Unexpected Bride (13 page)

"You really should move back here and open an office."

Although she smiled to soften her refusal, Abby shook her head at the older woman. "I'm not staying. I only came for Molly's wedding."

A gentle hiss escaped the older woman, like steam from an iron. "The wedding that wasn't."

Now she knew who'd coined that particular phrase.

"Poor Molly." Mrs. Hild
tsked
her concern. "Do you know where she could be?"

Abby wasn't about to share her suspicions. Instead she pumped her arms and lifted her knees, beginning to jog in place. "I better get back to Mrs. Mick's. I don't want Lara to wake up in a strange place without me."

"See, honey, like I said, you are a good mother."

"Thank you." Her education, the business... Nothing meant as much to her as her daughter. Lara was the best thing Abby had ever done.

"Think about moving back to Cloverville, Abby. It would be a great place to raise your daughter—much safer than a big city."

"I'll think about it," she said as she plugged her earphones back in.

Abby swiped a hand across her eyes, wondering if they burned because of perspiration. But she hadn't run long or hard enough to work up a sweat. Yet. She would sprint back to the McClintock house. Waving goodbye to Mrs. Hild, she headed down Main Street at a jog, admiring the gleam in the windows of Mr. Carpenter's hardware store.

He needed help? Somehow she doubted that, but she knew from the others she'd talked to at the reception that the town actually did have a need for her business. Brenna could use more help at the bakery, which she'd expanded since taking over for her parents.

Abby inhaled the fragrance of baking bread and cinnamon rolls. Her stomach grumbled. Maybe she'd pick up some rolls before she headed back to Mrs. Mick's. Not that she needed any sugar.

She blinked again as she neared McClintock Insurance. She could remember, as a little girl, coming to the office with Molly and Colleen, how Mr. McClintock had always handed out candy. He'd had such a sweet tooth and had been such a kind man. Losing him had left a hole not only in the McClintock family but in the rest of Cloverville, too.

From everyone singing his praises at the reception the night before, she'd learned that Clayton had done his best to fill that void with his family and with the town. Had assuming his father's responsibilities filled the hole his dad's passing had undoubtedly left in Clayton's life?

Who had taken care of
him
eight years ago? Did he ever yearn, as Abby did, for something he couldn't quite name?

Her feet slowed as she paused outside the office next to the insurance agency, her attention drawn to a For Lease sign. The space was large enough for a branch office of Temps to Go. Maybe it was even large enough for the headquarters.

She'd kept her promise to Mrs. Hild. after all. But how could she even consider moving back to Cloverville? Because maybe Mrs. Hild was right and it would be a great, safe place to raise her daughter. Abby would make any sacrifice for Lara.

Did she dare ask Clayton about leasing the office?

No. She shook her head to clear the crazy idea from her mind. Then she geared up, ready to sprint. But before she could do more than draw a deep breath, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her back into the alley between buildings.

Cloverville safe? Yeah, right. She didn't bother screaming. No one was awake this early to hear her but Mrs. Hild, and she didn't want to scare the old woman into a heart attack.

Ignoring the mad pounding of her heart, Abby slammed her elbow into a hard stomach, stomped on her assailant's instep and then whirled, with her knee lifted. Her actions being trained reflexes learned in self-defense courses, she couldn't stop herself even though she recognized her assailant...right before she connected with her knee and dropped him onto the pavement.

Doubled over on the asphalt. Clayton groaned and gasped for breath. He hadn't wanted to scare Abby but, plugged into her music, she hadn't heard him call oul to her. When he'd caught her in his arms, he hadn't expected he'd be left writhing in the alley. God, he hurt.

"Clayton!" she shouted. "You shouldn't have grabbed me."

Wincing at the volume of her voice, he gestured toward his ears so she'd think to remove her earphones.

"Did you hit your head?" she asked, dropping beside him. She ran her fingers through his hair, as if checking for bumps.

His scalp tingled from her gentle touch.

"Are you okay?"

Pride had him nodding, even though he was in major pain. Good thing Nick had already left the apartment— he wouldn't have wanted another guy to see him like this, nearly curled up in the fetal position. He hated Abby seeing him like this. He sucked in a ragged breath, trying to be a man. If that was even possible after being kneed. He reached out and pulled the wires from her headphones.

"You can stop yelling. I'm not deaf."
Paralyzed, maybe.
"I called out to you, but you started running away."

"Clayton, I'm so sorry. I didn't hear you." Her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes grew soft with regret. But then they flashed again with anger. "You shouldn't have grabbed me, though."

He bit back a groan as he shifted on the ground. "I wanted to talk to you."

"And now you want to wring my neck again?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"I know better than to mess with you," he said. For a petite woman, she sure packed a wallop.

"Most men do," she declared, leaning down to offer him her hand.

He narrowed his eyes as he stared up at her. still doubled over. Then he waved off her hand and, with a grunt and a grimace, lurched to his feet. "Now I know how you survived when you took off on your own to the big city."

"I've been taking care of myself for a long time," she agreed. But she didn't have only herself to think about anymore; she had Lara. She needed to get back to Mrs. Mick's, but she couldn't leave Clayton until she knew he was really okay. He couldn't even stand up straight yet. Dirt smeared the white T-shirt he wore with faded jeans that rode low on his lean hips.

"Let me help you upstairs," she said, turning toward the stairwell that wound up the outside of his building.

The tight line of Clayton's mouth lifted into a slight grin. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time, too."

Himself or just everyone else? Abby wanted to ask him, but maybe it was better that she didn't learn any more about Clayton McClintock. Knowing how he kissed had kept her awake all night.

"I crippled you," she said. "Let me help." She eased close to his side and wound her arm around his back. Muscles rippled beneath her touch as Clayton tensed. She inhaled the scent of his citrusy aftershave.

"I'm not quite crippled," he said, as he maneuvered up the first step without leaning on her at all. "Maybe emasculated, though."

"Emasculated?" she repeated, strangling on a laugh. Even as a boy, Clayton McClintock had been all man, all testosterone and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, trying to take care of everyone even before his dad had gotten sick. Of course, at the time, she'd considered his behavior bossy and manipulative.

"Like you haven't emasculated a guy before," he groused.

The laugh she'd struggled to contain finally slipped out. "Yes, but usually only after I've dated them."

A chuckle rumbled in Clayton's chest, then he winced and some of his weight and warmth settled on her. "Don't make me laugh."

What amused him? The thought of her dating anyone else—or her dating
him?

Her skin tingled and heated. She gazed up into his face, so close to hers. And she thought again of the night before, of the kiss he'd stolen in the middle of the reception hall.

She closed her eyes as sensations rushed over her; she could almost taste him again. He'd tasted like champagne, dry and expensive and certain to make her lose control. It was why Abby didn't drink. With her ADD, she'd had enough of a struggle gaining control of her life and she couldn't afford to lose it, for anyone.

As she stumbled on the steps, Abby opened her eyes. Clayton supported her now, holding her steady so she wouldn't fall down.

"Well, you're fine," she said. In those old jeans and the smudged T-shirt that hugged every muscle of his long, lean body, he was much too fine for Abby's peace of mind. "I should go."

His hand wrapped around her arm, his fingers sliding over her bare skin. "Come inside for a while. We need to talk."

"Don't worry about it," she said as he ushered her through the door to his apartment. "I know it was nothing."

"What was nothing?" he asked as he closed the door behind them, shutting them inside his sun-drenched kitchen.

Abby gazed around the room, impressed with the antique cabinets, some of them polished oak and others painted deep burgundy and slate blue. Hardwood floors had been stripped and polished, as well, while the exterior walls remained bare, red brick. She grabbed a dish towel, then walked over to the fridge to fill it with ice from the dispenser.

"Abby!" Clayton shouted above the grinding of the ice machine.
"What
was nothing?"

Abby walked over to where he leaned against the marble counter. "Last night. The kiss." She reached toward his waist with her makeshift ice pack.

Clayton caught her wrist, his long fingers wrapping around her leaping pulse. "Just where are you thinking about putting that?"

"You're such a prude, Clayton," she teased, her eyes alight with a mischievous twinkle as she reached for the hem of his T-shirt. When she pushed the cotton above his stomach, her breath hissed out between her teeth.

He glanced down to see if she'd done as much damage with her elbow as she had with her knee, but she'd only marked him with an uneven red circle on his rib cage. "It's nothing," he assured her. Nothing, just like their kiss had been nothing. "It probably won't even bruise."

She pressed the ice-filled towel to the red mark. "You... You need to..."

"I don't need ice," he gasped as the cold, wet towel stuck to his skin. "I'm fine, really."

"Mm-mmmm..."

"Abby?" Although he called her name, she didn't look up, her attention focused on his bare chest and abdomen. She wasn't as uninterested in his boring self as she'd like him to believe. He covered her hand on the towel, pulling the ice away. "I don't need this," he said as he tossed the makeshift ice pack into the sink, the cubes clinking against the stainless steel surface.

"Lara doesn't like ice packs, either," she murmured.

"So what do you do to make her feel better?"

"I kiss..." Her face flushed red, and she pulled her gaze from his chest to meet his eyes.

Clayton's body hardened, the pain she'd inflicted forgotten as desire flared to life. She hadn't killed him, but getting involved with her would probably make him wish he were dead. He didn't need her kind of trouble in his life. But he couldn't stop himself from goading her. "Then, where's my kiss?"

Her eyes widened. "Clayton!"

"If kissing me is nothing..."

"Last night," she said, then licked her lips. "It was the wedding."

"There was no wedding."