Backlash Tender Trap Aftermath - Lisa Jackson Page 0,87
that the activity within the house at all hours while planning the wedding had left little time for them to be alone. But tomorrow that, too, would change. And then, she thought smiling secretly, she’d tell him her news.
If Mitchell was still harboring grudges, he’d have to work them out himself, she decided.
The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and chocolate and fruit. Milly had decided a bakery wedding cake wasn’t enough and had taken it upon herself to make enough pies, cinnamon rolls and fudge for the entire Third Battalion. All neatly wrapped for the next day, the spicy confections were spread upon the counter of the kitchen.
The first drops of rain began to spatter the windowpanes, but Tessa told herself she didn’t care. If it rained, the guests would just have to suffer a few cool drops drizzling down the back of their necks. Nothing could spoil her wedding day.
“You think this is enough food?” Denver mocked, startling her. Turning, she saw him standing in the archway between hall and kitchen, one shoulder propped against the wall as he gazed at the overladen counters.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, my eye. We’ll have to raffle off pies at the reception. Each guest will win five.”
“You’re exaggerating,” she teased.
His smile was slow but suggestive as he sauntered across the room, rested a hip against the edge of the table and drew her into his arms. “Maybe a little.” Placing his forehead against hers, he sighed. “One more night. And then three weeks of warm water, hot sun and white sand.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” She heard her father’s footsteps on the stairs.
“I can’t wait!”
Curtis walked into the room dressed in his dusty Levi’s, checked shirt and boots.
“More comfortable?” Tessa asked.
He snorted and lit a cigarette. “You’d better take some pictures tomorrow, because it’s the last time you’ll catch me in one of those damned suits again.”
The back door creaked open and Mitchell tossed off his jacket before flopping into the nearest chair. “Don’t you think you could cut your trip down to one week?” he grumbled.
“Too much work for you?” Tessa asked.
“I hate to admit it,” Mitch said, offering an off-center smile to his sister, “but for a little thing, you do pull your weight around here.”
“I’ll be back,” she reminded him.
“I’m going to run into town for a while—”
“You need to try on your tux,” she reminded him.
“It’ll fit.”
“Let’s find out tonight.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t get all bent out of shape. Just remember who’s filling in for you while you’re busy playing baccarat and drinking mojitos on the beach.”
“I won’t forget,” she said as he left again.
“I’d better be shovin’ off, too,” Curtis said, eyeing his daughter fondly. “Big day tomorrow.”
“The biggest.”
Curtis glanced up at Denver. “I thought Colton might show up.”
“So did I.” Denver checked his watch. His forehead was grooved with worry. “He’s still got a few hours.”
“Not many,” Curtis said tightly, and Tessa wondered if the bad blood between her father and Denver’s brother could ever really be cleansed. Colton had been released from the hospital two days before, and Denver had hoped his brother would make it back for the wedding.
Colton, Denver had warned her, hadn’t been thrilled at the prospect of Denver’s marriage. Tessa figured there was nothing she could do to change his mind. That would take time.
“See ya tomorrow,” Curtis said, waving as he shoved open the back door.
Tessa watched through the window. Her father ambled down the path and hunched his shoulders against the rain. “Do you believe in bad omens?” she asked as Curtis’s old pickup drove away, the taillights barely visible through the zigzagging drops trailing on the glass.
“I’ve never thought of a summer storm as a bad omen.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. “In fact, I take it as a good sign. You know, a fresh start—that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered leaning against him heavily. His arms were so strong, so protective.
“Don’t borrow trouble.” He turned her to face him. “Here we are, finally alone, the night before our wedding, and you’re worried.” He smoothed the lines furrowing her brow with one finger. “How about a toast?”
“A toast—with what?”
“A bottle of champagne.” He eyed the pantry, where two cases of effervescent wine were stacked near the door.
“Milly will kill you.”
“Milly will never know.” Grinning devilishly, he strode into the pantry, pulled a jackknife from his pocket and deftly sliced the top case.