Page 27 of Forsaken Trail (Runaway 4)

“I don’t know why I just told you that,” I admitted.

“Probably the champagne.”

I lifted my glass for another sip. “Probably. And tomorrow, I’ll regret confiding in the enemy.”

“I’m still the enemy?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Good.” He grinned, hopping off the counter. “Come tomorrow, there will be no more need for a truce.”

“Agreed.” The word sounded breathy as he crossed the space between us.

There was hunger in his green eyes. It had been there for hours. If he pulled a mirror from his tux pocket, I’d likely see that same desire in my own gaze. He walked closer, his gait easy and confident. Each step was a seduction, like the one and only dance we’d shared at the wedding.

Brody had held me tight, his grip on my waist firm. And he’d given me that attention, that undivided attention. The spice of his cologne filled my nose as he closed the gap. With me seated on the counter, our eyes were nearly level. Not quite. He stood a few inches over six feet, and even with my perch, he had me beat.

His beard seemed thicker in the muted light and my fingers itched to touch the strands. His hair was combed so well, it needed a good tousle.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he inched closer, pressing into the skirt of my gown.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

My heart skipped. Yes. That was the champagne talking. I didn’t care. “What if I don’t want you to kiss me?”

He leaned in close, the warmth of his breath caressing my cheek. “What if you do?”

What if I did?

I took his face in my hands, letting the scratch of his beard scrape against my palms, and I pulled his mouth down to mine.

Then I kissed him.

“Hey,” Clara said, walking into the living room.

“Shhhh.” I held up a finger from my spot on the couch. “Not so loud.”

“Headache?”

I groaned. “I’ll never drink champagne again.”

She laughed and plopped down by my feet, taking my legs and pulling them over her lap. Then she massaged the arch of a foot. “How was it?”

“Fine.” I closed my eyes and did my best to block out the image of last night. Not of the wedding.

Of Brody’s bed.

God, what the hell had I been thinking? Why? Why had I slept with him? Sex with Clara’s boss was the worst decision I’d made in years. Worse than the time I’d cut my own bangs seven years ago.

Brody was . . . irresistible. Damn him for being so. I didn’t even like him. Did I?

He’d been out cold this morning when I’d woken up early. It was the lifelong habit of a groundskeeper to rise before dawn and prune and water before hotel guests made their way outside and tripped over my hoses.

So as he’d slumbered, I’d silently slipped out of his bed and into my dress, then raced from his bedroom. I’d hoped to save myself from the walk of shame, but butler Ron had been in the kitchen, washing last night’s champagne flutes.

He’d given me another goddamn bow just before I’d made it to the door. Then I’d hustled to Clara’s, hoping not to wake her or Gus as I’d showered, dressed in sweats and crashed here on the couch.

“Thank you for going,” Clara said, her foot massage saving my life.