Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
I don’t say a word. Just send her a glare, the same one I do when I’m in the middle of negotiations over important company documents.
“Right,” she murmurs and leaves me alone.
I shrug out of the robe when she’s gone and into the white lacy slip. The silk whispers against my skin, cool and reassuring. It’s the only thing that calms my nausea. I never pictured a wedding day like this.
The side door swings open and a man steps into the room. No, not a man. A mountain. A mountain of a cowboy. He looks exactly like the pictures on the website. His scowl is fixed firmly in place as he removes his sunglasses. He clips them into the pocket of his flannel shirt. His Stetson is the next thing he pulls off, tossing it casually into the chair that Ronnie abandoned a few moments ago. His deep brown gaze never leaves mine as he pulls off his things. It travels across my body, warming me up in a way I didn’t expect.
“You’re the bride?” he barks.
“Unfortunately,” I answer. I sent a message to the organizer of the auction, a woman named Lauren. She sent me a sweet email in return, letting me know that she was sorry for what happened and that my cowboy would arrive on time.
He scratches his beard. “What’s the deal here? Lauren said something about interrupting the wedding?”
“Yes, just voice an objection when the officiant asks,” I say like this is no big deal. It’s not really. My dad gets to walk me down the aisle. I don’t marry the cheating scumbag who’s just waiting for my dad to die, and everyone is happy. Well, except Stuart and Paris Pouty.
“Or I could sweep you away right now. Nobody has to know,” he points out. That would be the easier option.
I reach for my white dress with shaking hands and step into it, pulling it up to my rounded hips where it sticks. “Are you going to help me or not?”
He misunderstands what I mean and steps forward, giving the dress a gentle tug up. He gets it past my hips, not commenting on the surgery scars on my legs and back. He’s surprisingly gentle for such a big man. This close, I can smell the spicy notes of his cologne. It’s a mix of leather, vanilla and earth. The scent is oddly comforting, and I want to lean close and bury my face in his beard.
I slip the dress straps onto my shoulders, smoothing them flat underneath my hands.
He steps behind me and reaches for the zipper. His fingertips ghost along the skin of my back in a move that feels more like something a lover would do than a perfect stranger.
Maybe that’s why I close my eyes and whisper into the stillness, “He’s cheating on me.”
He puts his big, roughened hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him. He stares down at me, anger evident in the harsh lines of his face. “Why not just tell the lying bastard that you know to his face?”
An image of my dad, being wheeled into surgery for the tumor, flashes in my mind. I swallow back my sadness. Everything could have been so much worse. We were so lucky. “I have my reasons.”
His beard moves, muscles clenching in the side of his face. “Can I at least punch him in the face for you?”
That almost gets a smile from me. “He’s not worth it. Can you do the job or not?”
He thinks for a long moment, staring at me as if he’s trying to read all of my secrets. Finally, having come to a decision, he gives a quick nod. “Yeah, you can count on me to ruin your wedding.”
“Are you ready?” The serene smile on my dad’s face as he steps into the bridal room makes my heart clench.
It’s only the two of us. The day my mom died, I was five, and I cried because I told him my best friend was gone. He sat me down and explained that he’d been looking for a best friend of his own and maybe we could be best friends on a trial basis now.
He kept his word too. He listened to me cry about boy drama in middle school, took me to get my first pedicure, and was there for me every day that I was in the hospital as a teenager.
“I am now,” I turn and do my best to give him a bright smile. My cowboy objector is long gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of leather and earth.
“Look at you, all grown up,” dad says. His eyes have a sheen of moisture in them.
“Dad! You promised you wouldn’t!” I tell him even as I tear up too.
“I’m not!” He protests and sniffs. “I stopped by the kitchen, and someone was cutting onions. Aww, darn, you look beautiful today, kiddo. Have I told you how proud I am of you?”