A Bravo Christmas Wedding

It was just strange, that was all. To be there in his house alone with her at night—and to know that she wouldn’t be leaving in an hour or two for her suite at the Haltersham Hotel. That they would both go upstairs to bed. And in the morning, at breakfast, she would be there, at his table.

And wait a minute. Why should that suddenly strike him as strange—not to mention, vaguely dangerous?

But it doesn’t, he argued with himself. They were friends and he was looking after her. Nothing strange or dangerous about that.

She asked, “Are things seeming weirder and weirder with Clara and Ryan, or is it just me?”

He didn’t really want to talk about Clara and Ryan—not now that he had it all comfortable and straight in his mind. Talking about it would only raise doubts.

No need for those.

But then she tipped her head to the side, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulder. “No response, huh?” Her sweet brown eyes were so sad. “Okay, then.” She tried to sound cheerful, with only minimal success. “Never mind. See you in the morning.”

He couldn’t just leave her standing there. “Hold on.” Lonesome was whining at the front door. He went over and opened it. The dog wiggled in, thrilled to see him. He scratched him behind the ears as Lucky came in behind him.

The cat went straight to Rory, and Rory picked her up and buried her face in the silky black fur. She asked, “Well?”

“Come on.” He turned for the great room at the back of the house, the dog at his heels. “You want something? Coffee?”

Still holding Lucky, she followed. “No, just to talk.”

He stopped by the couch. She put the cat down and dropped to the cushions. He went and turned on the fire, which he’d converted to gas two years before. The cat and the dog both sat by the hearth, side by side. When he went back to her, she’d lifted her right foot to tug off her tall black boot.

“Here,” he said. A boot like that was easier for someone else to get off. “Let me.”

“Thanks.” She stuck out her foot in his direction.

He moved around the end of the coffee table, took the boot by the toe and the heel, eased it right off and handed it to her. She tucked it under the end table and offered the other one. He slid that one off, too. And then he stood there, above her, boot in hand, staring at her socks. They were bright red with little white snowmen on them. Cute. He had the most bizarre urge to bend down and wrap his hand around her ankle, to take off that red snowman sock, to run his palm over the shape of her bare heel, to stroke his hand up the back of her slim, strong calf...

He was losing it. No doubt about it.

“Here.” She took the left boot from him, stuck it under the table with the right one and patted the sofa cushion beside her. Apparently, she had no clue as to his sudden burning desire to put his hands on her naked skin.

And that was good. Excellent. He sat down next to her.

She turned toward him and drew her knees up to the side. “There’s tension between them—and not the sexy kind. Did you notice?”

Tension between who?

Right. Rye and Clara. And he had noticed. “Yeah, but only until Clara finally busted to the truth about the baby. After that, everything seemed just like it used to be.”

She flipped a big hank of silky hair back over her shoulder. “Exactly.” He thought about reaching out, running his hand down that long swath of dark hair, feeling the texture of it against his palm, maybe bringing it to his face, sucking in the scent of it, rubbing it over his mouth. “Walker?”

He blinked at her, feeling dazed. “Huh?”

Her pretty dark brows had drawn together. “You still with me here?”

“Uh. Yeah. Of course I am. You said things were tense with Clara and Ryan. I said that by the end of the night, it was just like it used to be.”

“Walker. Think about it. ‘Like it used to be’ is that they were friends. We were friends, the four of us.”

He wasn’t following. Her shining hair and soft pink lips weren’t helping, either. “Yeah. We were friends. And we still are.”

“But I mean, with Clara and Ryan now, shouldn’t there be more?” She paused, as though waiting for him to speak. He had nothing. She forged on. “I do understand that with a baby coming, marriage might be an option. But is it really the right option for them? Lots of people have babies now without thinking they need a wedding first. I can’t help but wonder why the two of them are racing to the altar—and seriously, I...well, I don’t know how to say this, but...”

He knew he shouldn’t ask. “Say what?”

“Well, frankly, I just can’t picture Clara and Ryan having sex.”

Through the haze of ridiculous lust that seemed to have taken hold of him, he felt a definite stab of annoyance—with the direction of this uncomfortable conversation in general, and with Rory in particular. “Just because you can’t picture it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“It’s only...” She stared off into the fire.

“What?” he demanded.

And she finally turned and looked at him. “I don’t feel it between them.”

“What do you mean? Because they’re friends, is that what you’re saying? You can’t picture two lifelong friends suddenly deciding there’s more than friendship between them?”

“Well, no.”

“No?”

“I mean, yes. I could picture that, picture friends becoming lovers.”

Why were they talking about this? “So what’s the problem?”

“It’s just that Clara and Ryan, they’re not...that way with each other.”

“You’re overcomplicating it.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. You are. She’s a woman. He’s a man. They’re together a lot—you know, being friends and all. It happens. I don’t see anything all that surprising about any of it. And as for them getting married, well, Rye’s a stand-up guy and Clara’s having his baby. And he was only a baby when our loser of a dad took off never to be heard from again. He’s always sworn no kid of his will grow up without him. He just wants to do the right thing.”

“But that’s what I’m saying. Maybe for Clara and Ryan, it just isn’t the right thing. They’re great together, as pals. But as husband and wife? I’m not seeing it. And you know how Ryan is.”

“Now you’re going to start talking trash about my brother?”

She flinched and sat back away from him. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”

He glared at her, feeling agitated, angry at her and knowing he really had no right to be, all stirred up over her snowman socks and her shining hair, every last nerve on edge. “What exactly do you mean, ‘how Ryan is’?”

“Walker.” Her voice was careful now. “It’s not talking trash about Ryan to say the truth about him.”

“Right. The truth. That he’s a dog, right? That it’s one woman after another with him.”

“I did not say that.”