Free Runaway Bridesmaid by Karen Templeton Page B

without her.
    Oh, sure, his ego had taken it on the chin when she’d refused to listen to him, when she insisted his intentions toward her were less than circumspect. It had hurt. But now, in the daylight, he supposed he’d been the victim of some sort of nostalgic fantasy. That seeing her, after all this time…well, it wouldn’t be the first time his imagination had taken off without him.
    Despite a physical attraction so intense it scared him, it wasperfectly obvious now that nothing but guilt had driven him over there last night.
    The muffin leapt out of the toaster, making him jump. He snatched it, wincing as the heat seared through his calluses, and dropped it onto a plate.
    So, hey—if she wasn’t interested in what he had to say, he sure wasn’t going to bust his butt over it. Besides, there were other women who’d listen to him just fine. Lots of ’em. Especially in Atlanta.
    Which had led him to debunking Nostalgic Fantasy Number Two, which was that Sweetbranch was no more a part of his life these days than Sarah was. After all, he had a thriving business in Atlanta which was just about to expand; he had even already looked at a couple of possible factory sites. Upward of a dozen people worked for him, depended on him; with the expansion, that number could easily grow to fifty. More.
    That he hated living in a big city, he thought as he finally pulled himself together enough to butter the muffin, couldn’t be allowed to factor into the equation. He’d made his economic bed in Atlanta, so that’s where he’d have to lie for the foreseeable future. Even if it killed him.
    Carrying the muffin with him, he found his way to the coffeemaker and filled the cup nearest to his shaking hand, refusing to look again at his aunt until he’d taken at least three large swallows of the brew. The instant he clunked the cup onto the counter, though, she said, “Heard you go out last night.”
    He pivoted his torso only as much as necessary to face her, managing to form a tiny, contrite smile. Anything larger hurt too much. “Sorry. I wake you?”
    â€œNo.” She scrutinized him from between slitted, bald eyelids. “What were you doing?”
    â€œJust went for a walk.” Another swallow of coffee.
    â€œWhere?”
    He was beginning to remember why leaving hadn’t been as difficult as it might have been. He finally turned all the way to her, leaning against the front of the sink. “Nowhere in particular. Just couldn’t sleep.” Inside his skull, a marching band began drill practice.
    â€œHeard Sarah Whitehouse’s truck go by about one. You go to meet her?”
    Dean clamped a hand to his head to stop the pounding. “No.” Which was the truth, after all.
    â€œNo sense digging up old bones.”
    â€œYes, I know.” He lowered his hand, then blinked, carefully. “I wouldn’t worry myself, if I were you.” He finished off the coffee, rinsed out the cup and set it upside down on the dish towel on the counter. “After my shower, I’m going up to the house. See what condition it’s in.”
    The blue eyes brightened. “You fixin’ to sell it, finally?”
    The headache made him contrary. “Haven’t made up my mind yet.”
    Â 
    You had to hand it to Miss Clarissa Ellis, Sarah mused as she gingerly sat on a velvet wing chair in the lady’s living room, nursing her second cup of coffee. The woman sure knew her way around a Singer. For more than forty years, the tiny brunette had been considered the town’s high priestess of fashion. Of course, in her heyday, women still wore elegant clothes, at least some of the time, at least in Alabama, enough, anyway, that Miss Ellis could easily keep five or six seam-stresses busy. Nowadays, though, there wasn’t much call for custom-made clothing, except for the occasional wedding party.
    Which was why Sarah was currently