Take a Chance on Me(11)

She cleared her throat, hoping to get his attention, but a car exploded on the large flat-screen TV, drowning her efforts. Of course he had surround sound. In a house dedicated to the 1930s, it was befitting that one of the few concessions to modern life would thwart her.

In the flickering gray light, his attention stayed firmly on the action movie and her glare was lost on the back of his head.

At the bar, when she’d been buzzed on whiskey and his intoxicating flirting, spending the night had been the ultimate temptation. But the second they’d entered his kitchen, all of that ease had evaporated like a desert mirage, replaced by the tension of two strangers forced into close proximity too soon.

After a few minutes of awkward conversation, he’d led her upstairs, handed her a T-shirt, and shoved her in a room straight out of her grandmother’s decorating book. In clipped tones, he’d pointed to the telephone, shown her how to lock the door, and offered to call the chief of police, who he apparently knew, to provide a character reference.

She’d said that wouldn’t be necessary and he’d said good night.

She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to face him until the following morning, but that was no longer an option. She had no other choice. Unable to avoid the inevitable any longer, she said, “Mitch?”

He jumped, whipping around to pin her with a scowl, obvious even in the shadowed room.

A tiny bolt of fear shot through her, and instinct had her two-stepping back.

“Sorry, you scared me.” The rigidness of his posture eased as he smiled. His gaze roamed over her wedding dress, which was practically filling the doorway with its overflowing skirts. “I thought I’d sent you to bed.”

Out of nowhere, the alcohol betrayed her. Her hand fluttered to her neck, fingers entwined on the crystal choker at her throat as something unforgivable welled inside her. “Um . . . I’m sorry,” she babbled, unable to form a coherent sentence. Please, God, no.

“Is something wrong?” Concern tightened his expression and he slid one arm over the length of the sofa.

Another step back. She couldn’t do this. The pressure in her chest grew. “I, um, it’s just . . .”

“Come here, Maddie, and tell me what’s wrong.” His voice was soft but insistent.

She took one small step forward, but the pressure threatened to crush her and her throat closed over. She stopped and looked down at the floor.

No. No. No. But it was too late.

She picked up a large handful of the dress. In this crazy, unreasonable moment, every problem in her life could be blamed on this stupid, god-awful, horrid princess wedding gown.

The floodgates opened and she burst into tears. Loud, wailing, obnoxious tears.

Her whole body shook as big, fat drops slid down her cheeks. Mortified, she covered her face as though she could hide her wailing.

Strong arms enveloped her and Mitch pulled her close. She gave one thought to protest, and then sank into the warm, solid strength of his chest. He was big and broad, so different from what she was used to. The thought made her cry harder.

She should push him away, but instead she curled closer. Needing him. She was the most wicked kind of woman. There’d be no escaping hell now. All those years of penance washed away by one night of rash behavior.

Mitch kissed her temple, rubbing his hands over her bare skin. That he let her cry, and didn’t start lecturing her on emotional outbursts, made her want to crawl into him and never let go.

He swayed them both, murmuring nonsense and tracing slow, soothing circles over her back. “Come on now, Princess. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.”

She hiccupped into his shirt while she clung to him as though he were her life vest on a sinking ship. A great gush of air was followed by a hiccup. She blurted her very pressing and very embarrassing need. “I-I h-have to go to the b-b-bathroom.”

The gentle sway stopped. A rumble in his chest was followed by a cough.

He was trying not to laugh. The jerk.

She sobbed harder: great heaping wails straight from the pit of her stomach. Now that she was on a roll, she keened pitifully, “A-and m-m-y f-feet hurt.”

“It’s okay.” His tone was most definitely amused. “Why didn’t you go?”

Now came the worst confession. “M-my dress i-is too b-big.”

“Well, take it off.”

Did he think she was an idiot?

“I c-can’t get it off.” With a fresh batch of hysterics, her shoulders trembled as she buried her face in his T-shirt, now wet with tears. No one at the store had mentioned she’d need a crew of people to go to the bathroom, and now a stranger had to undress her. She hiccupped. They really should mention these kinds of details at the time of purchase.

He ran his fingers down a million tiny buttons from the blades of her shoulders to the curve of her ass. “It’s okay. We can take care of this.”

“B-but,” she cried. The thought almost unbearable. She was being tested. How was she supposed to be good when she had to disrobe in front of the most gorgeous man alive? “You’ll s-see me almost n-naked.”

When he said nothing, fresh tears welled in her eyes. He probably thought she was propositioning him. Surely women threw themselves at him all the time.

He rubbed her bare arms. “I’m thirty-four, Princess. I’ve seen a naked woman before.”