A Bravo Christmas Wedding. Christine Rimmer

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СКАЧАТЬ But he just kept on going to the top and onward, along the upper hallway to his room across from hers.

      Inside, he shoved the door shut and headed for the bathroom, where he stripped off his clothes and took a cold shower. He stood under the icy spray, shivering, wondering when it was, exactly, that he and his rational mind had parted company.

      But then, he knew when it was: the moment he saw those snowman socks. He’d looked at those socks and they’d taken him somewhere he never planned to go—not with Rory. Uh-uh. She was his friend, for God’s sake. And too young for him. And about a thousand miles out of his league.

      And was that what had happened with Clara and Rye, then? Some kind of snowman-sock moment, when everything changed and they ended up in bed together, resulting in Clara’s pregnancy, making it necessary for Rye to step up, messing with their friendship—and worse, with their lives and the lives of an innocent kid.

      No way was he letting that happen to him and Rory.

      He turned off the freezing water and groped for a towel, rubbing down swiftly with it and then wrapping it around his waist. And then just standing there in the middle of the bathroom, staring into space, thinking...

      It was both really great and damn confusing, having Rory around all the time. Great because he liked her so much and she was low-maintenance, ready to help out, flexible and fun. Confusing because he wasn’t used to having someone else in the house round the clock, not for years, not since Denise walked out on him. He wasn’t used to it, and he couldn’t afford to get used to it.

      Rory would be gone in a couple of weeks. She was leaving right after the wedding. Her brother Max was getting married in Montedoro a few days after Rye and Clara.

      She would go. And he would be alone again. That was just how it was—how he wanted it.

      And was any of what was eating at him her fault?

      Absolutely not.

      She was probably calling her mother about now, asking to have a real bodyguard sent ASAP so that she could move back to the Haltersham, where nobody jumped down her throat just for saying what was on her mind.

      He dropped the towel and reached for his jeans.

      * * *

      When he opened his bedroom door and stuck out his head, Lonesome was there waiting on the threshold. The dog eased around him and headed for his favorite spot on the rug by the bed.

      Walker stared at Rory’s bedroom door, which was shut. It had been open before.

      She must have come upstairs.

      He stepped across the hall and tapped on the door. And then he waited, more certain with each second that passed that she was in there packing her bags, getting ready to get the hell away from him. He was just lifting his hand to knock a second time when the door swung inward, and there she was.

      In a white terry-cloth robe with her hair piled up loosely and the smell of steam and flowers rising from her skin.

      “Uh,” he said.

      She looked so sweet and smelled so good...and whoa. He should have thought twice before knocking on her bedroom door in the middle of the night.

      And then her soft lips curled upward in a slow smile, and that cute dimple tucked itself into her round cheek. Pow. Like getting hit in the chest with a big ole ball of wonderful, watching her smile. It was bad, worse than seeing her snowman socks, to be standing there staring at her fresh from a bath.

      She said, “Ready to apologize for being such a jackass?”

      He nodded and made himself get on with it. “That’s right. I’m sorry.” It came out gruff, not smooth and regretful as he meant it. But it was the best he could do at the moment, given the smell of her and the sweet, pink smoothness of her skin that he was having a real hard time not reaching out and touching. “I’m sorry for being a complete douche bag.”

      She smiled wider. “Why, yes. You were quite the douche.”

      “You’ve got on your princess voice.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “When you’re pissed off, you always sound...” What in hell was he babbling about? “Never mind. And you didn’t have to agree, you know? You could tell me I wasn’t that bad.”

      “I just call it like I see it.”

      He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. Better. With his arms folded, he was less likely to do something stupid like try to touch her, and leaning against the door frame made him almost believe he felt easy and casual. He said, “Well, this is the deal. The real truth is, I’m a little worried about Rye and Clara, too.”

      Her bright, hard smile turned softer. “Yeah. I kind of thought that you were.”

      “I don’t think there’s much we can do about it, though.”

      She stared up at him, so earnest now, so sweet. “It’s just good to know I’m not the only one who’s got doubts about this wedding.”

      He thought back over the evening at Clara’s. “A couple of times tonight, they seemed...I don’t know, good together, tight with each other.”

      She nodded. “Like when I brought her back into the kitchen after she got sick, when Ryan jumped up and went to her. He put his arm around her and asked her if she was all right...”

      “Yeah, then. And also when she took his hand, a little later, at the table.”

      “So you’re thinking it could be that we’re worried for nothing?”

      “It’s possible.”

      She nodded again. “Yeah. You’re right. And I really, truly, did not mean to be insulting to Ryan. He’s a great guy and I love him.”

      “I know that you do.” Say good-night, warned the voice of reason inside his head. He peeled himself off the door frame. “Well...”

      She gave a little chuckle and the sound made a hot pass along his nerve endings, tempting him to want things he had to keep remembering he was never going to get. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s late. And there’s Rocky Mountain Christmas in town tomorrow.”

      “How could I forget?” All the local crafters and clubs set up booths in the town hall. Then at night, there was a Christmas show put on by the schoolkids in the newly renovated Cascade Theater. He used to go to it every year. But about a decade ago, he’d realized that when you’d been to one Rocky Mountain Christmas, you’d pretty much been to them all. “I take it we’re going.”

      “Oh, yes, we are.”

      Say good-night, you fool. Do it now. “’Night, Rory.”

      “’Night, Walker.” She stepped back and shut the door.

      He stood there for several seconds before turning away, staring at that closed door, arms wrapped extra tight across his chest, his pulse hard and hungry in his own ears.

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