Okay, John liked her more and more.
“Come on, Gemma. You can’t use that name. Fleet from over at Pops Yer Uncle would have my visor and bullhorn. Haley and Cole are Wedding Shop One. Buck and Jo are Wedding Shop Two. What about Wedding Shop Three?”
“Boring. What do you think, Prince? Got a preference?” Gemma handed John the rope to tie their ankles. “Want to do the honors? I can’t bend very well.”
John studied the rope then her expression. Yeah, don’t ask. “How about For The Wedding Shop?” He lined up next to Gemma, pressed his ankle against hers, and bent to knot the rope.
“Got it, Hooley?” Gemma said. “For The Wedding Shop. Prince, tie it around my left leg, please. And tie it with—”
“I know how to tie rope.” John shifted to Gemma’s other side. “Took a whole course on it when I was in the special forces.”
Meanwhile, Hooley fussed over the team name. “For The Wedding Shop? Dang y’all, that’s too long. Won’t fit in the space on my printout. See?” He flipped the clipboard around for their inspection.
“Then write whatever you want.” Gemma remained still as John tied her leg to his. “Special Forces Prince, not too tight or we won’t be able to maneuver.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
“When I need to be.”
“I got it!” Hooley scribbled on his clipboard. “The Prince’s Bride.”
“Oh good grief, Hooley,” Gemma said. “No. Just put WS3 or WSGJ. Wedding Shop Three or Wedding Shop Gemma and John. Will that fit in your box?”
“Too late, I done wrote Prince’s Bride.” He winked at John and showed him the paper. “You’re a prince, right? I seen you on the magazines at the checkout stand.”
“Then if you saw him at the checkout, you’d know he lost his wife a year ago. Have a heart, Hooley. Change the name. No Prince’s Bride.”
“Oh, beg pardon, Prince.”
“It’s fine.” John stood, testing the knot. “No harm, no foul.”
“Well, if’n you’re sure. It’s got a nice ring to it and my pencil don’t have no eraser.” He held up his baldheaded, chewed-on pencil before turning toward the racetrack—a strip of mowed field by the river—and raised his bullhorn, calling for the first heat.
“Sorry about that, Prince. My people don’t know how to behave.” Gemma hobbled, getting her balance. “We should practice.”
“He’s seems a nice chap.” John held out the gunny sack. “Shall we give it a go?”
“He is nice, and by the way he acts, you’d never know he owns half the land southwest of town.” Gemma fastened her arm about John’s waist and leaned against him as they inserted their joint leg.
On instinct, he bolted upright, glancing round at her. No woman had touched him so intimately since, well, since…
“What?” she said.
“Nothing.” His bland reply denounced the effect of her touch—pulsing adrenaline, drumming heartbeat.
“Well, let’s do this. Wrap your arm around me or we’ll hit the dirt out of the gate.” Gemma butted her hip against his. “Hold tight, and no matter what, don’t let go. If JoJo dragged us out here together, we might as well win.”
“Right.” His mouth was the Sahara, his thoughts tumbleweeds. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. A crown prince, not to any exclusion of human emotions mind you, but come on, he was grasping at straws here. As this total stranger clung to him, all he could think, feel was how perfectly his palm rested on the curve of her waist.
“Let’s practice.” When she looked at him, he saw a new flare. A desire. She really wanted to win. But it was more than victory, it was some sort of comeuppance, a personal victory, proving herself. Perhaps something to do with her limp?
“On three,” he said.
On the count, they started forward with a powerful kick, and Gemma stumbled into him.
“Geez, not that much, Prince.”
“Sorry. I’m a bit competitive. But are you sure—”
