Keep On Loving You. Christie Ridgway

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СКАЧАТЬ had her putting up her hands as a cheer sounded throughout the room.

      Mac looked down at what was now cradled in her arms, trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d caught the bridal bouquet—and that Zan Elliott was back in town.

      * * *

      THE FRAGRANCE OF roses and lavender wafted up from the flowers. She gulped in a breath of it, then peered over the women gathered around her in congratulation, once again seeking out Zan.

      He’d moved from where he’d been moments before...if he’d really been there moments before. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air. Could it be possible she’d imagined him?

      Angelica broke through the ring of celebrants and beamed at Mac. Really, she was breathtakingly beautiful with her shiny brunette hair and dark eyes. She and Brett were going to make beautiful babies, and proud Auntie Mac would dote on them from her comfortable spinsterhood, unless Zan—

      “I’m so glad you caught the flowers!” Angelica said, leaning in to kiss Mac’s cheek. “I know you consider the tradition barbaric, but I thought it was fun.”

      She pretended to scowl at her new sister-in-law. “How come there’s no garter toss if you find tradition so great?”

      “That’s because your brother’s a caveman. He said he didn’t want me baring my legs for all the wedding guests to see.”

      Speaking of wedding guests... Mac took a quick look around the room, then leaned in to whisper in her sister-in-law’s ear. “Have you seen Zan?”

      Angelica pulled back, her eyes going wide. “Zan? Your Zan?”

      “He’s not my Zan,” Mac said quickly. “But I...I thought I caught a glimpse of him a minute ago.” I thought I felt his arms around me. I thought maybe my heart would beat out of my chest as we swayed to the music. “Did he call Brett or something and say he was coming back to town?”

      The bride shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

      “But did you see—”

      “I wouldn’t recognize him, right? We’ve never met.”

      “Oh.” Mac felt another flush climb up her neck. The man—whoever he was—had her so flustered she wasn’t thinking clearly. “Never mind, then. I’ll just, uh, go put the bouquet down at my place at the table.”

      Then she hurried off the dance floor, keeping a lookout for a dark-haired, hazel-eyed ten-year-gone guy. But when she didn’t see him, she began to wonder about her sanity. Perhaps the night before she’d stayed up too late boxing the chocolates that were going to the guests as party favors. Maybe she needed to gulp down a large cup of hot coffee and get her wits back in place.

      “There you are!” Her sisters, Poppy and Shay, approached, their long skirts swishing about their legs. They wore gowns identical to Mac’s, only different in color. Poppy’s was pink, while Shay’s was a subtle peach.

      “Nice catch,” Poppy said, nodding to the bouquet.

      Mac rolled her eyes. “You saw what happened. It hit me in the head.”

      “Maybe you’ll be better prepared when I throw mine at my reception in two weeks,” Shay said.

      “No,” Mac groaned the word. “Not you, too?”

      “London is insisting.”

      “I’ll hide out in the bathroom, then,” Mac said. “Promise you’ll give me the high sign?”

      “Absolutely,” her youngest sister said.

      Mac narrowed her gaze. “You’re a terrible liar.”

      “I’m not even going to pretend I won’t make you be in the gaggle of bachelorettes when it’s my turn,” Poppy put in. “But, anyway, did you see—”

      “I did.” Mac’s heart jumped, then started to race. “I thought maybe I imagined it, but if you saw Zan, too...” She broke off at the puzzlement on her sister’s face.

      “Zan?” Poppy said. “I was going to ask if you’d seen Mason dancing with the little McDonald girl.”

      “Um, no, I didn’t,” Mac mumbled, feeling stupid. “Never mind—”

      “Zan is here?” Shay asked. “Zan Elliott?”

      “I don’t know. Probably not. It was just a glimpse,” Mac said.

      Her two sisters exchanged glances. “How much have you had to drink?” Poppy asked.

      No way would Mac mention the two tequila shots. “Never mind. I’m sure I was mistaken.”

      Her sisters looked at each other again. “Oh, Mac,” Poppy said in a concerned voice.

      Mac winced. Poppy had the gooiest heart of any of the Walkers, and right now she was clearly oozing pity for her poor, unattached sister who had delusions about the return of her very first boyfriend, her very first love. “It’s nothing,” she told her sister in a firm voice. “Like I said, a mistake.”

      “But—”

      “Look, they’re about to cut the cake.” Mac pointed toward the other end of the room. “We’d better get over there.”

      Thankfully, that distracted her sisters, and Mac followed slowly in their wake. Could she really have mistaken some stranger for Zan?

      In her mind’s eye, she saw him as he’d looked his second-to-last day in the mountains. She’d been eighteen, he’d just turned twenty-one, and they’d been a couple for two years. That afternoon they’d taken his boat to a secluded cove, where they’d spread a blanket and a picnic. Her intention had been to tough it out and not allow her belly-hollowing longing for him and her aching sadness at his imminent departure to ruin those final warm, sunny hours.

      They’d made love for the last time, the wide shoulders of his rangy body blocking the sun so that she couldn’t read the expression in his hazel eyes as he’d entered her. But her legs had wound around his hips, tight, like two vines that could bind him to her forever.

      He’d cupped her face in his hands. One hot tear had leaked from her eye and he’d brushed it away with his thumb, the stroke slow and tender. “Mackenzie Walker,” he’d whispered. Just that, as if memorizing her name.

      Maybe he no longer even remembered it. Maybe he’d never thought of that girl again, who’d given him her body and who’d wanted to give him everything else: her heart, her soul, her whole life.

      She grimaced, thinking of that green and unguarded young woman. Likely Zan had headed down the mountains and never thought of her again.

      Except that didn’t explain the postcards that had come to her regularly over the past decade. On their fronts were photos of places like Oslo and Algiers and Singapore. On the other side, a single-letter message, three bold strokes that made up the letter Z.

      No other thought. No return address. Just a pointed reminder of the young man who’d left her behind.

      Mac СКАЧАТЬ