Stop The Wedding!: Night Driving / Smooth Sailing / Crash Landing. Lori WildeЧитать онлайн книгу.
it all out.”
“I’ve done a helluva lot of stewing,” he conceded.
“What is it you really want to do?”
“Be a soldier.”
“But that path is closed. What else are you passionate about?”
“Hell if I know.”
“What appealed to you about military service?”
“Knowing what’s expected of you.”
“You could find that in another line of work.”
“Tara,” he said. “I’m not you. I’m not a bright little ray of sunshine. I don’t know how to pick up the pieces of my shattered life and move forward as if nothing had happened. Every minute of every day the pain reminds me of just how broken I am.”
She couldn’t help it—she had to peek at him. The deepening twilight cast shadows over his face. His eyes were hooded again. The scruff of stubble darkened his jaw. His breathing was ragged and she realized he’d been sitting in the passenger seat a long time without stretching his leg, and he hadn’t taken a pain pill all day.
And here she’d been chattering glibly about mono. As if she could even begin to imagine the level of pain he’d suffered. Was still suffering. She could be so silly sometimes. No wonder Boone had never been her fan.
Up ahead lay an exit. Gas stations and fast food joints.
Tara did what she did best. She plastered on a happy smile, pretended everything was just fine and chirped, “Pit stop, coming right up.”
Thursday, July 2nd, 8:52 p.m.
“I’LL PUMP THE GAS,” Boone offered. It was the least he could do since she was doing all the driving. She was a good sport, too, putting up with his bellyaching. He should do something nice for her. Maybe he’d buy her something special.
“You do that and I’ll pop next door and grab us a bag of burgers.” She nodded at the fast-food hamburger joint near the gas station. “What do you like on your burger?”
“See if they’ve got a salad.”
“You need something more filling than a salad,” she argued.
“Hey, I gotta keep a handle on my weight while I’m out of commission.” He patted his belly. He might not have control over anything else, but he was determined to at least have control over his body.
Right. Good luck with that.
“I’ll surprise you.” She waggled her fingers at him over her shoulder.
He watched Tara walk away, hips swaying, her white shorts showing up brightly in the dusk and felt himself harden.
Classy, Toliver. Real classy.
He just had to hang in there. They were less than a day away from Miami. By this time tomorrow they would be going their separate ways. Forever.
Why that thought ate at him, he had no idea.
That wasn’t the truth. He did know why. It was because of how he felt when he was with her. Hopeful. She made him want to do better, be better.
Not to mention that she was hot as the Fourth of July rockets they were selling at the fireworks stand across the road. He should never have kissed her. Things were going along just fine until he’d kissed her in that cornfield, completely changing the sulky-war-vet-versus-sunny-ditz thing that had up until then kept them apart. When you slapped a label on someone it was easier to dismiss her, but spending this time in close proximity with Tara there was no label on earth that he could stick on her. She was unique.
He finished pumping the gas and holstered the nozzle just as Tara returned with a delicious-smelling brown paper bag.
“Guess what?” she said.
“We’re going to need arterial bypasses after dinner?”
She laughed as if his joke was truly funny. “There are picnic benches and a pretty little pond behind the gas station. Let’s go sit and eat. I saw lightning bugs. I love lightning bugs.”
Of course she did. Lightning bugs were just like her, bright and pretty and temporary.
“This way, soldier.” She headed off again, leaving him no choice but to follow her if he wanted something to eat.
He had to admit it was nice under the trees, the sound of frogs croaking, the flicker of the lightning bugs, the cool evening breeze blunting the highway noises. He sat down on the far corner of the cement picnic bench, angling his right leg out straight.
Instead of sitting across from him as he’d anticipated, Tara plunked down next to him, sitting so close he could feel her body heat. Her long, slender fingers, the nails painted a sweet salmon, unfurled the paper bag.
Disconcerted, he quickly glanced away, only to find himself peering down the V-neck of her shirt that revealed some amazing cleavage. She was just the right size. Not too big. Not too small. The size of ripe navel oranges. He loved oranges.
Purposely, he stared out across the pond. In the distance, some early fireworks popped and bright star-bursts of yellow, green and red streaked into the night sky. Saturday was the Fourth of July. The day his sister, Jackie, was marrying that coastie.
“I got you a chicken wrap,” Tara announced, her fingers curled around the paper-wrapped sandwich. She settled it in front of him, her graceful hand moving up the sandwich in a delicate stroke, those delectable fingers plucking at the paper as she undid the wrapping.
What was wrong with him? He was getting jacked up over a hand.
“I can unwrap it myself,” he growled. “It’s my knee that’s out of commission, not my hands.”
She raised her palms in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. Didn’t mean to offend.”
Crap! He’d done it again. Gotten crabby because she’d unwittingly stirred him. It wasn’t her fault she was so damned sexy.
They ate in silence, watching the fireworks and the lightning bugs, listening to the night noises and eating their sandwiches. It had been a long time since he’d had someone to share meals with and even though he was loath to admit it, he enjoyed the companionship. And she’d forgiven him again. She was munching her food with a smile on her face.
Another couple came strolling through the spot, holding hands, and they settled in at the next picnic table. They were both dressed in Civil War garb. The man was in a replica rebel uniform and the woman wore a bonnet and ankle-length calico dress.
“They must be reenactors headed for Shiloh,” Tara whispered. She turned her head and the fruity scent of her hair drifted over him, enthralling him.
“How far is it from Nashville to the Shiloh battlefield?” he asked.
“A hundred miles or more.”
He shifted on the bench. They were a thirty-minute drive from Nashville. At sixty miles an hour—their average speed pulling the U-Haul, a hundred miles would take them over an hour and a half. That meant it was over two hours to the Shiloh battlefield.
Tara started talking about the battle and her face lit up. Clearly, she’d done her research.
“I’m gonna go talk to them,” she said, hopping up and rushing over to strike up a conversation with the couple.
Boone sat watching her. He remembered what she’d looked like coming out of the bathroom at the B&B dressed in nothing but a towel. Freaking hell, his erection was already half-mast again.
A few minutes later, she came bounding back, chattering up a storm about the