“She was banged up pretty good, but I think she’ll be okay now that she’s getting medical attention.”
“I hope she’ll recover quickly. I have to admit, I was pretty scared when they went off the road, and when I saw all the blood on her legs.”
“Me, too.”
She tilted her head, looking at his grim profile. “Really? You seemed so calm.”
“All an outside act for Cheryl’s sake. Inside, I was one blood spurt away from losing my cookies.”
“You’re a handy guy to have around in a crisis,” she said lightly, trying to recapture the pleasant mood of earlier that day.
“So everyone keeps telling me,” he said, staring fiercely at the wet road ahead. “But sometimes I think it would be nice not to always be the go-to guy.”
She bit her lip, frowning a little in response to his tone. Was he really tired of everyone depending on him, or was this just his reaction to the nerve-racking incident, much like her own shaking hands?
As if sensing her thoughts, he shook his head impatiently. “I don’t mean that, of course. I’m glad we were there to help. Just shook me up, that’s all.”
“Me, too.”
“Maybe we’d better skip the diner this trip,” he said.
Putting irrelevant thoughts out of her mind—for now—she glanced down at her clothes. “I think that’s best, since I look like a drowned rat.”
He shot a very quick glance at her before focusing on the road again. “I wouldn’t call you a drowned rat. A drowned kitten, maybe. Much cuter.”
&nb
sp; She smiled for the first time since they’d seen the motorcycle tumble off the road. “Oh, thanks so much.”
His chuckle sounded very weary. Thinking of all that had happened that eventful day, she sat back in her seat and let him concentrate on the road ahead.
It was certainly late enough for dinner by the time Paul drove into the inn’s parking lot. Bonnie directed him to drive around to the back, closer to her apartment entrance. Rain pounded the top of his car now and the surrounding mountaintops were illuminated by flashes of lightning followed moments later by a cranky grumble of thunder. Parking behind her little sedan, which was protected beneath a small carport, Paul reached behind his seat and retrieved a black umbrella.
“Hang on,” he said, “I’ll come around and get you. I only have the one umbrella.”
She looked wryly down at her soiled clothing. “I don’t think a little rain will hurt me.”
As if to protest her use of the word little, a gust of wind threw a heavy wave of rain at the car, accompanied by another distant growl of thunder as the center of the storm blew nearer. “I’ll come around,” Paul repeated, then drew a deep breath and opened his door.
Leaving the damp blanket in the car, she clutched her small bag to her chest and huddled with him beneath the umbrella during the short dash to her door. None of the guests were out in this weather, of course, nor did she see any sign of her brother or sister. Kinley’s car had been in the front lot, so she was probably in the parlor with the guests, keeping an eye on the weather reports.
Paul kept an arm around her bare shoulders to hold her close beneath the umbrella. He didn’t release her even when they ducked beneath the small gable roof above her private entrance. He angled the umbrella to protect her from blowing rain as she fumbled with her key and unlocked the door.
Turning the doorknob, she looked up at him. “Come in with me. I’ll make us something for dinner. Maybe the storm will let up some before you leave.”
He motioned toward his grimy clothes. “I’m hardly fit company.”
“Come in, Paul.” She pushed open the door.
He hesitated only a heartbeat before dropping the umbrella on the porch, shuffling his wet feet on the outside mat and following her inside. She closed the door behind him.
Because her apartment formed a half basement beneath the south-facing inn, which had been built on a downward slope, she had windows only on two sides, west and north. To compensate for the lack of natural light, she’d chosen pale woods and bright colors for her decor. Her floor was made of large, diagonally placed porcelain tiles styled to resemble stone, so she didn’t have to worry about tracking in a mess.
She kicked off her wet boots as soon as she was inside, tossed her purse on a chair and turned to study her guest. She couldn’t help but shake her head at the sight of him. With his wet, tousled hair and his blood-and-dirt-streaked clothes, he was still incredibly appealing, but decidedly bedraggled.
“You’ll be more comfortable if you take off your boots,” she suggested. And then, remembering something, she said, “I’ll be right back.” She made a dash for the small laundry room attached to her kitchen.
She returned moments later carrying a pair of men’s jeans and a large gray T-shirt. “Maybe you’d like to put on some clean, dry clothes before we eat. I can toss yours in the washer during dinner. I can’t guarantee fit on these jeans, but they look close to your size, I think.”