Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1)

  * * * *

  The rest of the weekend passed without another mention of Bette.

  Paul wished his mind had been as cooperative.

  Driving home Sunday night, he found himself on I-55 instead of his usual meandering back roads, almost as if he were in a hurry. When he swung north on the Tri-State, he justified it as trying a new way back to his apartment. That excuse held until he got off at the Elmhurst exit. In front of Bette’s house, he was out of excuses.

  Also out of luck, he thought wryly as he considered the dark windows. Either she wasn’t home or she was in bed.

  Bette in bed. The image appeared instantly, hot and heady behind his eyes. The sheets cool and serene like her voice, but with that promise under them of smooth heat.

  He shifted. Too abruptly. His right thigh jammed against the steering wheel. He closed his eyes against the thoughts, then opened them immediately. Closing his eyes made it worse.

  She probably wasn’t home. Common sense said ten o’clock on a Sunday night was a little early to go to bed, unless...unless you weren’t alone.

  Sense drowned in unfamiliar jealousy. A meeting with a client Thursday night. A Friday morning departure for an out-of-town trip. Could one have extended into the other? Could she be away with someone? Could she . . .?

  No. Bette wouldn’t have kissed him the way she had if she’d been involved with someone else. The certainty in his gut was stronger than common sense or jealousy. He relaxed.

  So she wasn’t home yet.

  He could leave a note—and say, what?

  A snatch of lyric from an old song entered his head, something about the singer’s determination to get his girl, and his lips curved. Yup, that was exactly what he wanted to say. But some things were better left unsaid—and simply acted upon.

  She might think she’d shaken him loose. She might think he’d forget the laughter and teasing, the kissing and the holding. She might think his ego would forget all that after a week’s worth of refusals. She thought wrong.

  He turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb in front of Bette’s house, still smiling and softly singing to himself.