Runaway Bridesmaid

“How many times do I have to tell you, Sarah, I made a mistake?”

Her hand plowed through her hair. “Don’t you see, Dean? It doesn’t matter.” Anguish again flooded her features; a cold, sick feeling washed over him that they weren’t having the conversation he thought they were having. “It’s not just a matter of my forgiving you, if that’s what you want. Too much has happened, too much time has passed….”

The look in those honey-brown eyes stabbed him all the way to his soul.

He didn’t care what happened now, even if she belted him clear into another zip code. She still cared. A great deal, unless he was way off course.

And, heaven help him, so did he.

Dear Reader,

You’ve loved Beverly Barton’s miniseries THE PROTECTORS since it started, so I know you’ll be thrilled to find another installment leading off this month. Navajo’s Woman features a to-swoon-for Native American hero, a heroine capable of standing up to this tough cop—and enough steam to heat your house. Enjoy!

A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY continues with bestselling author Linda Turner’s The Enemy’s Daughter. This story of subterfuge and irresistible passion—not to mention heart-stopping suspense—is set in the Australian outback, and I know you’ll want to go along for the ride. Ruth Langan completes her trilogy with Seducing Celeste, the last of THE SULLIVAN SISTERS. Don’t miss this emotional read. Then check out Karen Templeton’s Runaway Bridesmaid, a reunion romance with a heroine who’s got quite a secret. Elane Osborn’s Which Twin? offers a new twist on the popular twins plotline, while Linda Winstead Jones rounds out the month with Madigan’s Wife, a wonderful tale of an ex-couple who truly belong together.

As always, we’ve got six exciting romances to tempt you—and we’ll be back next month with six more. Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Runaway Bridesmaid
Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KAREN TEMPLETON’s

background in the theater and the arts, and a lifelong affinity for love stories, led inevitably to her writing romances. Growing up, she studied art, ballet and drama, and wanted to someday strut her stuff on Broadway. She was accepted into North Carolina School of the Arts as a drama major but switched to costume design.

Twelve years in New York City provided a variety of work experiences, including assisting costume designers at a large costume house, employment in the bridal department buyer’s offices of several department stores, grunt work for a sportswear designer and answering phones for a sports uniform manufacturer. New York also provided her with her husband, Jack, and the first two of her five sons.

The family then moved to New Mexico, where Karen established an in-home mail-order crafts business that she gave up the instant the family bought their first computer. Now writing romances full-time, she says she’s finally found an outlet for all that theatrical training—she gets to write, produce, design, cast and play all the parts!

To Gail Chasan, editor and friend, who refuses to believe me when I say “I can’t.”

Acknowledgment

To Wendy Wade Morton, DVM, whose veterinary advice—as well as her insight into daily life in the Auburn/Opelika area of Alabama—has hopefully prevented me from looking like a total fool.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Chapter 1

“Hey—what’s with the horse out in the waiting room?”

At the familiar sarcastic drawl, Sarah Whitehouse glanced up from the examining table where she held an ill-tempered ginger tomcat in a hammerlock, treating it for ear mites. She allowed a beleaguered grin for her younger sister, Jennifer, who worked at the travel agency just up the street. “Ah. That would be Bojangles.”

“Bo-what?”

Sarah grimaced as she wrestled with the pissed-off cat. “Bojangles. Great Dane. Nine months old.”

“Nine months?” Jennifer rolled her eyes, then shifted in the doorway, crossing her arms so that her engagement ring, modest though it was, twinkled brilliantly. “Hey, listen—”

“Anybody else out there?”

“Uh…oh, I don’t know….” Sarah caught the whiff of petulance in her sister’s voice. “Two more cats, maybe? At least, two more cat carriers. I can’t vouch for what’s in ’em. A collie, a Dobie…and some small fuzzy thing I’ll have to guess is a canine with indiscreet parents. Sarah—”

“Damn. They must all be drop-ins. The Dane was all I had scheduled, which is why I let Jolene go off to lunch.” Sarah ignored the cat’s menacing growl as she swabbed his ear. “Anyone seem panicked? Bleeding? In labor?”

Her sister considered for a moment, then shook her head, a half-can’s worth of Aqua Net prohibiting any individual movement of her shoulder-length waves. “Nope. Just the usual panting and get-me-outta-here whimpering and butt-smelling routines. Though one owner looks like she misplaced her Prozac—”

“Could you tell everyone to hold on, I’ll get to ’em soon as I can?”

With a telling sigh, Jennifer stuck her honey-gold head out the door and delivered Sarah’s message, then waltzed on into the examining room and plopped her handbag on a chair in the corner. By now she was pouting.

Sarah got the message.

“I’m sorry, honey…was there something you wanted to tell me?”

Jennifer hesitated, then gave a short, dismissive wave of her hand. “It’ll wait. You’re busy.”

“You sure?”

“No point in talking to you if you’re not listening.”

“I promise to give you my undivided attention just as soon as I’m finished….” The thing twisted out of Sarah’s grasp and spit at her.

Her sister took a circumspect step backward, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “And what is our problem?”

Sarah wrapped the cat’s leash around her palm, reined him back in. “I think we know that ear mites aren’t the only things being removed today.”

“Oooh,” Jennifer said with a comprehending nod in the creature’s direction. The cat actually sneered at her as Sarah elbowed the thing into her chest and went after the other ear. “Heck, you ask me, it couldn’t happen to a better guy. Except maybe Bruce Miller. Did you know Abby’s pregnant again?”

Sarah stifled her laugh. “Stop it, will you? I’m having enough trouble doing this.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah caught Jennifer’s glance around the room. “Where’s Katey?”

“Little girl’s room, I expect.” Sarah paused in her torture of the cat and stroked his head. The feline’s eyes squeezed shut with each touch, though whether in pleasure or irritated tolerance, she couldn’t say. “Begged the living daylights out of me to come, but now that she’s here, of course, she’s bored to tears.”

Jennifer’s expression indicated she agreed with her baby sister’s assessment of the situation, but she diplomatically refrained from comment. Instead, she said with a bright, lip-glossed smile, “So…how about lunch? Then I can tell you my news.”

The sigh just sort of slipped out. “This have anything to do with the wedding?”

“Now, how’d you know that?”

“Thank God—oh, be still, you nasty beast—we only have a week more to go through this,” Sarah groused good-naturedly. She finished with the cat and pushed him into a carrier. “But lunch ain’t gonna happen today, as you may have guessed.” Shoving a hand through her cropped hair, she added, “Ed’s out on farm duty, and Doc’s off, so it’s just me. I can’t leave. So you’ll have to tell me here.”

Jennifer squinted at her through smoothly mascara’d eyelashes. “I was trying to.”

“Sorry. So…spit it out.”

But “spitting it out” had never been part of Jennifer’s repertoire. She paused for dramatic effect, which had been part of her repertoire since she was two and a half. “We-e-ell…you know how Tim Reynolds couldn’t be Lance’s best man after all ’cause he’s got National Guard training camp that week?”

Sarah leaned one hip against the examining table. “Ye-e-es—”

“But did you know Tim wasn’t Lance’s first choice, anyway?”

“He wasn’t? But they’ve been best friends since kindergarten—”

“I know,” Jennifer said with a slow, conspiratorial nod of her head. “But, see, turns out Lance had someone completely different in mind. He just didn’t think he could convince him to do it.”

“Jen. Today, please.”

“Oh, all right.” She struck a pose, hands splayed out to the sides. “Ta-da! Dean said he’d be Lance’s best man.”

Sarah went catatonic, staring at Jennifer with what must have been an incredibly stupid expression on her face. Her sister however, continued bubbling away like a just-poured glass of warm Dr. Pepper. “Isn’t that the best? Lance is so excited he’s been talking a mile a minute ever since Dean called him and said he’d be in tonight.”

That brought Sarah back to the land of the living. Underneath her smock, her sleeveless cotton blouse fused to her back. “He’ll be here tonight?”

“Uh-huh,” Jennifer continued in euphoric oblivion. “And he’s gonna be here for a whole week, I guess since he hasn’t been here in so long. Anyway, Mama said to tell you dinner’s at our house, and for you to get your skinny little butt home on time. You know, hang the little sign on the clinic door that says Closed?”

For emphasis, her sister mimed hanging up the sign, flashing long, tapered fuchsia fingernails the same color as the six-inch flowers splashed across her romper. Then she let out a little squeak, as if she’d been pinched.

“Oh! Oh, my God! I just realized…” Jennifer grabbed Sarah’s wrist, sending a cloud of flowery perfume wafting up from between a set of breasts that had been making men bump into things since she was fourteen. “Here the two of you were high school sweethearts, and now, after all this time, he’s going to be best man and you’re going to be maid of honor at my wedding!” Her palm flattened over the magnificent bosomage. “What a hoot!”

“Yeah,” Sarah said weakly. “Hoot.”

“Well, hey, listen, I’ll get out of your hair.” Jennifer flapped at her sister’s boyish ’do. “What’s left of it, anyway.” She scooped up her handbag and straightened out her perfectly straight collar. “Oh—don’t forget. Gown fittings tomorrow morning at Miss Ellis’s.”

Sarah managed something close to a smile. “How could I forget?”

Jennifer paused by the door, her hand on the frame. “Isn’t tonight just going to be great?” She crinkled her nose in time-honored cute Southern cheerleader tradition, giggled and disappeared like Tinkerbell. Poof! Gone.

Sarah sank onto the desk chair in the examining room, dropping her head onto her arms. She wasn’t sure what she felt at that moment, but great was not one of the choices. What most shocked her was that the prospect of seeing Dean again should be producing any effect at all. She’d long since gotten over him.

Long since.

“Sarah? You okay?”

She lifted her gaze to a pair of large, worried eyes the same whiskey color as hers set in a face with the same narrow nose, the same wide mouth, the same square jawline ending in an incongruously pointed chin. People always said they’d never seen sisters look as much alike as Katey and Sarah. Like twins born eighteen years apart.

Sarah let out a long, shaky breath and clasped the little girl’s slender waist, forcing a smile which God knew she did not feel. “Sure, baby. Just resting my eyes for a moment. Why don’t you go tell Mr. Arby to bring Bojangles on in?”

As Katey scampered over to the door, Sarah rubbed her makeup-less eyes with a stubby-nailed forefinger. According to Jennifer’s count, she had at least a half-dozen cases to see, and that wasn’t counting later appointments or any emergencies that might come in. Of all the times to be the only vet in the clinic. Well, she told herself as she got to her feet and smoothed out the front of her smock, she’d just have to deal with her ambivalent feelings about Dean Parrish later. Preferably before she came face-to-face with him in her living room.

Panic sliced through her.

She heard extra-large-size canine toenails scraping on the linoleum floor as Ben Arby half lugged, half shoved the reluctant Great Dane into the examining room. The black behemoth took one look at Sarah, yelped, and promptly piddled all over the floor.

“Oh, come on, now, sweetie…” She ripped off a half-dozen paper towels from the spindle over the sink and tossed them onto the floor, stepping on them to soak up the puddle as she scratched the dog’s ears. “How bad can it be, huh?”

She didn’t want to know.

Dean wished he were invisible. At least for a hour or so, anyway, just until he got used to the idea of being back in Sweetbranch before anyone else noticed he was.

That not being an option, he decided to hide out in his pickup for a bit, cruising the back roads, trying to come to terms with that weird sensation when you return someplace after being away for a long time and everything seems so familiar and strange all at once. And here he’d gone and said he’d stay for a whole week. Lord. If he’d been a drinking man, he’d’ve sworn he’d had one too many when he’d made that promise. He’d figured he’d feel unsettled. What he hadn’t figured on was how right it felt to be home.

And he didn’t quite know what to do with that feeling.

Nine years. Nine years of growing up, of making something of himself in spite of a reading disability that had finally bested him halfway through his junior year of high school. Nine years of forcing himself to stay away from everything good he’d ever known in order to give Sarah Whitehouse the chance to become everything she could. Nine years of wondering if he’d made a dumb-assed mistake.

Well, he thought as he took a swallow of warm Coke from the almost empty can he’d been nursing since Atlanta, nothing to be done for it now. Not a dad-blasted thing.

For a long time, he’d tried to blame his leaving on his Aunt Ethel, his father’s older sister, who’d taken him and Lance in after his mother died when he was fifteen, with her constant harping on the differences between him and Sarah. She’s a doctor’s daughter, not the offspring of some small-time country carpenter. Lookit how bright she is, gettin’ straight A’s in school, and that scholarship to Auburn. What’s a poor country boy got to offer a girl like that? she’d say. Face it—in the long run, you’ll end up feeling like half a man. That what you really want? For either one of you…?

At twenty, he’d discovered, sometimes you’re not so all-fired set in your convictions. At twenty, maybe you’re not so sure who’s right and who’s wrong. Or what’s right or wrong, for that matter. Oh, he didn’t doubt his feelings for Sarah at the time, but his aunt’s objections slowly ate away at his resolve to make the relationship work, birthing an annoying little gremlin of doubt that eventually became a constant, unwelcome companion. At last, he came to believe that maybe his aunt was right, that maybe he would be an impediment to Sarah’s future, that maybe she’d end up resenting him.

So better she hated him then, went the impaired reasoning, than waiting around for their love to die a slow, agonizing death.

He hadn’t known his heart would shatter into a million pieces when he realized how well he’d played his part that day. And in the end, he also realized, he had no one to blame but himself.

He steered the Dakota onto the road leading to his aunt’s house, the eerie feeling of…displacement, he guessed it was, becoming even stronger. The differences in the scenery stood out like black sheep, simply because there were so few. For instance, he noticed Percy Jenkins had planted a new elm to replace the old one he’d had to take out because of disease. The new tree reached over the roof already, its deep green leaves quivering in the light breeze.

And Myrtle Andersen had painted her house trim a deep blue. He liked it.

And Frank Cuthbertson had finally gotten rid of that old Chevy on the side of his house that his chickens had adopted as a sort of coop-away-from-coop. He chuckled, remembering how, as kids, he and Sarah used to sneak up and pilfer the eggs that sometimes appeared on the back seat, an odoriferous booty the all-too-frequent reward for their clandestine activity.

There were some kids he didn’t recognize, of course, as well as the occasional unfamiliar stray dog nonchalantly trotting across the road right in front of his truck. But for the most part, it was all the same. Kudzu-choked pastures sandwiched between the same pecan and peach and apple orchards; the same heady aroma of wild honeysuckle and mimosa; the same Alabama clay that tinged everything in the vicinity a garish orange.

And Sarah’s house, too, was just as he remembered it. Still stately and fussy at the same time—the curse of a good Queen Anne—still yellow and white and forest green, although it looked like it could use a new paint job. He drew in a quick breath: Lance had told him Sarah’s father had died suddenly about three years ago. Heart attack. The news hadn’t really registered until he saw the house, the house Dr. Whitehouse had spent so much time restoring and caring for, ever since Dean could remember. The house he’d grown up in nearly as much as his own. Lance said Sarah’s parents had had a midlife baby, too, a little girl just now turned eight. A real shame, a child losing her daddy that young.

Dean leaned over, peering out the passenger’s side window. That willow tree in the front yard was even bigger than he remembered, as were the maples tickling the roof from the back of the house. The kennel sign was spiffier, though, more professional. Lance’d said Sarah and her mother had done real well with the kennel, even had a champion or two. Black Labs, wasn’t that it? Sarah’d always been partial to Black Labs.

Returning his attention to the road, he reminded himself she wasn’t there. Lance had told him she worked most days at a veterinary clinic over in Opelika, assisting old Doc Jefferson….

Lord. The memories were relentless. He sped up, consigning Sarah’s house to his rearview mirror, not ready to deal with any of it yet. Time enough to do that at dinner tonight. When, he assumed, he would see Sarah, for the first time since his Oscar-worthy performance as the slimeball boyfriend.

How the Sam Hill had his brother managed to fall for Sarah’s sister? Out of all the girls at Auburn, you’d’ve thought at least one of them might have caught Lance’s eye while he was there getting his degree. But no. Lance had to choose someone who’d lived a half mile down the road almost his entire life.

A hiss of air escaped Dean’s lips. Wasn’t as if he didn’t understand. He’d done the same fool thing. Only difference was, he’d turned tail and run, instead of marrying Sarah like he should’ve done and let the consequences be damned. No, he sure couldn’t fault his brother for not finding anyone he liked better. Not when Dean, after all this time in Atlanta, kept seeing Sarah’s syrupy eyes and square jaw and long, silky maple-colored hair superimposed on every woman’s face he saw, dated, slept with. Not that there’d been all that many of the latter, he admitted to himself, slinging his right arm across the back of the seat and trying to shift his weight off his numb bottom.

They say you can’t go home again. Well, he had, but even if all the houses and roads and even most of the damn trees were exactly as he’d left them, he’d be even a bigger fool than he already was if he thought Sarah was. There was nothing left between them but memories. If even that much. He’d hurt her, deliberately and unforgivably. He’d think less of her if she didn’t hate him.

He’d lost the best thing that’d ever happened to him, a fact he’d regret for the rest of his life. And one which made him wonder how he was going to get through the next week.

Hell. He’d be going some just to get through the next few hours.

Sarah actually closed the clinic on time, which gave her maybe a few minutes to sort out her very muddled thoughts about this turn of events. Jennifer had rescued poor Katey right after lunch, to Sarah’s immense relief—she didn’t think she could’ve stood an afternoon of bored sighs and moans and groans.

Almost of its own volition, the Bronco steered toward home. Her hands were seized, however, with an almost uncontrollable urge to veer south toward some secluded Mexican beach. Just for, say, the next week or so?

Oh, geez…why on earth was Dean coming for a full week? What was this, some resurgence of family devotion? Or, she thought with a sickening thud just below her sternum, a deliberate move to torture her? Her hands gripped the steering wheel as she passed the little turnoff that would, could, loop her around and send her in the opposite direction.

She watched the loop fade in her rearview mirror. And sighed.

Oh, come on. This was not like her. Sarah Whitehouse did not run from problems. Sarah Whitehouse faced them, dealt with them, solved them. No matter what. So…so…she would go home, change out of these hot jeans, run a comb through what there was of her hair, and simply ignore Dean Parrish.

One hand clamped around the steering wheel, the other found its way to her mouth, where she started to chew on a hangnail. Wrecked was the only word to describe how she’d felt after Dean’s abrupt departure, the night before her senior prom. After a while, though, she’d forced the unhappiness into a tiny cubicle in the farthest recesses of her brain, like an unwanted Christmas present you don’t know what to do with but you can’t return, so you stuff it up in the attic, forgotten, until some fool goes up there and unearths the damn thing and then brings it downstairs, setting it on the coffee table like it’s some great find.

Thank you, Jennifer, Sarah thought on a sigh as she pulled into her driveway and caught sight of the unfamiliar pickup parked in front of the house. Thank you so much for reminding me of what I’d worked so hard to forget.

Not that any of this was Jen’s fault. Who knew?

She sat for a long moment, staring out the driver’s side window at what was obviously Dean’s truck. This was no beat-up number on its last legs. Wheels, whatever. The color was understated enough—a dull silver, like her mother’s pewter candlesticks on the living room mantel—but it clearly had enough bells and whistles to make even the fussiest boy happy. Either he’d done very well or he was in hock up to his butt.

A sudden crack of thunder startled her; she peered up at the clouds, which had been playing round-robin with the sun all day, then glanced back at the truck. Then her house.

Not yet. She just couldn’t. She’d…just go check on the new pups first. Yeah. Good plan. She pushed open the door to the Bronco and hopped down.

The door crashed shut behind her; she held her breath. After a few seconds, when no crowd appeared, she let out her breath in a little huff, then headed across her front yard toward the kennels, the wind whistling in her ears.

The idea of seeing Dean again was wreaking more havoc with her gastrointestinal tract by the second. Right now, the last thing she wanted was to be anywhere near Jennifer’s wedding, let alone be in Jennifer’s wedding. An event she’d been looking forward to, despite her grumblings, until about six hours ago. Now, she’d rather eat Aunt Ida’s okra-and-ham-hocks casserole three times a day for the rest of her life—

“Sarah?”

The voice was deeper, the edge harder. But it was his. Still gentle. Still featherbed warm. And ingenuously seductive. And the instant she heard it, she knew she was in seriously deep do-do.

Cursing fate, she turned, her arms tucked tightly against her chest. She couldn’t get a real good look at him; the light was fading quickly as the storm approached, and he stood on the porch at least thirty feet away. One hand, she thought, was braced against a white trellis laden with blueberry-hued morning glories, now tightly closed and flinching in the ruthless wind.

Apparently, however, he could see her just fine. “Good Lord!” he shouted over the wind. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

That these should be the first words out of his mouth, after all this time, came as no surprise. What was startling, though, was that it was as if no time had passed at all. There he stood, like he had hundreds of times before when he’d been waiting for her to get back from school or shopping or whatever.

But it was very different, even so.

Instinctively, almost protectively, her hand cupped her head. “What’s wrong with it?” she called, simultaneously annoyed and pleased at his reaction. “It turn green or something since I last looked in the mirror?”

He shook his head in slow motion. “Not green. Gone.”

“Oh, right.” She shrugged. “It got to be a pain. So I chopped it off.”

Dean now descended the porch steps, one hand anchored on the banister, each step deliberate, careful, as if he knew she was a breath away from bolting. The wind whipped dust and leaves in Sarah’s face, so she still couldn’t clearly see him, even as he came closer. When he’d narrowed the gap to five feet or so, he stopped, blatantly staring at her. The debris finally ceased its assault long enough for her to stare back.

“You’ve changed, too,” she said, crossing her arms again to support her roiling stomach.

He smiled, but it wasn’t real steady, she didn’t think. “Yeah. Guess you’re not the only one with shorter hair.”

He fidgeted with his hands, like a little boy giving a speech in front of his class, then slipped them into the pockets of pleated-front chinos. That was something, right there: a new pair of jeans was about as dressed up as Sarah had ever seen Dean get. The pants were topped by a conservative knit shirt in a remarkably unconservative shade of aqua, stretched across shoulders and a chest that had broadened nicely over the years. Another blast of wind made her squint.

“You…look good.” She had to say something. And it was true.

Dammit.

Another smile, this one perhaps a little more relaxed. “You, too.” Now he added a brief chuckle. “Crew cut and all.”

“It’s not that short—” She clamped her mouth shut, her face tingling from his knowing smile, the gentle teasing she’d forgotten how to handle. She used to encourage it, though. And give it right back.

Why couldn’t she take her eyes off his face?

Which was older, of course. But…more mature, too, which was not the same thing. Age, perhaps, had sharpened features that might’ve seemed severe save for the smile she knew came so easily and often to his lips. Well, used to, anyway. His hair seemed lighter, but she couldn’t tell if the streaks were sun-bleached or premature gray, blended as they were into the moderate style that hooded the tops of his ears, curled over the top of his collar. Age, again—and an overdose of sun from summers of lifeguard duty—had bestowed the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, a faint bracketing around his mouth.

Time and gravity had wrought the physical changes. What had brought about the maturity, she had no way of knowing. But it was there, settled into his eyes. Even their color seemed more intense, like everything else about him, the gold-green she remembered now deepened to the color of damp moss.

She saw wisdom, she thought. Understanding. Maybe a little regret, but that might be wishful thinking. But what she didn’t see—happiness or contentment or even satisfaction—she found threatening in some vague, unexplainable way. Not vague at all, though, was an almost irrepressible urge to skim her fingertips down his cheek. To see if he smelled the same. Felt the same.

Tasted the same.

Her heart now fairly thundered in her chest.

His smile had faded in the wake of her extended silence. He glanced away for a second, then let out a short, nervous laugh. “Damn, this is awkward.”

“You could say that,” she allowed with a curt nod, mentally tucking away all those thoughts of touching and feeling and tasting.

“At least you didn’t claw my eyes out,” he said softly.

She held up her hands. “No nails. Sorry.” Then, realizing her hands were shaking, tucked them behind her back. “Maybe some other time.”

He blew out a puff of air that might have passed for a laugh. “Do you think…would you mind if we talked for a few minutes, alone? Before we have to face everyone else?”

For some reason, probably to avoid his eyes, she found herself staring at his mouth and remembered with startling clarity just how his lips had felt on hers. With that, all the thoughts she’d so carefully tucked away came tumbling free.

She snapped her gaze away from his mouth, from his face entirely, dragging her attention to a rhododendron bush a few feet away. But the image wouldn’t fade. She fisted her hands—maybe digging her nails into her palms would serve as a reverse aphrodisiac. If she’d had any nails. Rats.

This was not the way it was supposed to happen. She had expected to see the Dean who had broken her heart. Not the one who had stolen it to begin with.

And that screwed up everything. Big time.

So she forced to the surface the one memory she would cling to with every fiber of her being, the one that would keep her heart from ever getting torn apart ever again. Not by Dean Parrish, anyway.

“Hey, remember?” she said at last in a level voice, daring to look up at him again. “I’m just a hick from boring Sweetbranch, Alabama? What on earth could we possibly have to talk about?”

Then she reeled smartly, nearly twisting her ankle in the process, and stalked away, huddled tightly against the wind as the clouds swirled overhead like oil spills in water.