A Bride Until Midnight / Something Unexpected. Wendy Warren

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      “I’ll tell The Sources you’re happy and as healthy as the proverbial horse and I’ll tell them you can feel your beating heart. I’m glad, man. It’s good to see you. Real good. Now, I have a plane to catch to L.A.”

      He was already out the door when Riley said, “You look good, too, Kyle. More rested than I expected.”

      The brothers shared a long look, Kyle in the watery rays of late morning sunshine and Riley in the shadow of the doorway. If they were keeping score, this point would go to Riley, for, with his simple statement, he’d let Kyle know that Riley wasn’t the only one their mothers were worried about. Kyle hadn’t been himself lately, either. He was going through something. Running from something.

      The Sources worked both ways.

      “If I look rested,” Kyle said, “it’s because I slept like a baby last night.”

      “During that storm?”

      Kyle couldn’t explain it, but once he’d closed his eyes, he hadn’t heard a thing for nine solid hours. The inn had been empty and the power was back on by the time he’d wandered downstairs this morning. Now, standing in a patch of sunshine beneath his brother’s watchful gaze, he found himself thinking about the woman with the large, hazel eyes and sultry, cultured voice that made hello sound like an intimate secret.

      “Can your plane ride wait until after lunch?” Riley asked.

      “That depends. Are you cooking?”

      Again, the brothers shared a grin.

      Riley, who often burned toast, said, “I thought I’d call Madeline at work and see if she can join us at the restaurant downtown. I’d like you to meet her.”

      “Let me know what time,” Kyle said as he climbed into his Jeep.

      Meanwhile, he had a woman to see about a room.

      Robins splashed in the puddles in the inn’s driveway as Summer pulled into her usual parking place. She lifted her cloth bags from her trunk and started toward the backdoor, the groceries in her arms growing heavier with every step she took. The sound of Kyle Merrick’s deep voice coming through the kitchen window sent the headache she’d awakened with straight to the roots of her teeth.

      She’d spent the first half of the night tossing and turning, her body yearning to finish what meeting Kyle Merrick had started. Between short bursts of fitful sleep, she’d lain awake staring at the dark ceiling, anticipating the hate mail she would receive from the people she’d duped should her secret ever be revealed.

      Her father, for one. Her former fiancé, for another.

      Sometimes she imagined her mother and sister sitting on a cloud, smiling down at her and singing a song about sweet revenge. To this day, she knew she’d done the right thing. That didn’t mean she wanted to relive what was to have been her wedding day.

      She heard Kyle’s voice again. This time it was followed by a flirtatious, though aging, twitter Summer would recognize anywhere. Harriet Ferris lived next door and was always happy to watch the front desk when Summer needed to run errands during the day. Harriet told raucous stories and loved nothing better than having a captive audience, especially if it was someone of the opposite sex.

      Summer almost felt sorry for Kyle.

      Almost.

      What was he doing in the inn, anyway?

      He’d gone. She’d freshened the rooms after breakfast and made the beds. Room Seven had been empty. She’d checked.

      Kyle Merrick’s duffel bag was gone. And she’d been relieved. Okay, she’d felt a little unsettled, too, but that was beside the point.

      For some reason he was back—she had no idea why—and was sitting at the table, no doubt sharing raucous tales with Summer’s next-door neighbor. He looked up at her as she walked in and almost smiled.

      “I thought you’d left,” she said.

      “Without paying for my stay last night? Your low opinion of me is humbling.”

      He didn’t look humble. He looked like a man with sex on his mind, the kind of man who didn’t ask for commitment and certainly didn’t give it. Lord-a-mighty, the invitation in those green eyes was tempting.

      “What makes you think I’ve formed an opinion about you?” she asked.

      He smiled, and the connection between their gazes thrummed like a guitar string being strummed with one finger. Pulling her gaze from his wasn’t easy, but she turned her attention to the woman watching the exchange.

      “Would you like a cup of tea, Harriet?”

      Seventy-eight-year-old Harriet Ferris had been dying her hair red for fifty years. Before every birthday there was a discussion about letting it go gray, but she never would, just as she would never stop wearing false eyelashes and flirting with men of all ages.

      “No, thank you, dear, I really should be getting back home. I’m expecting an email from my sister in Atlanta. She refuses to text. So old-school, you know?”

      Although she stood up, she made no move toward the door until Summer leaned down and whispered in her ear.

      A smile spread across Harriet’s ruby red lips. “What would I do without you? What would any of us do? This handsome man has brought you a gift.” Harriet looked from Summer to Kyle and back again. “I won’t spoil the surprise, but I dare say if you could bottle the electricity in this room right now, you could sell it to the power company for a tidy profit. If only I were twenty years younger.”

      “You’re a cougar, Harriet,” Kyle said, rising, too.

      With a playful wink and a grin that never aged, Harriet tottered out the back door.

      Now that he and Summer were alone, Kyle handed her the gift bag. “For the next time your power goes out,” he said.

      She opened the brown paper sack. Peering at the fuses inside, she shook her head and smiled.

      He looked like he was about to smile, too, but his gaze caught on her mouth, and Summer knew Harriet was right about the electricity in this room.

      “You wanted to settle up for last night’s stay?” she asked.

      “You aren’t from Michigan are you?” he asked.

      The question came from out of the blue and caught her by surprise. Years of practice kept her perfectly still, her expression carefully schooled to appear artful and serene.

      “I can’t place the inflection,” he continued. “But it isn’t Midwestern.”

      She pulled herself together. Carrying the milk, eggs and cheese to the refrigerator, she said, “I was born in Philadelphia and grew up in Baltimore. My grandparents had a summer house on Mackinaw Island. Until my grandfather died when I was fourteen, my sister and I spent every summer in northern Michigan. What about you? Where are you from?”

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