4
S-T-U-P-E-F-I-E-D
Claire hung behind Ryder as he strode down the hall toward the dining room. In an effort to make up for her solo ice-skating venture—as far as he knew anyway—Ryder promised he’d take her horseback riding tomorrow and spend the next day exploring the area, maybe even a little hiking, if the weather cooperated. Hopefully, they could spend as many day trips away from this haunted mansion as possible.
Before today, she hadn’t seen him in a week. His toothbrush had migrated about the bathroom, plus the ebb and flow of the laundry pile, so she knew he was coming home each night. Not that she had been much more available.
As she’d already learned to expect in the cavernous mansion, the dining room was ostentatious. If the ceilings weren’t so high, she’d feel claustrophobic thanks to the ominous crystal chandelier that hung precariously overhead. In earthquake territory. It was the sort that came crashing down in thriller movies, crushing the villain because the hero was too honorable to kill him directly. She shivered at the thought and averted her gaze.
From what must be the kitchen, a slim, graceful woman in expensive-looking slacks and a silk top glided toward her. “You must be Claire. I’m Patricia.” Not Pat or Patty, but Patricia. Her presentation matched the house, down to the platinum hair.
Claire shook a sturdy, firm hand. Brain surgeon, she reminded herself. As soon as Patricia released her, Claire stuffed her hands in her pockets to hide her fidget. She painted a polite smile across her face and remembered all those manners her parents had drilled into her. Not that the Dabney house was formal, but her parents insisted she at least know how to behave. Claire made a mental note to call home later with profuse thanks.
“Thank you so much for having me. You have a beautiful home.” It didn’t matter what the home looked like, you always compliment it to your host or hostess. She may be awkward, but she knew how to fit in. Sort of. Pay a respectful compliment or keep your trap shut.
Patricia waved her hand and rolled her eyes nonchalantly. “Aren’t you sweet.” Oh boy. Condescension, here we come. Why did everyone always call her sweet? Annoying, really.
Behind her, the raspy bass of a former smoker clearing his throat caught her attention. “Claire. Bill Stellan. Welcome to Foothills.”
She turned to see Ryder’s stepdad. He looked a little more human than his wife. More relaxed, she supposed. With crinkled eyes and weathered skin, he still embodied the forester he’d begun his career as. No longer out in the field, his belly and cheeks were rounded from a more sedentary lifestyle.
She followed along and sat in her assigned seat next to Ryder. Surprisingly, the family all sat at one end of the colossal table. Must be so they didn’t need to holler across the huge table to ask for the salt.
Claire was just lowering her napkin to her lap whenhewalked in. Her skating partner. The hockey player. The one that got away.
Dammit, don’t think like that.
Luck, fate, Aphrodite, whoever was currently messing with her life, was pissing her off. Things with Ryder were complicated enough.
Part in panic and part in crushing exhilaration, her heart fluttered wildly in her chest like a stampeding herd of bison. Not that she’d ever heard bison stampede in real life. Dressed in casual jeans slung low on his narrow hips, a fitted black t-shirt, bare feet, and surfer blond hair tousled playfully, he sauntered in like an actor on the cover of a magazine trying to show his bad-boy side. He was clearly the black sheep of the Mallory family. Damned if it didn’t make her like him even more.
Biting her lip, she tried to hide her response. To suppress the massive grin of joy that her hormones were thrusting out in all directions, declaring that everything was going to be okay.
The second he saw her, the air rushed out of the room like she was being sucked into the vacuum of space. Might be less painful, at least, inevitably imploding at the force of the extreme pressure change.
His gaze rested on her for a moment. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.
Good. He was as miserable and thrilled as she was. Maybe that frivolous romance novel hadn’t been wrong after all? At least she didn’t have to travel back to the ancient Highlands to find him.
Hopefully, no one noticed their matching flushed cheeks, or would at least assume it was because of the blazing, oversized fireplace. At least she wasn’t freezing in the winter weather anymore, but the man was dangerous to her health, inducing premature hot flashes.
He sat in his assigned seat across the table, flicked his napkin as he lowered it to his lap, and leaned back in his chair, adopting a poker face and pretending he was completely at ease. In the blink of an eye, she ceased to exist, moment gone. Like her presence didn’t cause every nerve in his body to fire at once, urging him to take her hand and run for the hills together.
Of all the...
