Stop The Wedding!. Lori Wilde

it, no, but suddenly, she wanted it.

      You’re worn out from packing, moving and driving. You’re dirty and hungry. That’s all it is. You’re exhausted and the idea of having someone take care of you sounds good. What you’re feeling is nothing more than that.

      They stepped up onto the wide, welcoming, wraparound veranda. On the front porch was a sign that instructed them to come on in. Tara opened the screen door. The sound of Mozart and the scent of lavender greeted them. To the left was a sweeping staircase with an ornate cherry-wood banister. To the right was a small reception desk constructed from the same cherry wood.

      A smiling older woman, who looked exactly like a Mrs. Hubbard, stood behind the desk. She wore a gingham apron and oversized tortoiseshell spectacles. She was dusting a shelf of knickknacks, and oddly enough, given that Mozart was on the sound system, she sang an off-key rendition of B.B. King’s “When Love Comes to Town.”

      “Good morning!” she greeted them.

      “Ross from the garage sent us,” Tara said. “We’re just passing through and need a place to freshen up while we’re having our car worked on.”

      “So you’ll just be needing the room for a few hours?”

      “That’s right.”

      Mrs. Hubbard shifted her gaze to Boone. “Just one room?”

      “Two,” Boone said, reaching for his wallet.

      “One will do,” Tara said. “No sense paying extra when we can take turns showering.” She didn’t realize how suggestive that sounded until it was out of her mouth. “I mean, not that we were both going to shower at the same time. We don’t shower together. We…” Ack! She was just making things worse. Tara clamped her mouth shut.

      Behind her, Boone let out a soft chuckle. “One room. Consecutive showering.”

      Mrs. Hubbard arched a speculative eyebrow. “Do you want to include breakfast?”

      “Yes,” Boone said. “Charge us for two breakfasts.”

      Her eyes twinkled behind her big glasses. “Consecutive?”

      “Concurrent.”

      “Very good. Breakfast is in the dining room, just through that door.” The woman pointed.

      “Food or shower first?” Boone asked Tara as they walked away from the reception desk.

      “Food,” she said, not just because her stomach was growling, but also because she just wasn’t ready to be alone with Boone in a bedroom.

      The dining room was empty, save for a man in a business suit reading The Wall Street Journal by the window. The food was served buffet style from chafing dishes. The smell of bacon had Tara’s mouth watering. They filled their plates and sat down across from each other at a small table. Tara spread a napkin over her lap. Boone paused to look at his watch again.

      “Staring at your watch isn’t going to make time go faster,” she observed.

      “Don’t want it to go faster. Want it to slow down.”

      “What time is it?”

      “Eight-thirty.”

      “Nothing we can do about it. Might as well relax and enjoy the day.”

      He canted his head at her. “How do you do it?”

      “What?” She speared a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs.

      “The whole lemonade thing.”

      She shrugged. “I’d rather be happy than in turmoil.”

      He shook his head. “Wish I could do that.”

      “It’s easy. Just look at the bright side.”

      “Which is?”

      “You’re still mobile.”

      “Barely.”

      “You’re good-looking.”

      He snorted.

      “What? You don’t think you’re good-looking?”

      “Looks are inconsequential. They don’t last.”

      “You’re a millionaire.”

      “Thanks to my father.”

      “You’re not balding.”

      He finally cracked a smile and ran a hand through his thick head of hair. “You got a point.”

      “See? There’s always a bright side.” The bright side for her was that she was having breakfast with the handsome man who would never have eaten breakfast with her back in Bozeman, but she didn’t tell Boone that, of course.

      “These blueberry pancakes are really good,” he admitted.

      “One way or another, bit by bit, I’ll seduce you to the sunny side of life,” Tara predicted.

      Seduce.

      Why had she said that word? It lay there between them like an unexploded hand grenade. Light shone in through the window, bathing Boone’s face in sunshine. Stubble ringed his angular jaw, lending him a dangerous air. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing the strong forearms thick with dark hair.

      “I think you’re deeper than that.”

      “What?”

      “I think you choose to be happy because you’re scared what will happen if you let yourself experience negative feelings.”

      Alarm had her smiling doubly hard. How had he guessed that about her?

      “You pump up the energy around you by laughing and joking and having a good time, but it’s just a cover.”

      “It’s not,” she said, concerned that he’d seen through her most basic insecurity about herself and annoyed by the little flare of panic that ignited in her at his assessment. He’d cut close to the bone.

      “You’re afraid of painful feelings.”

      “Isn’t everyone?”

      He shook his head. “No. Pain is a part of life. You can’t truly appreciate joy until you’ve suffered.”

      “Well then, you must be on the verge of becoming Mr. Freaking Sunshine because you’ve suffered a hell of a lot.”

      His smile was rueful. “I’ve made you mad.”

      “Me?” She screwed up her face in an expression of denial, shook her head, shrugged.

      “See? You don’t even want to feel that negative emotion.”

      “You’re pushing your luck, Boone. I’m just a happy person.”

      “Yeah?”

      “Yes.”

      “Okay, what was the first thing you did when you heard about your mother’s breast cancer diagnosis?”

      Tara squashed a blueberry with the back of her fork. “I went to play softball.”

      “I rest my case.”

      “What? It wasn’t like I could change the diagnosis. What was I supposed to do? Wring my hands? Gnash my teeth? Shake my fist at the sky and curse God?”

      “Most people would have done some version of that, but you go play softball.”

      A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Does that make me a terrible daughter?”

      “No, it makes you the kind of person who masks her pain by trying to lift her mood.”

      “What did you do?” she asked. “When you found out your dad had died?”

      “I got my pistol, went to the junkyard