way up to her underarms.
“Oh, God.” She giggled. “Stop. I’m ticklish!”
“Gonna get your boots?”
“Yes!” she shrieked. “Yes.”
“Then go,” he said, freeing her abruptly.
Amanda took off at a run—she never ran in the house—giggling and laughing all the way.
“Hurry back,” he shouted after her. “Or I’ll come up and get you.”
For one treacherous moment, Amanda considered letting him do just that. In her bedroom, she kicked off her loafers, shoved her feet into her black cowboy boots, and ran—good grief, she was running again—back down the stairs.
She was grinning when she stomped into the kitchen. “All right. I’m ready to go. Are you satisfied?”
“God, you’re so beautiful.”
Amanda’s grin faded. What was she doing? What was she thinking? She had no business running off with Rabb Whitelaw for an afternoon of…merriment. She had dishes to wash. And plans to make. For her wedding. To his brother.
She gripped the back of a kitchen chair so hard her knuckles turned white. Because she had to hang on or go tearing out the door with him. “You’d better go,” she said.
“Mandy—”
“Just go, Rabb. Now. Please.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Get out!”
A moment later he was gone. And she was alone. Again.
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