In Bed With The Wrangler

Royce quirked a brow. “Seriously?”

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“No kidding.”

“Royce.” She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him, or how she should say it.

But before she could formulate the words, his voice and expression went soft. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m the one who’s sorry. I gave you the wrong impression. It wasn’t on purpose, but I realize now that-”

“It was wishful thinking on my part.”

“You flat out told me you were hitting on me.”

“I was.”

She fought a reflexive smile. “And I’m honored.” She found herself joking.

“I don’t want you to be honored.” His expression said the rest.

“I know exactly what you want.”

He eased almost imperceptibly closer. “Yes, you do.”

They both went silent, sobering. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the moisture-laden air hung heavily in the room.

Stephanie’s light footsteps sounded on the landing above.

“You should make that call,” said Royce, stepping back.

Amber nodded, struggling to get her hormones under control. She’d never been pursued by such a rawly masculine man. Come to think of it, she’d never been pursued by any man.

Oh, she received her fair share of flirtatious overtures on a girls’ night at the clubs, but a flash of her engagement ring easily shut the guys down. Plus, usually she was out with Hargrove. And they generally attended functions where he was known. Nobody was about to hit on Hargrove Alston’s fiancee.

While Stephanie skipped down the stairs, Amber pressed the speed-dial button for her mother. It rang only once.

“Sweetheart!” came her mother’s voice. “What happened? Are you okay? Are you having a breakdown?”

Amber turned away from Royce, crossing the few steps to an alcove where she’d have a little privacy.

“I’m fine,” she answered, ignoring the part about a breakdown.

“Your father is beside himself.”

Royce’s and Stephanie’s footfalls faded toward the kitchen.

“And Hargrove,” her mother continued. “He came home a day early. Then he nearly missed the Chamber dinner tonight worrying about you. He was the keynote, you know.”

“He nearly missed it?” asked Amber, finding a hard tone in her voice. Hargrove hadn’t, in fact, missed his big speech while his beloved fiancee was missing, perhaps kidnapped, maybe dead.

As soon as the thoughts formed in her mind, she realized she was being unfair. She’d sent a text saying she was fine, and she had expected them to believe her. She wanted Hargrove to carry on with his life.

“The Governor was there,” her mother defended.

“I’m glad he went to the dinner,” said Amber.

“Where are you? I’ll send a car.”

“I’m not coming back yet.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t Dad tell you?”

“That nonsense about not marrying Hargrove? That’s crazy talk, darling. He wowed them last night.”

“He didn’t wow me.” As soon as the words slipped out, Amber clamped her lips shut.

“You weren’t there.” Her mother either missed or ignored the double entendre.

“I wanted to let you know I’m fine.” Amber got back on point.

“Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. We need to get you-”

“Not yet.”

“Amber-”

“I’ll call again soon.” Amber didn’t know how long it took to trace a cell phone call, but she suspected she should hurry and hang up.

“What do you expect me to tell your father?”

“Tell him not to worry. I love you both, and I’ll call again. Bye, Mom.” She quickly disconnected.

A slightly plump, fiftyish woman, who Amber had earlier learned was Sasha, was pulling a large pan of lasagna from the stainless steel oven when Amber entered the kitchen. Stephanie was tossing a salad in a carved wooden bowl on the breakfast bar, while Royce transferred warm rolls into a linen-napkin-lined basket.

For the second time, she was struck by his domesticity. The men she knew didn’t help out in the kitchen. Come to think of it, the women she knew didn’t, either. And though Amber herself had taken French cooking lessons at her private school, the lessons had centered more on choosing a caterer than hands-on cooking.

“There’s a wine cooler around the corner.” Stephanie was looking to Amber as she indicated the direction with a toss of her auburn head. “Italian wines are on the third tier, left-hand side.”

Royce didn’t turn as Amber made her way to a small alcove between the kitchen and the back entryway. The cooler was set in a stone wall, reds in one glass-fronted compartment, whites in the other.

“See if there’s a Redigaffi.” Royce’s voice was so close behind her that it gave her a start.

She took a bracing breath and opened the glass door, turning a couple of bottles on the third shelf so that she could see their labels.

“How’d the call go?” he asked.

“Fine.”

There was a silence.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Fine?”

“I talked to my mother. She wants me to come home.” Amber found the right bottle of wine and slid it out of the holder, straightening and turning to discover Royce was closer than she’d expected. She pushed the glass door closed behind her.

“And?” he asked.

“And what?” She reflexively clutched the bottle.

“Are you going home?”

Though they’d agreed she’d merely be a houseguest, the question seemed loaded with meaning as his eyes thoroughly searched her expression.

“Not yet,” she answered.

“Good.”

She felt the need to clarify. “It doesn’t mean-”

“I meant it’s good because you don’t love Hargrove, so it would be stupid to go back.”

She gave him a short nod.

“Not that the other’s gone away,” he clarified.

Amber didn’t know how to respond to that.

His gaze moved to the bottle. “Did you find one?”

She raised it, and he lifted it from her hands.

“Perfect,” he said.

“Move your butts,” called Stephanie from the kitchen, and Amber suddenly realized that her world had contracted to the tiny alcove, Royce and her wayward longings.

She gave herself a mental shake, while he took a step back and gestured for her to lead the way into the kitchen.

Stephanie was setting wineglasses at three places at the breakfast bar, while Sasha had disappeared. The Ryder family was a curious mix of informality and luxury. The glasses were fine, blown crystal. The wine was from an exquisite vineyard that Amber recognized. But they were hopping up on high chairs at the breakfast bar to a plain, white casserole pan of simple, beef lasagna.