A Weaver Wedding

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Preview (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

“Can I get you another margarita?”

Tara Browning looked up into the sympathetic eyes of the cocktail waitress as she moved the empty glasses from Tara’s table to the tray balanced on her palm.

Wasn’t there a rule somewhere that drinking alone was a bad sign of something?

Beyond the waitress, the wood and leather-studded Suds-Grill was just about standing-room only. Maybe that meant Tara wasn’t alone, even if she had been stood up by her own brother. She forced a smile. “Sure.”

“Have it out in a few minutes.” The waitress disappeared among the bodies crowded into the small bar.

Tara sighed and glanced over the people. Still no sign of Sloan.

She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed. The message that her twin brother had left on her phone had been the first time she’d even heard his voice in three years. Five since she’d seen him in person and turned her life upside down because of the choices he’d made in his life.

She should have known he wouldn’t show, despite his message. Not even on this, their thirtieth birthday.

She exhaled and accidentally caught the eye of a middle-aged guy staring at her from his seat at the bar. She looked away. She wasn’t looking for a pickup. Occupying bar stools wasn’t something she indulged in even in Weaver, where she lived and worked, much less here in Braden, a good thirty miles away. She’d come for Sloan McCray. Period.

“Do you mind if I take the extra stool?” The kid from the overflowing, high-top table next to hers was eyeing her earnestly over the top of his longneck beer bottle.

She shrugged. It wasn’t as if she needed to save the seat for Sloan. “Go ahead.”

The kid slid the stool three feet to the other table. “Thanks, ma’am.”

Ma’ am.

Happy big fat three-oh to you, Tara.

The guy at the bar was still eyeing her and she turned slightly on her stool, accepting the fresh margarita from the waitress. She didn’t know why she’d bothered ordering any drinks when she had no head for alcohol. Nor did she know why she stayed in the crowded bar at all when it seemed painfully clear that her brother wasn’t going to show, no matter what his message had said.

She pushed off the stool, swaying a little dizzily. She wasn’t about to hire a cab to take her back to Weaver. Even if she could find one, she’d have to turn around and make the return trip in the morning to retrieve her car.

Which meant a night in the motel across the highway.

If she’d stuck to drinking lemonade, she could have driven right back to Weaver where she belonged.

The irony of that thought didn’t escape her.

She didn’t belong in Weaver, either.

The story of her life.

“Heading out already?”

She stopped short when the shape in her path took form, but realized immediately that it wasn’t the middle-aged man who’d been eyeing her. No. This guy was tall and blond and definitely not portly.

She peered up at him, focusing with an effort. His head topped her measly five feet four inches by about a foot. Even in the dim light of the crowded bar, his eyes were a startling golden brown. “Axel? Axel Clay?”

The man pressed a wide, square palm against his chest. “So, you do remember me.” His sculpted lips tilted. “I’m touched.”

It was hard not to remember. The Clay family was pretty much the bedrock of Weaver. The men were all one version or another of tall and ridiculously handsome, and the women were as varied and as beautiful as flowers growing wild in the fields. A Weaver resident would have to live under a rock not to recognize one of them.

“What are you doing here?”

He grinned a little, lifting the squat glass he held. “Wetting my whistle like everyone else.”

“I meant in Braden.” Her brain felt fuzzy. And he smelled way too good. Amid the crush of bodies in the bar, he seemed like a haven of crisp, fresh air. A magnificently, beautifully, male haven. “You haven’t been around Weaver for more than year.” She flushed. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard in my shop.”

He caught Tara’s elbow and nudged her out of the way, allowing another cocktail waitress to pass. “I’ve been out of the country.”

She’d heard that talk, too. His frequent travels; his talent for horse breeding; his status as a thoroughly eligible—albeit uncatchable—male.

He smiled at her and her head swam. Maybe that’s what she got for living the life of a nun, even at the ripe old age of thirty. She had a drink, saw a handsome man, and had to battle against a tidal wave of unfamiliar desire.

“So, how’s business at Classic Charms?”

She moistened her lips, wishing that she hadn’t abandoned her drink back on the table. Holding it would have given her restless hands something to do, other than tremble with the ridiculous urge to feel if his hair was as thick as it looked. “I’m surprised you remember the name of my shop.” He’d been there only a few times, usually accompanying his mother.

His lips tilted again. “Hey now.” His golden gaze dropped for a moment to her mouth. “You’re not the only one with a memory. I remember all sorts of things.”

She felt more parched than ever. “Business is good. I’ll have to hire a part-timer, soon. Before the holidays.”

“You still have that old phone booth in the center of the store?”

She blinked. “Uh, yes.” The vibrant red phone booth was currently housing a display of not-entirely-innocent lingerie that she’d gotten at an estate sale.

He dashed his fingertip down her nose. “Told you I remember things.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “So, what are you doing here in Braden?”

She barely kept herself from touching her tingling nose. “I was supposed to meet my brother here. But he…he couldn’t make it.”

He covered her shoulder with his hand and she went still before realizing he was merely moving her aside again for another passing waitress. “His loss is my gain. Let’s grab a table.”

She was unbearably tempted, though she tried not to be. “I don’t think there are any left.” The one she’d abandoned had already been claimed.

“Then, we’ll dance.” Before she could protest, he’d grabbed her hand and led her to the crowded, minuscule dance floor.

Digging in her heels did no good. She was caught in his storm surge, and that was all there was to it. Then he was turning her into his arms and she felt like she was going under for the last time.

“I don’t dance,” she warned, having to practically yell to be heard over the loud music. Jukebox. No live DJ or band for the Suds-n-Grill.

He settled her left hand on his shoulder and took her waist. “All beautiful women dance.”