Stop The Wedding!: Night Driving / Smooth Sailing / Crash Landing

He held his breath. If honesty didn’t work, he was back to square one, and he was running out of time. He stroked a hand over his jaw, drummed his fingers on the desk.

Come on, come on, just say yes.

He thought of Shaina, of how young and dumb they’d been, blundering into marriage without any real knowledge of what it meant to commit to one person fully and completely. Then he thought of Jackie, knowing how easy it was to fool yourself into thinking you were in love when it was nothing more than lust. He could not let her make a mistake this big. He had to get to Key West no matter what he had to do.

His computer pinged and he returned his attention to the screen.

Boone?

He blinked at his name. Who was this?

Yes.

Small world. It’s me. Tara.

2 (#ulink_c5806e1b-f8be-5db1-8893-b20d1df4ecca)

Tuesday, June 30, 1:00 p.m.

BOONE STOOD OFF to one side of Tara’s driveway clothed in an army-green T-shirt and camouflage cargo shorts, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, supervising the movers like a high school principal monitoring the hallways. His brow was knitted in a dark scowl, his right leg encased in a heavy metal brace.

“Hey, Toliver. You oughta get a patent,” Tara teased as she breezed past him, her arms loaded with boxes.

“Patent?” he growled. “For what?”

“That broody frown. James Dean and Marlon Brando combined got nothing on you.”

His glower deepened.

“Yup, watch out, you’re heading for Darth Vadar territory.”

“Darth Vadar wore a mask.”

“Exactly.”

His face relaxed. Just a bit. “Total mystery.”

“What is?” Tara loaded the boxes into the back of the U-Haul, turned and wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of a hand.

“You.”

She smiled big, pleased.

Boone shook his shaggy head, two months past the point of needing a good haircut. But that was okay. Overgrown hair gave a stylist something to work with. She canted her head and imagined how he’d look in different cuts—slicked-back undercut, Brit-rock indie, men’s quiff. Who was she kidding? He’d probably spoil her fun and insist on a military buzz.

“It’s not a compliment,” he said.

“What are you so prickly about?” She dusted her hands against her back pockets.

“I hate this.” He hissed the last word through clenched teeth.

“What?” She studied him. He was in so much pain—both physical and mental—that it wrenched her heart. But she also knew he had no use for pity. How many times had he rebuffed her when she’d tried to help? Boone was one of those proud protector dudes who thought he was invincible. He hadn’t handled life’s curveball very well. Poor baby.

“Having to stand here and watch you carry boxes when I should be the one doing it.”

“Oh, so you’re responsible for the whole world? Good to know.”

“Not the whole world, just my slice of it.”

“Newsflash, Hercules. I’m not part of your world and I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own boxes.”

“If I were healthy you would not be carrying your own boxes.”

“If you were healthy, I wouldn’t be driving you to Miami. Besides, I’m not some helpless damsel. I know how to take care of myself.”

“You sure know how to wound a man, Duvall.”

“I’m not in the military. You can call me Tara.”

“Okay, then let the men I hired do the heavy lifting…Tara.”

The sarcastic way he muttered her name didn’t get to her. She knew he was a big softy underneath all the gruffness. She’d seen Boone tenderly cradle their neighbor’s new baby when Mrs. Winspree had brought her infant over to show him off. She’d seen him struggle not to shed a tear at his father’s funeral. Had watched him drive his friends away because he was too proud to admit he needed help. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she was the one person who kept him from disappearing into himself completely, even though he did his best to keep her at arm’s length. What would happen to him once she was gone? Probably turn into a hermit and holler at kids for walking across his lawn.

Tara smiled sweetly and gently bumped Boone with a playful hip as she walked past him on her way to the house for another load of boxes. It was her way of telling him everything was going to be okay, but she wasn’t prepared for the blast of pure heat that shot through her at the contact or the low, throaty masculine sound of alarm that he made in response.

Quickly she sprinted off, her heart bounding erratically. She was in such a rush that she ran headlong into one of the movers. Reflexively, the guy wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Slow down there, sweetcheeks.” The man possessed a chest like a brick wall, a Tom Selleck mustache and a red bandana wrapped around his bald dome. “Is there a fire someone didn’t tell me about?”

“We’re on a tight time schedule,” she said. “Have to get a move on.”

“Let me just check my magic watch.” He pretended to consult an imaginary wristwatch.

“What?”

“It’s telling me that you don’t have any panties on.”

“Yes I do,” she blurted, then belatedly realized it was some stupid pickup line. Duh, how could she be so gullible?

His grin widened and he made a big show of shaking his imaginary wristwatch and holding it up to his ear. “Damn, it must be ten minutes fast.”

Ha-ha. She got it. He was suggesting that in ten minutes he’d have her panties off.

“Dude.” Tara fake chuckled, rolled her eyes and pushed back against his embrace. She was about to tell him he needed a course in how and where to pick up women, but she never got a chance.

Boone was there, clamping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let go of her,” he said in a voice as ruthless as the sound of a .45 Magnum round being chambered.

Instantly, Bandana Head released her, stepped back and raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Chill, man. Just a little harmless flirting. I didn’t mean anything by it.”