shade of periwinkle, rimmed in a darker sapphire with the tiniest threads of gold shot through the middle. Her lashes were long and thick, her brows delicately, perfectly arched. A natural beauty mark just above her lip on the left side drew his gaze to her full, soft mouth. A mouth that inspired a dozen provocative thoughts.
Despite the symbol of purity and innocence her wedding gown implied, there was a natural, subtle air of sensuality about her. A contradiction of guilelessness and allure that aroused a man’s basic interest. Yet he got the distinct impression that she wasn’t aware of her appeal, didn’t know the mesmerizing effect she had on men. She didn’t flaunt herself, didn’t tease or flirt to attract attention. She didn’t need to. Mother Nature had blessed her—or cursed her, depending on how she viewed the situation—with a perfect face and body and a vibrancy that seemed to naturally radiate outward.
And then she wet her bottom lip with her tongue. Nothing sly or calculated about the gesture, but it certainly grabbed his attention and caused an unmistakable heat to thrum through his veins.
He suddenly felt ridiculously tongue-tied.
A sweet smile lifted her enticing mouth, but it didn’t erase the haunting shadows in her eyes. Blinking slumberously, she slouched onto the table and propped her chin in her palm. She stared up at him in a dreamy sort of way, an effect he attributed to the alcohol she’d consumed.
“Hi.” The one word floated to Garrett on a husky sigh of breath, wrapping around his already overloaded senses like a silky, physical caress.
Clearing his throat, he forced himself to remember his manners. “Ma’am. Are you okay?”
“I’mmm…fine,” she said brightly, and gulped the last little bit of liquor in her snifter. “I’m jus’…great.”
She was far from fine, and closer to the despair fringing her false bravado. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Her brows creased as she thought about his question. “Yeah, I think I could use some coffee. Lots of cream and sugar.” She yawned, and her lashes drooped. “No more Armar…etto. It’s making me sooo seepy.” She giggled at her slur, then tried, “I mean ti-erd.”
Stifling a grin, he motioned for the bar waitress and ordered the woman a cup of strong, black coffee. When he glanced back at the bride, he found her brushing at an unmanageable curl along her cheek, which kept springing back into place. A look of utter disgust flitted across her face.
“I hate my curly hair,” she grumbled, blowing a frustrated stream of breath at the unruly strand. “Stupid curls never stay where I put them. Did you know I wanted straight hair when I was a little girl?”
“Uh, no.” How could he have possibly known something so personal when he’d never met her before this evening?
Her eyes drifted closed, and just when Garrett thought she’d fallen asleep she spoke in a soft, wistful voice. “Every birthday I’d blow out the candles on my cake and wish for straight hair like my friend Cindy. It never happened.”
He took in the long, lustrous hair she seemed to curse, too fascinated by those springy, natural curls and the way they might cling to his fingers…or how the caress of the sun might turn the strands to rich gold.
Her eyes fluttered open a moment later, a wealth of vulnerability shining in their depths. Unsure how to reply to her strange conversation, and feeling way out of his element, he played it safe and remained quiet.
“My other wishes didn’t come true, either,” she confessed quietly. “I was supposed to marry a prince charming, and live happily ever after. I guess I’m just not very good at making wishes.”
Becky arrived with the coffee, saving him from having to formulate some kind of response. He knew the liquor was partially responsible for loosening her tongue, but he sensed her babbling about prince charmings and wishes somehow tied into the reason why she’d skipped out on her wedding day.
“Today was suppos’ to be the happiest day of my life,” she said once they were alone again, her soft voice quivering with emotion. “That’s what my mom told me before she died, but it’s the worst day of my life. All I wanted was a teensy-weensy bit of re-spec-ta-bil-ity, but I’ll never, ever be respectable.”
Aw, hell. What offense had she committed that was so awful she believed herself unworthy of respect? Compassion stirred within him, along with a good dose of curiosity over her comment. He quickly stifled both, refusing to tangle himself in this woman’s emotional turmoil. Once he gleaned some pertinent information from her so Harlan could contact someone to pick her up, his duty would be done and he could get back to that cold beer Harlan had promised him.
And forget about this complex, periwinkle-eyed angel who seemed so lost and alone, and very vulnerable…and a possible scandal waiting to happen. The last thing he wanted or needed was speculation into his private life, and this mysterious woman would definitely provide that.
Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he reached for the cream and sugar and poured a generous amount of each into her coffee, as she’d requested, and pushed the mug in front of her, urging her to drink.
She took a great shuddering breath, and lifted her troubled gaze to his. “Do you think when I wake up tomorrow this will all be just a bad, horrible dream?”
He wished he could offer her that assurance, but instead tried to console her with an easy smile. “If you don’t drink some of this coffee, tomorrow you’re gonna end up with a bad, horrible hangover.”
A frown marred her delicate brows and she picked up the mug, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic. “I’m fine. Jus’ great.”
“Uh-huh,” he agreed, humoring her, knowing if she tried to stand at the moment she’d fall flat on her pretty face. Resting his fingers beneath the bottom of her mug, he guided it toward her mouth. Her lips settled over the rim, and she took a drink and cringed, at the sweetness or the strength of the coffee, he couldn’t be sure.
“What’s your name?” he asked, figuring he’d start with simple questions and work his way up to the more difficult ones as her mind cleared.
“Jenna Chestfield…” Confusion etched her expression as she considered that name, then she shook her head, causing more of those unruly strands to spill from the top of her head and curl on the soft swells of her breasts straining the bodice of her gown. “No, we never said ‘I do’, so I guess I’m still just Jenna Phillips.”
Just Jenna Phillips. There was a story in that, Garrett was sure, one he didn’t want to get involved in, he reminded himself as his gaze drifted to her left hand. The absence of a ring on her finger backed her claim that no marriage had taken place.
She propped her chin in her palm again, as if her pretty head was getting too heavy for her shoulders to support. Her eyes grew soft, slumberous. “What’s your name?”
“Garrett,” he replied, deciding to keep things between them on a first-name basis.
“Garrett,” she repeated, her husky voice making his name sound very intimate coming from her lips. “That’s a nice, strong, respectable name. Are you respectable?”
Abrupt laughter rose in his throat, but he had the good manners to catch it before it escaped. Wanting to get his chivalrous deed over with, he asked, “Jenna, is there someone we can call to come pick you up?”
She
