The Notorious Groom. Caroline Cross

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      Three

      “Eli!” Chelsea’s excited voice floated down the long upstairs hallway. “Come see! Come see my room! It’s so-o-o-o cool!”

      “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Eli called as he came up the stairs, juggling a pair of boxes. Counting doors, he went into the room that Norah had indicated was his and dumped his burden on the thick ivory carpet. He straightened and looked around.

      Decorated in shades of cream, taupe and blue, the spacious room held the usual complement of furniture, plus a couch and a pair of chairs grouped around a marble-faced fireplace on the far wall, at a right angle to the trio of French doors that opened onto a wide terrace.

      Like the rest of Willow Run, it was classy. Not to mention comfortable, attractive and a heck of a lot nicer than his previous domicile.

      So why did he feel so out of sorts? he wondered as he moseyed over to the windows, twitched back the sheers, and stood looking out at the velvety green lawn bounded by its beautiful banks of flowers.

      That was easy. If he had to take a guess, he would say it was because he’d had all the goodness he could take for one day. The room was good. The view was good. Chelsea was being good. Orter and old Lampley, within the confines of their holier-than-thou personalities, had been good.

      As for Norah...well, he had to give her credit. Although clearly unnerved by their kiss, she’d done her darnedest to be a good postceremony hostess, serving refreshments, signing papers, anxiously making small talk until Lampley and Orter had finally left. She’d presented him with the keys to the carriage house—his new garage, she explained—and had given him and Chelsea a tour of it, the grounds and the house, as well as the rundown on Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, who came in three days a week to cook, clean and maintain the yard All in all, she’d been so good she probably qualified to have her picture next to the word in the dictionary.

      With a disgusted snort, he turned his back to the windows and strolled over to the bed, where he sat and bounced a few times to test the mattress. Great. No lumps, no squeak, no sag. And, hallelujah, it was king-size. There would be no more bumping his head on the wall or having his feet stick into space the way they had on the fold-up bed at the bungalow.

      So who cares? Why don’t you drop the prerense and admit what’s really on your mind? Like what the hell possessed you to kiss Boo that way?

      He gave a little groan and flopped back on the mattress.

      For the life of him, he didn’t know. Or maybe he did, but just hated having to admit that it had been something as stupid as a childish resistance to doing what he was told. One minute he’d been standing there, thinking there wasn’t much to getting married. In the next moment, when he heard Orter and Lampley dismiss Chelsea’s claim that it was time for a kiss, he’d been overwhelmed by the sort of defiant I’ll-show-you response that had gotten him in such trouble as a kid.

      Which wouldn’t be such a big deal except he was no longer a kid, he was somebody’s father. And up until a week ago, he would have sworn he’d outgrown such immature behavior. Just as he would have sworn that he was an impeccable judge of women, capable of assessing their attributes—or lack thereof—at a glance.

      Yeah? Well, it seemed he was wrong on both counts.

      He muttered a curse that would have cost him a bundle if Chelsea had heard it.

      All right. There was no getting around the fact that he’d behaved immaturely. He would learn to live with it. But as far as his judgment about women was concerned—now, that really hurt.

      Still, he had to admit that for years, his playful threat to kiss Boo had been predicated on certain expectations. Like the notion that her skin would be dry and rough. That her mouth would be tight and prim, and her body bony and shapeless. And that at his first touch, she’d stiffen up like a starched sheet СКАЧАТЬ