His Wedding

A hand swiped her clinging hair out of her face. “Janet? Are you all right?” Brian asked.

She tried to open her eyes, but all she could do was cough.

Brian swam a small distance, his arm hooked around her middle, taking her with him. Then he put one of her hands on something solid, his legs tucked under her like the seat of a chair to keep her in place.

“You have a hold of the ladder,” he said, placing her other hand beside the first. Just two rungs and you’ll be sitting on the pier. Come on. Up.”

She couldn’t coordinate the movement, then his hand, under her backside, pushed her up. Her feet found an underwater rung and she propelled herself over the top. She was on her hands and knees and beginning to drag in air.

Brian swung up beside her, putting a hand to her back as he squatted to look into her face. “Janet?”

“Yes.” She was embarrassed, but somehow her annoyance with him had fled. Nothing like immersion in cold water to stabilize a mood. “Yes, I’m still Janet. Did you think I couldn’t come up because I was having my name changed?”

He barked a laugh. “Your sense of humor has survived.” Then he lifted her up into his arms. “I’ve got a shower in the back of the shop.”

She held on to his neck as he strode up the steps. “I couldn’t find my way between the boats,” she said, unable to believe that had been so difficult. “Every time I went for the sunlight, the boats bumped together again.”

“My fault,” he replied, walking through the shop and into a small area in the rear. “I was pushing them apart, looking for you from the pier, so when your opening disappeared, it was probably me, shoving from the other side.”

“Nice guy.”

“What do you want from the son of Susannah Abbott and Corbin Gir—”

She put a hand over his mouth. “If you bring that up again,” she threatened, “I’ll have to bite your ear.” Her position in his arms made his ear an easy target.

He stopped in front of a half-open door. She glimpsed a shower stall and a medicine cabinet, but what really caught her attention were the lively depths of Brian’s blue eyes a mere inch from hers. Usually, they were so steady on her that they made her feel defensive. But today they made her feel…odd?

“And that would discourage me?” he asked with a half smile.

Her mouth fell open. Was he more interested in her than it appeared?

Before she could analyze that, he set her on her feet in the doorway and pointed to a small wicker rack of towels. “There’re soap and shampoo in the shower.”

“And…you can dry my clothes?”

“No, but I can give you something to change into. I’ve got matching T-shirts and shorts with the store name on them. Pink, green or yellow?”

“Yellow.”

He studied her. “Small? Medium?”

She folded her arms to hide a little shudder of that same sensation. “Medium.”

“I’ll leave them on the doorknob.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped into the bathroom, locked the door behind her and took the first good breath she’d had since he’d looked into her eyes and suggested that he wouldn’t mind if she bit his ear.

The bathroom was small and utilitarian, all in white tile with the same checkered curtains the shop windows sported.

She peeled off her wet things and climbed into the cubicle. The showerhead was powerful, with a pulsing adjustment that went a long way toward relaxing the tense muscles in her neck and back.

He had shampoo but no conditioner. And no blow-dryer. Her hair would dry flat, but at least it would be clean.

She stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around her head and opened the door just enough to see if he’d placed the shorts and T-shirt on the doorknob. He had.

She grabbed them and locked the door again. She noticed in pleased surprise that he’d thought to include a three-pack of panties and a sports bra. Remarkably, everything fit. The shorts were a classic boy cut, with his logo on a hip pocket. The T-shirt had the logo across the chest.

She was staring in the mirror at her alarmingly natural face, free of makeup, and her wet hair, into which she’d tried to fluff a little volume, when there was a knock on the door.

She opened it.

Brian stood there, a pair of floral flip-flops in one hand and simple white tennies in the other. He held them up for her to make a decision.

“Ah. Perfect.” She chose the tennies.

“Come out when you’re ready,” he said. “I’ve poured you a cup of coffee.”

She had already slipped on the shoes and took only a moment to fluff her hair again, then concluded any effort to look fashionable was hopeless.

She found Brian tearing at a package of oatmeal cookies. He’d pulled open the curtain between the front and the back of the store, probably so that he could watch for customers.

A battered coffee table next to an old red sofa held two diner-style mugs of coffee and an empty plate. He dumped the open pack of cookies unceremoniously onto the plate.

“Good thing about owning a general store,” he said, gesturing her to sit down. “You can entertain at a moment’s notice.”

She sank onto a sofa cushion. “And provide clothing for people who fall into the drink.” She grinned in self-deprecation. “Certainly was a conversation stopper, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. But it doesn’t have to be the end of the argument if you have more to say.” He sat beside her and thought back. “As I recall, you said, ‘We’re talking about my sister’s wedding and you’re not going to—’ And then you screamed.”

She took a cookie, dunked it in her coffee and popped it into her mouth. “Actually, now that I’ve been immersed in cold water, I see your arguments more clearly.”

“Really. You agree with me?”

“No,” she denied firmly, “but your feelings aren’t that different from mine.”

1He leaned back into his corner of the sofa, his legs stretched out and crossed under the table. He sipped at his coffee and waited for her to explain.

She turned toward him, cookie in one hand, cup in the other. “I’m afraid of embarrassing them, too, though for different reasons. I feel very much out of my element amid all their style and elegance. I mean, Chloe would probably never dunk a cookie in her coffee, would she?”

“Uh…I can’t say I’ve ever seen her do it.”

“See? And she’s not only stylish and elegant, she’s European. I am so not going to measure up to the rest of the Abbotts.”

As she made that claim, an idea formed, full-blown. Three years ago, she’d been left at the altar—well, not the altar, the travel agency. Her fiancé was supposed to meet her there to pay for their honeymoon tickets to Hawaii. When he never came, she went home, to find a voice-mail message that he’d changed his mind about the wedding and was off to London.

She’d been more careful of men since then but hadn’t stopped looking for the right one. And despite Brian’s resistance, she was beginning to wonder if it was him. Now she thought she had a way to spend time with him to determine if he was or not. Convincing him of that, of course, would take time and effort and was a job for later.