A Lady Under Siege - By B.G. Preston Page 0,91
like us.”
Derek stood in his back yard, resting a hand on top of the fence, looking up at Meghan, who sat on the rail of her deck, close enough to him that she could easily reach out and touch his hand. “Betsy’s home, so it’s best we keep the fence between us,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d admit to reading romances.”
“It’s not that kind of romance. It’s realistic—it ends tragically.”
“Then it’s not a romance romance.”
“Oh really? So Romeo and Juliet doesn’t count either?”
“I’m thinking of modern romances, the formulaic ones, where the gruff, manly dude meets his match with the plucky gal, and they live happily ever after,” she said.
“It happens, I suppose,” he said. “But it’s getting rarer. There’s no shortage of plucky gals, but the gruff, manly dude is an endangered species.”
“Thomas and Sylvanne are getting married,” she said abruptly.
“Really? Wow. I thought you’d sound more excited. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right off the bat.”
“I know. I should be excited. She’s a tough cookie, I must say. She extracted conditions.”
“Which are?”
“Well, officially, he’s never to talk to me, or even speak my name, ever again.”
“That’s not new.”
“And secondly, she wants him to find a way for this to end—she wants me out of her head.”
“Can you blame her?”
“No. I know I’m being ridiculous, but it hurts. The way he agreed to it so easily, I feel like I’ve been dumped.”
“He didn’t dump you, he just went with the flow—men agree to stuff all the time without having any intention of carrying through on it. Especially with women. Especially when it comes to romance.”
“You’ve had experience with that?”
“Less than most, I’d say. I prefer to let the chips fall.”
“So basically you’re saying he lied to her.”
“It’s not lying, exactly, it’s avoiding an argument. He agreed he should do something about it, but did he specify what?”
“No.”
“There you go. No action taken. So in the meantime you’ll still be in her head, he’ll still be in my head, you’ll still get to see each other.”
“Or maybe he really does want me out of her head.”
“If he wants you out of her head, it’s easily done.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your therapist suggested it. She gave you a prescription, remember? All you have to do is take some pills and you’ll stop dreaming. End of story.”
Meghan felt a chill run through her. “Oh God,” she said.
“You told me about it, so he knows about it,” said Derek. “The fact that he didn’t suggest it to Sylvanne means he wants to carry on with the status quo, don’t you think?”
“Or else he didn’t think of it because it didn’t register when he heard about it, or he’s forgotten about it.”
“Well now he knows. Thomas, my man, there’s a readymade plan. It’s up to you to accept or reject it.”
She clenched her hands together tightly and brought them to her chest. A sudden pain had seized her, a premonition of heartbreak.
“What is it?” Derek asked.
“Nothing.
“Should I come over?”
“No. I told you Betsy’s here.”
“I’m offering comfort, not anything out of bounds.”
“Thank you. But comfort would be more physical than I want her to see between us right now. We had a talk—it’s all been a bit much for her with the separation, and her dad springing the idea of a new wife and baby on her. She wants me to herself right now. I don’t think she’d like to see us hugging.”
“That’s cool. Wouldn’t want her running into traffic again.”
“No, definitely not.” She relaxed a little, and reached down to put her hand on his, atop the fence. “Comfort can come from just holding hands,” she said.
He didn’t say anything.
“You’re very patient,” she said.
He shrugged. “You’re not?”
“No. I’m just—I can’t wait for the night. I want to see what he does.”
47
Sylvanne wanted to be married as soon as possible, and Thomas, taking her at her word, decreed a mere two days from proposal to ceremony. The wedding would thus be a hurried, intimate, nearly private affair. Daphne appointed herself Mademoiselle In Charge Of The Bridal Gown, but there was no time to sort through rolls of fabric or consult with dressmakers. Here Sylvanne’s practicality came to the fore, and the former farm girl settled for what was at hand, a kirtle of pale green silk she found in Daphne’s mother’s wardrobe, which she then transformed by adorning the neckline and bodice with embroidered pink flowers from one of her own dresses. “Would it trouble your father if I wore this?” she