Stop The Wedding!. Lori WildeЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      Monday, June 29, 5:25 p.m.

      FEELING LIKE Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, ex-Army Captain Boone Toliver stared glumly out at the treelined neighborhood as he sat on his front porch in Bozeman, Montana.

      His right knee, fresh from a third surgery and wrapped in a stabilizing brace, lay propped up on a hassock. On the small table beside him sat a cell phone, a can of beer and a bottle of pain pills. He was trying to see if the beer would take the edge off his misery before surrendering to the medication. Although he knew well enough he wasn’t supposed to mix the two, he was a big guy in a world of hurt. Not all of it physical.

      Third time’s a charm, the orthopedic surgeon had said.

      It better damn well be. If not, he would never fully gain back the mobile life that a bomb in Afghanistan had stolen from him. For now, he had to hire someone to do everything—grocery shopping, housecleaning, chauffeuring him to doctor’s appointments.

      Not that money was an issue. Along with this house, his father had left him over a million dollars. Boone had invested wisely; he was set for life, even if he never worked again. Although he’d much rather still have his dad around than any amount of money.

      Plus, he was not an idle guy. He was at the end of his tether with this invalid malarkey. He had read books until his vision blurred, played video games until his thumbs ached and watched movies until his brain complained. All of his friends were military, and now that he was out of the service and injured to boot, their visits had become less and less frequent. He was no longer one of them.

      Boone was bored, bummed out and bitter.

      Not an attractive combo. He realized that, but he couldn’t seem to snap himself out of the doldrums. This surgery was his last chance to reclaim what he’d lost. This time he was determined to follow doctor’s orders to a T. Which meant sitting here twiddling his thumbs and watching the world pass him by.

      Awfully hard for a man who’d spent a big chunk of his adult life at war.

      He picked at the Velcro strap on his knee brace, pulling it off, then pressing it back down, then pulling it off again just to hear the crinkly, ripping noise it made as the two pieces separated. The sound underscored the monotony of his life.

      A few houses over a couple of kids shot hoops in their driveway. The steady strumming of the basketball against cement made him nostalgic. Once upon a time, he’d been one helluva basketball player, but those days were long gone. The scent of supper hung in the air as the summer sun headed west. Idly, he thought about getting up and sticking a frozen dinner in the microwave, but he couldn’t seem to drum up enough enthusiasm for even that task.

      He took a swallow of beer and tried not to think about the throbbing in his knee.

      An older model Honda Accord crawled down the block and then pulled into the driveway of the ranch-style bungalow across the street. His ditzy neighbor, Tara Duvall, got out of the Accord. Quickly, Boone picked up his cell phone and pretended to be deep in conversation, but his ruse didn’t thwart Tara.

      She raised her hand in greeting, gave him that radiant smile she was constantly flashing. Hell, he needed sunglasses and a bulletproof vest against her obnoxious cheerfulness.

      “Hey, Boone.” She wore a skimpy little halter top and cutoff blue jeans that hit her midthigh.

      He tried not to notice just how tanned and supple those long, lean legs were. Or how, when she moved, that halter top with a handkerchief hem fluttered up enough to give him a glimpse of her gold navel ring. Her abdomen was taut and flat, her skin flawless. His mouth went dry and he felt an unwanted stirring below his belt. Annoying she might be, but the woman possessed a killer body.

      Block the urges, Toliver. Sure, she’s sexy, but she’s not worth the aggravation.

      She toddled across the street toward him in wedge sandals that were far too high for her petite build, but somehow she managed to walk in them with startling grace.

      Frick. She was coming over.

      Frowning, he held up the phone for her to see and waved her away, then stuck the phone back to his ear. “Yes, uh-huh.” He feigned conversation.

      Tara was one of those breezy, gabby women who could talk the hind leg off a mule. The last thing he wanted was to hear one of her upbeat, riotous stories about what had gone on at the hair salon where she worked. She was funny, impulsive, lively and reminded him far too much of his ex-wife. Spontaneous gals were nothing but trouble. Still, his body responded at her approach and he resented the heck out of her because of it.

      She tiptoed up on the porch, an index finger laid over her lips.

      “You don’t say,” Boone spoke into the phone.

      She hitched her butt up on the porch railing, legs dangling off, blues eyes dancing with mischief.

      Go away. He was not in the mood for Pollyanna.

      “Yes, yes.” He nodded as if someone on the other end of his fictitious conversation had just said something he could really support.

      Tara’s gaze skated over his injured knee. She pursed her lips in a pity pout, but then took in the beer and the bottle of pain pills. Her sympathy disappeared—thankfully—into a concerned scowl. She made a shame-on-you gesture, scraping one forefinger crossways over the other.

      Buzz off, brat.

      “Hang on a minute,” Boone said to his imaginary caller. He put his palm over the phone, met Tara’s eyes. “This conversation is going to go on for a while.”

      “I don’t mind waiting.”

      What the hell did she want? “I mind.”

      “Private conversation?”

      “Yeah.”

      Her lips were glossy cotton-candy-pink and her hair was four or five different shades of blond. Streaked in that chunky way that was popular these days. A modest dolphin tattoo graced her left shoulder and numerous earrings lay nestled in each ear. Her toenails were painted an alarming shade of aqua, and on the second toe of her right foot a gold toe ring spelled out LOVE.

      “I’ll go water your shrubs while you’re talking,” she said. “They look thirsty.”

      “No, no.” He didn’t want her doing him any favors. “Leave it be.”

      “Okay.” She held up her palms. “Didn’t mean to tread on your pride.”

      Glowering, he pressed the cell to his ear again. “I’m back,” he said, feeling stupid for having gotten trapped into a fake phone call.

      Well, if you could try just talking to her.

      Except that never worked. Give her an inch and she took a mile. If he struck up a conversation, she’d plunk down on the porch beside him for hours as if they were friends or something.

      That’s when the phone rang for real.

      Tara’s