Stop The Wedding!. Lori Wilde

get some supplies.” He turned to head back to the U-Haul.

      Forty minutes later, they had set up camp on fallow ground just beyond the cornfield. Boone used blankets and curtain rods gleaned from the trailer. Tara had to do much of the work requiring physical dexterity because he had trouble navigating the uneven terrain of the field. Boone was the tent’s architect. She was the builder.

      He made a fire using a piece of flint and a folding knife fished from his pocket. He used the same knife to open a can of stew from the pantry items she’d packed for her move. If she had to get stranded, a quick-thinking soldier was the one to get stranded with. Boone was actually kind of fun when he had a mission. She even caught him whistling under his breath as he stirred the stew.

      “Interesting,” she said.

      “What is?” He glanced up, and the last rays of sunlight caught his cheeks, bathing him in a red-orange glow that accentuated his rugged masculinity.

      “You’re not freaking out about this delay?”

      “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” he said lightly. “Besides, it’s my fault that we’re here. If I hadn’t been complaining about the construction log jam, you wouldn’t have taken off down this side road to nowhere.”

      “True,” she said, admiring his ability to admit his mistake. “But I’m just as much at fault. I let you get to me. I should have kept my cool.”

      “I guess we both overreacted, huh?”

      “Stress can make anyone cranky. Too bad we’re on a time crunch.”

      “I did the math. Worse case scenario, even with taking a day out of our travel to deal with this situation, I should be able to make it to Key West by early Saturday morning. The wedding isn’t until the evening. That’s enough time to set Jackie straight and put a stop to the whole thing.”

      She wondered how his sister was going to react to Boone swooping in and trying to stop her wedding. She started to say something to him, but it wasn’t any of her business, so she just clamped her mouth shut. The stew smelled good and she realized they hadn’t had anything to eat since they’d left the truck stop that morning.

      Boone positioned a blanket on the ground near the fire and they sat side by side while he stirred the pot of food. He had his right leg stretched out in front of him and he’d taken off the heavy metal brace. Tara had her knees drawn up to her chest and she studied the dancing, orange-hot flames.

      “This is nice,” she said. “In spite of our circumstances. I like camping.”

      “Me, too. Or, at least I did before I went into the military.”

      “That changed you.”

      He shrugged. She could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, so she didn’t say anything else. Tara reached up to massage the kinks out of her neck. She was still sore from all that moving. If she was this knotted up, she could only imagine what shape Boone was in.

      “Sore neck?” he asked.

      “It’s nothing.”

      “C’mere,” he said. “I’ll rub it for you.”

      “Will you?” she asked gratefully, before she understood what she was getting herself into.

      He patted the blanket in front of him.

      Tara edged over and sank down between his legs. The fire was in front of her, Boone behind. Talk about a rock and a hard place. Then his big hands touched her shoulders and began a gentle massage. She melted at the very same time she stiffened. Part of her wanting to relax into the moment, the other part on guard against the way his touch made her feel.

      His fingers hit a tender spot.

      “Ooh,” she moaned.

      “You’ve got a big knot there.” He pushed in deeper, probing her sore muscle.

      All the air left her body in one swift whoosh.

      “Too hard?”

      She shook her head. “Hurts so good.”

      “More?”

      “Oh, yeah.”

      He increased the pressure. “How’s that?”

      “If it gets any better it’s gonna be illegal.”

      His thumb made circular motions against her skin. “I can’t believe how tense you are. You seem so looseygoosey.”

      Yeah, except for when a sexy man was massaging her neck. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

      “You can say that again,” he murmured.

      “Appearances can be deceiving,” she quipped, because his hands were moving lower, settling on her shoulders and she was getting some decidedly sweet sensations spreading over her.

      “You’re irrepressible.”

      “Like a wrinkled cotton shirt?”

      “More like a bedspring.”

      A wild thrill fluttered against her ribcage, her skin tingling everywhere his fingers caressed her. “Coiled and ready for action?”

      His laugh was so deep and rich, the flutter turned into an avalanche. The sensation was more than she could handle. She scooted away from him. “The stew is bubbling. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

      “Okay,” he said.

      Was it her imagination, or did he sound disappointed?

      “I’ll get the bowls.” She returned with the mismatched bowls she’d dug from a box of kitchen supplies earlier.

      He ladled stew into the bowls. “Spoons?”

      She passed him an oversized spoon with an ornate handle, held a rounded soup spoon in her other hand.

      “None of your dishes or silverware match,” he said. “I noticed that when we were packing up.”

      “I buy them at garage sales. Cheap matters more to me than matchy-match.”

      He chuckled.

      “What’s funny?” Was he making fun of her frugality?

      “Nothing.”

      “Stop laughing at me.” She pretended to be miffed.

      “I’m not laughing at you.”

      “No?”

      “None of my dishes match either. I do the very same thing. I thought matching silverware mattered to women.”

      “Depends on the woman.”

      “No doubt.”

      She blew across the steaming spoonful of stew, but didn’t meet his gaze. Her insides felt hot and shivery, like when you have a fever, and she had no idea why. “I would have thought that since you’d been married once, you’d have things that match.”

      “Naw. Shaina took the wedding gifts.”

      “She didn’t leave you anything?”

      “My freedom. Mismatched dishes. Small price to pay.”

      “Yeah,” she said, as if she knew what she was talking about.

      A long silence stretched between them. Tara felt the need to say something in order to keep from thinking too much. “You ever notice how food tastes better when it’s cooked over an open flame?”

      “You’re just hungry.”

      “Seriously, there’s something about the outdoors. The stars twinkling overhead. The smell of wood smoke…”

      “We’re burning cornhusks.”

      “The smell of cornhusk.” Balancing her bowl of stew