broke off as James scowled at him.
“I mean, complicated. My life is really complicated. The last thing I need is to get involved with any woman. Even one as interesting and cute as Chloe.”
“Okay,” James said, satisfied for the moment on that count.
After about twenty minutes, he looked out the car window, and there, a block away, was Chloe’s shop, that huge, old Victorian where she lived with her two cousins and Addie. He saw some kind of commotion out front and two, no, three camera crews and some of those big, tall lights the TV people used when they filmed things.
James charged into the mass of crazy, garment-bag-wielding brides, just as one of them drew back to take a swing at Chloe, who looked like a waif in her pajama bottoms and one of those stretchy little spaghetti-strap tops she liked to sleep in.
He thought those were the sexiest things he’d ever seen.
Especially when she wore one of those tops and nothing else except a little scrap of lacy panties. Chloe at her softest, most inviting, rumpled best.
God, he’d missed her!
Just then, another bride took a swing at her with her garment bag. The blow sent her stumbling backward. James stepped in and caught her hard against him, feeling a huge surge of relief, just having his arms around her. She went limp like she suddenly didn’t have any bones and looked absolutely stunned, either from the blow or seeing him, he couldn’t be sure. He lifted her up into his arms, glaring at the garment-bag-slinging woman, daring her or anyone else to come close to Chloe now that he had her.
Chloe reached out a hand to ever so lightly touch the side of his face, like she needed to know he was real. “James?”
“It’s okay,” he said, tucking her face against his chest, trying to reassure himself that she was truly okay. “I’ve got you.”
When he lifted his head, he realized the crowd had quieted, finally.
They were all staring at him and her, and he realized there were a few still photographers there and that they were clicking away at the scene.
He didn’t care.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked, spotting Chloe’s half sister, who’d always been the sanest one of the family.
“They want their money back for their dresses,” she said, glaring at him.
“Write them checks, if that’s what it takes to get them to leave,” he said.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Adam, who’d fought his way to James’s side. Adam, who had a check James had just written in the car, a check with lots of zeroes on it. Let everyone think Adam was covering the new debts, too. James would find a way to explain exactly what was going on to Chloe later.
His first thought was to get her away from this crowd, inside, maybe even carry her upstairs to her cute, quirky attic apartment, where he’d bumped his head on the low, sloped ceilings more than once. To the big cream-colored iron bed he used to share with her.
He hesitated, wondering if he was making a mistake by not taking her to his apartment in the city. Here she could kick him out whenever she pleased. When she got her second wind, she’d start her whole I-don’t-need-anyone routine. But he couldn’t risk giving this mob a second chance at her. That settled it. He took her inside.
Reluctantly, he set Chloe on her feet just inside the doorway. She seemed so slight standing there in front of him, so sad and defeated. He put his hand to the side of her face, tilting it up toward the light.
“Is it just this?” he asked, finding a slight swelling at her cheekbone. “Or are you hurt anywhere else?”
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
But her face was pale as could be, a few tiny, light brown freckles that he knew she hated spread across her nose and cheeks. He used to tease her that her freckles looked like fairy dust and kiss each one. God, he’d lost his head completely over this woman the first time and was clearly in danger of doing the same thing again.
He couldn’t help it.
He leaned down, his face lingering against hers, the tip of his nose pressed against her skin, soaking in the sweet, wild essence of Chloe, drawing his other hand through her pretty blond hair. It was even longer than it used to be and hanging loose and messy, the way he remembered it from rare mornings when she’d arisen from her bed before he left.
She was not a morning person, had always said she did her best work late at night. He didn’t mind. It was fine to get up and dressed and be able to stand there and stare at her in a rumpled bed, her hair all wild around her face, those little sprinkles of fairy dust on her bare cheeks.
How had he ever managed to drag himself away?
How would he do it again?
Was he not going to think of saving himself from her a second time? Self-preservation was usually one of his strong suits. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.
He picked her up once again and carried her upstairs.
Chloe was still thinking it all had to be a dream.
Monkeys escaped from zoos at times and attacked people. Bears walked out of the woods and into camping areas. Every now and then an elephant got loose from its ankle stakes.
But who got attacked by crazy, garment-bag-wielding brides?
Didn’t happen.
She’d never heard of it happening, never read about it, never imagined it. What made it even more improbable was that James Elliott IV would show up, charge into the crowd and rescue her from them. Yet, in her muddled mind, that’s what had happened.
He laid her gently on the unmade bed in her little attic apartment, then sat down by her side, looking concerned and strong and tall and absolutely gorgeous.
She whimpered and then said, “Pinch me.”
He frowned, touched his hand to the side of her face, feeling the spot where she thought the shoes in one of the brides’ garment bags had gotten her. “Do you need a doctor? I’ll take you.”
“No, I mean … I think I’m dreaming …” Then thought how that might sound to him.
I was dreaming you came charging to my rescue, after a year without a word from you …?.
No, not going there.
Not with James, especially if he really was here.
“I dreamed I was being attacked by brides with bouquets,” she said.
Which had him looking even more concerned. “Flowers? Chloe, those were garment bags—”
“No, I know that! I’m just confused,” she said. “Not in that concussion sort of way. In that this-is-really-weird kind of way. You know?”
“Yes,” he agreed, still looking worried.
God,
