Saying Yes To The Dress!: The Wedding Planner's Big Day / Married for Their Miracle Baby / The Cowboy's Convenient Bride

“Were you thinking of Jerry when you were drawing those dresses?” he finally asked softly.

“No,” she said slowly, “I don’t think I was.”

She suddenly remembered one dress in particular that Allie had drawn. This is your wedding dress, she had proclaimed, giving it to Becky.

It had been a confection, sweetheart neckline, fitted bodice, layers and layers and layers of filmy fabric flowing out in that full skirt with an impossible train. The dress had been the epitome of her every romantic notion. Becky had been able to picture herself in that dress, swirling in front of a mirror, giggling. But she had never, not even once, pictured herself in that dress walking down an aisle toward Jerry.

When Jerry had broken it to her that her “business was changing her”—in other words, he could not handle her success—and he wanted his ring back, she had never taken that drawing from where it was tucked in the back of one of her dresser drawers.

“I’ve talked too much,” she said. “It must have been the wine.”

“I don’t think you talked too much.”

“I usually don’t confide in people so readily.” She suddenly felt embarrassed. “Your name should be a clue.”

“To?”

“You drew my secrets right out of me.”

“Ah.”

“We have to go now,” she said.

“Yes, we do,” he said.

“Before something happens,” she said softly.

“Especially before that,” he agreed just as softly.

Her hand was still in his. Their shoulders were touching. The breeze was lifting the leathery fronds of the palm trees and they were whispering songs without words. The sky was now almost completely black, and finding their way back was not going to be easy.

“Really,” Becky said. “We need to go.”

“Really,” he agreed. “We do.

Neither of them moved.

CHAPTER TEN (#u6ac7983c-26bc-5b14-a6fd-e365705d702f)

DREW ORDERED HIMSELF to get up and leave this beach. But it was one of those completely irresistible moments: the stars winking on in the sky, their shoulders touching, the taste of strawberries and cream on his lips, the gentle lap of the waves against the shore, her small hand resting within the sanctuary of his larger one.

He turned slightly to look at her. She was turning to look at him.

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to drop his head over hers, to taste her lips again.

Her arms came up and twined around his neck. Her lips were soft and pliant and welcoming.

He could taste everything she was in that kiss. She was bookish. And she was bold. She was simple, and she was complex. She was, above all else, a forever kind of girl.

It was that knowledge that made him untangle her hands from around his neck, to force his lips away from the soft promise of hers.

You heal now.

He swore under his breath, scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Are you?”

Well, not really. “Look, Becky, we have known each other for a shockingly short period of time. Obviously circumstances have made us feel things about each other a little too quickly.”

She looked unconvinced.

“I mean, in Moose Run, you probably have a date or two before you kiss like that.”

“What about in LA?”

He thought about how fast things could go in Los Angeles and how superficial that was, and how he was probably never going to be satisfied with it again. Less than forty-eight hours, and Becky English, bookworm, was changing everything in his world.

What was his world going to look like in two weeks if this kept up?

The answer was obvious. This could not keep up.

“Look, Becky, I obviously like you. And find you extremely attractive.”

Did she look pleased? He did not want her to look pleased!

“There is obviously some kind of chemistry going on between us.”

She looked even more pleased.

“But both of us have jobs to do. We have very little time to do those jobs in. We can’t afford a, um, complication like this.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“It’s not professional, Becky,” he said gruffly. “Kissing on the job is not professional.”

She looked as if he had slapped her. And then she just looked crushed.

“Oh,” she stammered. “Of course, you’re right.”

He felt a terrible kind of self-loathing that she was taking it on, as if it were her fault.

She pulled herself together and jumped up, doing what he suspected she always did. Trying to fix the whole world. Her clothes were still wet. Her pink blouse looked as though red roses were blooming on it where it was clinging to that delectable set of underwear that he should never have seen, and was probably never going to be able to get out of his mind.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me. It must still be the aftereffects of this afternoon. And the wine. I want you to know I don’t usually rip my clothes off around men. In fact, that’s extremely uncharacteristic. And I’m usually not such a blabbermouth. Not at all.”

Her voice was wobbling terribly.

“No, it’s not you,” he rushed to tell her. “It’s not. It’s me, I—”