A Proposal at the Wedding. GINA WILKINSЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter One

      The farmers’ market bustled with shoppers on this warm Tuesday morning in early July. Bonnie Carmichael browsed the outdoor displays of fresh fruits, vegetables and herbs, occasionally making purchases and adding the bounty to the increasingly heavy canvas bags dangling from her arms. She should have brought her little wheeled market trolley, she thought with a shake of her head. She’d told herself that not having it with her would make her less likely to purchase too much, but instead she was simply juggling bulging bags.

      She loved visiting the farmers’ market, surrounded by the bright colors of fresh produce, cut flowers, handcrafted pottery and jewelry, the scents of fresh-baked bread and pastries, the sounds of chattering shoppers and busking musicians. The market was even more active on Saturdays, but it was hard for her to get away on weekends from the bed-and-breakfast she co-owned and operated with her two older siblings. She was the chef at the inn, so shopping was both her responsibility and her pleasure. She came to the market regularly enough that most of the vendors knew her by name.

      She was chatting with a local organic farmer, lifting a plump heirloom tomato for an appreciative sniff, when someone bumped hard against her arm, having been jostled by someone else in the milling crowd. The tomato fell to her feet with a squishy thump.

      “I’m so sorry,” a man said immediately, his voice coming from approximately a foot above her head. “Are you okay?”

      She looked up to assure him no harm was done, but felt the words freeze on her tongue when she recognized Paul Drennan.

      This just couldn’t be happening again.

      Twice, Bonnie had run into Paul—literally—at the inn in the Virginia Blue Ridge Highlands. The first time she’d met him, in May, she’d carried a box of stainless steel wine bottle stoppers that had scattered around her when she’d landed on the floor. He’d been with his twenty-one-year-old daughter, Cassie, who was planning an August wedding on the grounds of the inn, and Bonnie had been mortified to crash into a client. The second incident a few weeks later had been his fault; he’d been talking over his shoulder while walking and had barreled into her, though she’d managed not to fall that time.

      It should have come as no surprise that the next time she encountered him, only a couple of weeks later, it would be with another collision. Or that once again she was as jarred by her immediate and powerful attraction to him as by the physical contact. Something about this man had taken her breath away the first time she’d looked up at him from the floor where she’d landed. She’d felt a spark between them when he’d offered his hand to help her to her feet, a clichéd reaction she hadn’t expected, but had seemed very real, all the same. Apparently, nothing had changed. Her pulse tripped again in response to seeing him here.

      Beneath a thick shock of dark auburn hair touched with a few white strands at the temples, Paul’s jade-green eyes lit with a smile that meandered more slowly to his firm lips, drawing her attention there. “If this keeps happening, you’re going to file a protection order against me,” he said in the deep voice she remembered so well from those other two brief meetings. She’d heard it a few times in her daydreams since, she thought sheepishly. “I swear I’m not actually targeting you.”

      “I believe you,” she assured him with a weak laugh. “It is getting rather funny, though, isn’t it?”

      Using a paper towel given to him by the vendor, he quickly cleaned up the half-smashed tomato. “I’ll pay for that one,” he promised the good-natured farmer, who waved off the offer.

      Handing some bills to the vendor, Bonnie accepted a bag of pretty little multicolored heirloom tomatoes in exchange. When she fumbled a bit with the new bag, Paul reached out to help. “Let me carry a couple of those sacks.”

      He divested her of all but the smallest of the bulging bags before she could even respond. As he did, she smiled up at him—way up. She estimated him to be perhaps six feet three inches, in marked contrast to her own five feet three inches. The flat sandals she wore with her scoop neck mint top and summer print skirt gave her no extra height. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome. How’s business at Bride Mountain Inn?” Paul asked as he shuffled with her through the throng to the next booth.

      “The