what I thought you were,” Boone said after a while.
“The flakey hairstylist syndrome, huh?”
“What’s that?”
“When people hear you’re a hairstylist they assume certain things about you. That you’re arty and creative and impulsive and undependable and have scads of tattoos.”
“And you’re not those things?”
She notched up her chin. “I’m dependable.”
“Do you have any more tattoos? I mean, besides the dolphin.”
She felt the heat of his gaze roll over her. “Would you be disappointed or relieved if I said no?”
He shrugged, didn’t answer. Silence filled the car. Tara sneaked another glance over at Boone. He was studying her with a pensive expression on his face, as if she were as mysterious to him as a platypus.
“How come you don’t date?” she asked.
“With this?” He waved a hand at his knee.
“You’re using that as an excuse.”
“That’s because it is an excuse. Can’t perform bedroom gymnastics in a metal leg brace.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“No, I haven’t tried.”
“Then how do you know what you can’t do?”
“Because—”
“I get it. Performance anxiety. You’re afraid of rejection.”
“I’m not afraid of rejection.” He snorted.
“You know, if you had a girlfriend, you might not be so jealous of your sister Jackie’s happiness.”
“I’m not jealous of Jackie’s happiness!” he growled.
“Um, yeah, okay.”
“I’m not!”
“You’re traveling three thousand miles with a former cheerleader who makes you uncomfortable in a Honda Accord pulling a U-Haul trailer just to stop Jackie from marrying the man she’s madly in love with.”
“You don’t make me uncomfortable.”
That gave Tara pause. She was glad she had a reason to keep her eyes straight ahead, but she could feel the heat of his stare. “You don’t have to be polite. If you don’t dislike me as you claim, how come you never came to my parties?”
“I’m not a party guy.”
“How come you shut your curtains when you see me coming across the street to your house?”
“I’m not good company.”
“How come you won’t ask me to drive you to the doctor or the grocery store? And don’t say pride, because I know you’ve let some of the other neighbors help you.”
“Because I have nothing to offer you,” he said so faintly she wasn’t sure she heard him.
She moistened her lips. The tension in the car stretched tight. His breathing was rough. Her breathing was none too smooth either. “I didn’t want anything from you other than to be a good neighbor. It’s not like I wanted to jump your bones or anything.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Well, maybe I wanted you to.”
WHY THE HELL had he told Tara that?
Her sharp inhalation filled the car. “You…you want to jump my bones?”
“I wouldn’t put it so crudely, but yeah, I’ve had a fantasy or two about you.” Shut up! Just shut your damn mouth right now. Don’t say another freaking word.
“Real-ly?” She sounded pleased. “I’ve had a fantasy or two about you, too.”
Boone felt as uncomfortable as a woolly sheep in a Swedish sauna. His body tightened in all the wrong places. Or all the right places. Depending on how you looked at it.
He moistened his lips. Traffic was slowing. Up ahead he could see a flashing roadside sign with an arrow indicating they should merge left.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Well,” Tara said breezily, “I think we’re admitting to a mutual attraction.”
“Not that. The road.”
“Oh.” She shifted her attention to the road and then glanced into the rearview mirror. She flicked on the turn signal and started edging over to the far lane. “Looks like we’ve run into some roadwork.”
“Dammit,” Boone swore under his breath, secretly grateful to have an excuse to get out of their conversation.
Traffic slowed to a crawl and then stopped altogether.
Boone shifted in his seat. His knee was achy—when wasn’t it?—and every muscle in his body was wound tense. He’d known that the drive to Florida with Tara would be a challenge. What he hadn’t expected was to turn into a damn chatterbox, confessing stuff he had no business confessing to her. His plan had been to keep his trap shut and simply endure. He’d shot that all to hell.
Tara hummed tunelessly, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. Long, slender fingers with nails painted the color of Pacific salmon. Bright and eye-catching, just like the woman wearing it.
Boone slid a melted-butter gaze over her, slippery and hot. He couldn’t believe how much she rattled him with that beguiling smile of hers and that chirpy go-getter attitude. She had the body of a professional dancer and she smelled like a strawberry patch—all ripe and juicy. Why did she have to be so damn appealing?
Stop thinking about her. It’s not like you can act on the attraction. No bedroom activities for you. Not with that bum leg. While you’re at it, stop staring at her.
He shifted his gaze out the side window, saw rows and rows of cornfields. Nothing in the scenery to distract him.
Think about Jackie. She’s the reason you’re here. You’ve got to make it to Key West before she marries that coastie.
It had been a while since he’d tried to call his little sister. Maybe she’d relented and turned on her voice mail. Maybe she’d come to her senses and realized getting married to someone she barely knew was a huge mistake. Resolutely ignoring Tara, who was stretching the kinks from her neck muscles, Boone took his cell phone from his front pocket and punched in Jackie’s number.
It rang and rang and rang. No voice mail picked up. Finally, after the twentieth ring, he hung up. His sister must still be royally ticked off at him. With a growl, he switched off the phone and stuck it back into his pocket.
They hadn’t moved an inch in the traffic jam. They were behind a white Chevy pickup truck loaded down with
