A tall, stocky blond man in a navy suit joined them, and Lissa pulled him close.
“Gary, this is Rebecca Chastain, Josh’s friend. Rebecca, this is my husband, Gary. He runs the car dealership out on the road to Aberville.”
“From the newspaper.” Gary had a booming, happy voice, and his handshake was big to match. “Nice to meet you. Josh told us about you.”
She giggled to dispel the awkwardness, realized no one seemed to feel it but her. Josh’s eyes were on her, and her palms began to itch. Air. Need some air.
“Excuse me a moment. I … I’ll be right back.”
Moments later, she was pushing through the French doors atthe rear of the room, gulping deep breaths as she stepped into the evening. The door clicked shut behind her, and she walked quickly, grateful to have a moment alone to think, to collect herself.
She stepped to the edge of the patio, gripped the stone ledge, and forced her heart to settle. Behind her, the music was pulsing and peppy, and she squeezed her eyes shut, made herself count to thirty in her head. The straps on her cocktail dress felt too tight, prickly. What was going on with her?
It was too much—months of living like a relative hermit, her only entertainment reading or watching reruns with Granny, and now not one but two men interested in her, and at a swanky party to boot?
Memories of New York, of Peter, of Peter and Alyssa all rushed back, and she gritted her teeth, willed herself to rein in the flood of emotions threatening to spill. Coming tonight was a mistake. She had no business playing socialite in a swingy gold cocktail dress, not after everything. She had no business flirting, not when she had express no-dating orders from her therapist. Get it together, Rebecca.
Unexpectedly she thought about Devon, and with all her heart wished she were back home at Granny’s in her snuggliest PJs, reading the next chapter in her crime novel. The breeze picked up, made her shiver, and in the distance, she could hear thunder rumble. She wrapped her arms around herself, forcing herself to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth.
The door to the patio opened, letting in whatever swing tune the band was playing. She turned, expecting to see Josh.
“Rebecca?”
But it wasn’t Josh’s voice she heard.
Instead it was Erik Wennerman standing there, glass in hand and smiling at her, beckoning to the room behind him.
“Come. Dance with me!”
It was the last thing in the world she wanted. Too late, she realized she was backing away, and now her spine was pressed tight against the stone wall overlooking the river beyond.
“You can’t escape that easily,” he quipped, a low chuckle. But that was exactly what she wanted to do—escape, run, hightail it out of there.
Instead, she forced a laugh. “I’m not much for dancing. Rain check?”
“Nope.” That dimple appeared in one cheek, and he set his glass down on the ledge, stepped closer. “I think you get to make it up to me for accusing me of being a lowlife scoundrel in cahoots with my father to take over your newspaper.”
“Ah, no, I—” She wanted to go. Get out. Be anywhere but there.
“Come on.” His voice was almost a purr. “One dance. You can’t deny you feel something for me.”
He was too close now, and she swallowed. Lightning flickered in the distance.
Erik stepped in close, took her hand, and started to tug her toward him.
“Erik, stop …” She put a hand flat on his chest, stepped decidedly back.
But he stepped even closer, yanked her hard to him, and before she knew what was happening his mouth was on hers.
Hot anger bubbled inside and she tried to wrench free, but he held on tight.
The music grew louder, and she wriggled away in time to see the patio door opening and someone stepping through.
“Hey, Becks, come on! There’s a … oh!” It was Josh who stood there. He had two lemonades in his hands, and as she watched, his face flashed from shocked to angry to hurt.
She finally broke free of Erik’s grip, had just opened her mouth to speak.
But Josh’s look said it all.
