The Runaway Bridesmaid. Kaitlyn RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
and Angie followed Trevor through a large office, then into one of several smaller rooms off to the side. He waved toward a bench that ran along a long, windowless wall. “Have a seat,” he said.
“Wow, look at that tree chair!” Angie exclaimed, eyeing the bench constructed from a rough log. She ran the length of it twice, then plopped down in its middle and ran her hand along the smoothed seat.
Isabel remained near the doorway, watching as Trevor strode behind a cluttered desk, sat down and picked up a large map.
She sat on the bench near Angie, feeling confused. “Why are we here?” she asked. “Didn’t Sam mention the Ripple River room?”
“Yes, and I started to tell you bef—”
The bench squeaked loudly, drawing their attention. Angie was bouncing on her bottom. Isabel knew why. She lifted her brows and turned to Trevor. “Rest room?”
“Out in the main office.” After a subtle sigh, he dropped the map and got up to point out the way to Angie.
When he returned, he explained, “The Ripple River room is small, and really meant for one person.” He sat in his chair, then leaned back, dropping his elbows on the armrests and linking his fingers. He stared at Isabel, his expression sober. “I’m not sure where to put you, considering this change. We’ll have to wait for Sam.”
Although he didn’t say she’d caused trouble by bringing Angie, he implied it.
Oh, man, did he imply it.
“I explained that Angie is only here because of special circumstances.”
“I know.”
A minute later, Angie hopped back into the room on one foot. Kids that age could amuse themselves so easily, Isabel thought. Taking an extra notebook and pen from her purse, she handed them to the little girl.
He’d see. Angie would be no trouble at all.
Trevor returned his attention to his map, and the office grew quiet again. Isabel heard only the occasional rattle of his map, the scratch of Angie’s pen against the paper and the tick of the clock.
She perused the Lonely Stars quilt tacked to the wall behind Trevor’s head. All of her quilts were her own unique designs. She’d done this one in rich indigo blues and deep forest greens, with stars in a silvery white.
“I sold your quilt to Darla last year,” Isabel said to break the uncomfortable silence. “She said it was your Christmas present.”
Trevor looked up at her, then turned in his chair to scrutinize the quilt, seeming almost surprised to discover it there against his office wall. “That’s right, you have some sort of crafts business, don’t you?” he said. “I’d forgotten how Darla knew you.”
Success! He’d sounded halfway friendly again.
She’d keep talking to see if it helped. “Actually, my mother started Blumecrafts when I was a baby, and built it up in catalog sales. She died four years ago, but I kept the business going.”
She gazed at the quilt, wondering if he would appreciate the artistry and work she’d put into it.
He turned back around and leveled a sober stare at her. “You make a decent living, selling these quilts?”
“I do fine, especially since we’ve put the catalogs on the Internet. I also sell handmade baskets and some accessories—my hand-pieced leather handbags were a hit on the West Coast last year.” She lifted her chin. “You can’t buy Blumecrafts items at your average retail store.”
He’d nodded all the way through her explanation, but as soon as she quieted he said, “I expected you to be older.”
What did her age have to do with this conversation?
Isabel wondered if the man was ever impressed, and why she cared one way or another. “I’m old enough.”
That map must be incredibly interesting, because he started reading it again.
“Do you have some kind of problem with me?” she asked.
His eyes never left his map. “No.”
“No?”
He flicked a glance toward her feet, of all things.
She slid them farther under the bench and waited for him to look at her. After a drawn-out moment, he did, and those forehead dimples deepened.
She shrugged, soliciting an answer.
“You want honesty?”
“Absolutely.”
He set down his map and watched her a moment, and only the clock’s tick and the scratching of Angie’s pen filled the silence.
“Here it is. Sam and Darla’s normal duties here at the lodge are time-consuming. The wedding planning and the camp add more work.” He nodded toward Angie, who was busy drawing and didn’t notice. “You should’ve realized you were putting Darla on the spot.” He paused, then added, “But of course that’s none of my business. So—” He shrugged. “No.”
Isabel wasn’t going to turn her car around and drive her little friend all the way home, especially since Darla had said it would be fine to bring her.
She glanced at Angie. The little girl was entertaining herself beautifully, drawing a picture of the Grinch with a short haircut like Trevor’s. Isabel wanted to tell Angie to add the row of eyebrow dents.
“I’ll keep her with me,” she said to Trevor, instead. “If I’m busy in the office, she can color or play with some of the toys she brought.”
Trevor folded those strong hands and studied the ceiling for a long while, no doubt thinking hard about his reply. “But you’re here to help Darla,” he finally said.
Isabel shook her head. “And?”
Trevor gave Isabel the same look R.J. sometimes gave Angie—as if her question had been so ridiculous, it was hardly worth answering. “And Darla works her buns off.”
Isabel knew Darla worked alongside Sam, handling everything from branding cattle to managing the guest accounts. But she was paid to do so, and Sam was her fiancé, to boot. This whole place would soon become partly hers.
Isabel had figured she could help wherever she could and stay out of the way otherwise. After all, she was volunteering here this summer.
“I can handle whatever Darla needs me to do and still keep an eye on Angie.”
Trevor’s gaze fell from her face to her chest and lingered, then traveled down her legs. His scrutiny stopped on her sandals again.
Isabel stared at him, waiting for him to finish his inspection. When he raised his gaze to meet her narrowed one, he blinked a couple of times. “Unless you sit out there in Darla’s office every day, the chores are mostly outside.” He lifted a single eyebrow. “Filth. Bugs. Sweat. You’ll hate it here.”
For twenty-seven years, Isabel had lived in a country house that hadn’t been air conditioned until very recently—her eccentric mother hadn’t believed in it. Isabel had learned to work a garden when she was six, and she’d walked the distance into town from the age of eight.
She shook her head. “I’m not afraid of dirt or work.”
And she wasn’t intimidated by Trevor Kincaid.
Funny. She’d liked him out on that highway. He’d been considerate to help her, and he’d put up with her nervous babbling. First impressions could be so wrong.
He stared past her head. “Did you notice? She brought a friend.”
Isabel was baffled by the statement until she realized he was talking to Sam, who had arrived in the doorway.
She turned around in time to see Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. His