as they did when they were alive. No ghosts.”

  “I can roll with that. Who’s your pick?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “A sentimental choice. Maternal or paternal?”

  “Maternal. Gram was amazing. A single mom after her husband took off and never came back. Raised my mom and uncle while working as a chuck wagon cook on this very dude ranch. She’s my hero.”

  “She’s the reason you’re a cowgirl?”

  Meg nodded. “Absolutely. If she hadn’t started working for the ranch, my mom wouldn’t have met my dad. Hawk Creek’s been in my dad’s family for five generations.”

  “Now that’s some deep family roots.” The old emptiness he felt over his lack of family crept in, but he pushed it aside. He’d made peace with his orphaned status a long time ago. “How long has your grandmother been gone?”

  “Five years. She died two days before I graduated from TCU with my degree in ranch management. Cancer. What I wouldn’t give to hug her one more time.” Meg sighed, sadness tugging her mouth down. Her hand strayed to her heart.

  Watching her, a flick of something knifed Shane’s gut. A feeling he had no name for. He’d never known his grandparents, but he missed the loss of something he’d never had.

  “Let’s take relatives off the table,” he said, wanting to erase the sorrow from her eyes. “What prominent person would you most like to have as a dinner guest?”

  “Hmm.” She paused, thinking. “How about Margaret Thatcher?”

  “The Iron Lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “She was tough.”

  “So are a lot of women.”

  “Honestly? I’d like to ask her about the quote: ‘To wear your heart on your sleeve isn’t a very good plan; you should wear it inside, where it functions best.’”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know if she really believed you can’t be warm, caring, empathetic, and strong at the same time.”

  �
��Ah,” he said.

  “Ah what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s something or you wouldn’t be looking like a smug cat who got the last bit of cream.”

  He shrugged, almost too casually. “Nothing. It’s just that you want to have your cake and eat it too.”

  “Huh?”

  “You want to be soft and feminine but tough as nails at the same time. Sorry. You can’t have both. Thatcher would tell you as much.”

  “Channel Margaret Thatcher’s ghost, do you?”

  “No. But I know leadership. You can’t be a strong leader and also give in to your emotions.”

  “Ever?”

  “Not if you want to win.”

  “And winning is everything?”

  “What else is there?”

  She shook her head, pursed her lips, clicked her tongue. “My grandmother was strong and loving.”

  “She wasn’t Margaret Thatcher. She didn’t run Great Britain.”

  “Thank God. Can you imagine the Iron Lady as your grandmother?” Meg asked.

  “I can’t imagine anyone as my grandmother because I never had one.”

  Silently, she reached over and took his hand, squeezed it. The gesture was kind, generous. It made him feel vulnerable. He moved his arm, pretended he needed to scratch his cheek. She settled her hands back in her lap. He couldn’t tell if he’d bruised her feelings or not.

  “What were some of the other questions?” he asked.

  “Hmm.” She tapped her chin. “Would you like to be famous? And if yes, in what way?”

  “My goal is to be the best pilot I can be. If that brings me fame somehow, I’m good with it, but fame isn’t something I chase.” He studied her. “How about you?”

  “Same thing. Fame seems more annoying than anything else. My main concern is doing my job well.”

  “Look at that.” He smiled. “We have one thing in common. We put a high premium on our jobs and doing them well.”

  “We’re both workaholics. I wonder if we have anything else in common.”

  “Do you want a mint?” he asked, pulling a tin of lemon mints from his pocket.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  They sat sucking mints and listening to the storm rage. Taste buds buffeted by tangy sweet lemon. Eardrums pummeled by howling wind.

  “We both like lemon mints,” he said. “That’s two things in common.”