Read Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1) Page 21
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Bette pushed open her front door and automatically checked her watch. Nearly eleven o’clock, and she had to unpack and go through files she hadn’t finished reviewing this weekend at her brother’s house in Minneapolis.
It was a lovely house, and it had been wonderful to see the whole family, with her parents up from Arizona for two weeks to visit their new baby granddaughter—although Bette didn’t envy her sister-in-law a fortnight of houseguests on top of a rambunctious two-year-old and a new baby. Still, Claire had seemed to greet the chaos with equanimity.
Bette frowned as she maneuvered her suitcase down the hall and around the corner to her bedroom. Perhaps there would have been less chaos if there’d been less equanimity. It only required some planning, some forethought. She knew that wasn’t Claire’s strong point, but surely Ron had learned that at home, as she had.
As it was, her decision to rent a car had been wise. Otherwise she never would have made those business appointments she’d set up.
She slipped off her coat and rubbed her forehead, pushing against muscles tightened by the frown. The odd thing was, her parents had seemed perfectly content to go with the flow, no matter how undirected. She didn’t remember them being that relaxed when she’d been growing up.
She remembered them following the precepts her mother had learned from her own parents—selecting a goal, working toward it step by careful step and never wavering until you reached it. That made for a very organized life. That was how she’d always viewed her parents. Maybe they’d changed in the relaxed atmosphere of her father’s early retirement.
She pressed her fingertips harder against the frown. Or could her memories be skewed?
Her hand went from her forehead to her mouth to cover a huge yawn. She should go to bed.
Instead, she returned to the front table where her neighbor had stacked her mail and newspapers. She flipped through quickly, checking each envelope but opening only those she couldn’t immediately identify. Nothing. Nothing of interest, anyhow.
Hitting the play button on her answering machine, she listened to the neighbor who’d checked her mail ask her to care for her cat the following weekend. A longtime friend passing through the area called to say hello. Then came two real estate brokers confirming appointments she’d made to interview them. And Darla suggesting she take Monday morning off since her return flight was so late.
The tape ended, the machine clicked and whirred, resetting itself, and Bette sighed deep and long.
She’d been looking for something from Paul Monroe.
The realization didn’t startle her; she’d been too busy all weekend trying not to think of him to be surprised that she was thinking about him. But it did irk her.
She’d had relationships with men before. A few. Each as carefully constructed as the rest of her life. She set the parameters; she guided the pace. She knew when the first kiss was coming, and she was prepared to stem or accept greater intimacy, depending on her feelings for the man. But this was something different. There was no predicting Paul Monroe, so there was no preparing for him. Nor for her response. That frightened her. No, disturbed her. Yes, disturbed was a better word.
She wasn’t accustomed to it, she didn’t understand it. Not that she was in danger of really falling for the guy. She saw his flaws too clearly. She didn’t view him the way, say, her sister-in-law saw Ronald’s faults as somehow endearing, or the way her mother took her father’s worst habits in unblinking stride.
But what kind of namby-pamby person spent several days giving a man every clear signal she could to keep things strictly business, then turned around and hoped he’d call or write? She’d made her decision, and it was the right one. Paul Monroe was not her kind of man.
A tingle along her spine shivered her skin. Her lips parted in memory. Not your kind of man? Oh, really?
All right, in the realm of moonlit kisses on urban beaches or embraces in a darkened car, he was most definitely her kind of man. That made it worse.
The blank red stare of the answering machine reminded her that he’d listened to her signals. He’d taken his moonlight kisses, darkened embraces and their accompanying danger and, for all intents and purposes, disappeared from her life. Other than sending him bills from Top-Line Temporaries, she’d finished with Paul Monroe.
She sighed again, then slapped down the pile of mail and headed along the hall with firm steps. It was good that he hadn’t tried to call or write. In fact, perfect. She’d get her life back to normal. All her spare time this week would be devoted to searching for the right house. She had gotten behind on her timetable, what with unexpected dinners, unscheduled pumpkin buying and a full week of avoiding the telephone when it rang, then listening for it to ring when it didn’t.
She might actually get some work done tomorrow with him out of her life.
* * * *
At fifteen minutes before four o’clock the next afternoon, he re-entered Bette’s life, if somewhat obliquely, when Janine Taylor walked into her office and announced she would rather quit Top-Line than spend another second as Paul Monroe’s temporary assistant.