Read Online Borrowed Bride by Patricia Coughlin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Coughlin
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less think rationally.
She turned away from the window with a resigned sigh. There was no way around it, she decided. She was going to have to find Connor and listen again to what he had to say. This time with an open mind.
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Connor bent over the outboard motor he was working on and tried for at least the fifth time to position his screwdriver to grip the screw positioned just beneath the swivel bracket. He needed to loosen the screw to remove the bracket so he could get at the transom clamp. Once that was off, he would be able to lay the motor on its side, lift off the cowling and see what the hell was wrong with the clutch lever. He carefully twisted the screwdriver, and once again it slipped off the screw without moving it so much as a millimeter.
âDamn,â he muttered as he used his free hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The red bandanna heâd tied around his head to keep the sweat from running into his eyes wasnât doing squat.
Straightening, he flexed his shoulder muscles and squinted first at the sun, which hung like a ball of fire in the cloudless sky overhead, and then at the oversize thermometer mounted on the side of the house. Eighty in the shade. No wonder he was sweating. It was too damn hot for June and too early in the day for a beer.
Especially, he thought derisively, when his brain cells were still struggling to regroup after the six-pack heâd chugged down last night. It had been a long time since heâd felt compelled to drink so much he could still feel it the next day. His fuzzy head was a reminderânot that he needed oneâthat dealing with Gabrielle was going to complicate his life in ways he should have been smart enough to anticipate.
Heâd expected her to be furious with him for ruining her wedding, heâd expected her to fight him tooth and nail and heâd expected to feel like a louse for doing what he had to do. What he hadnât expected was that two years wouldnât have changed in the slightest the way Gabrielle made him feel.
He gripped the screwdriver and grunted with the effort of making yet another unsuccessful attempt to loosen the screw, wishing he had never promised Charlie heâd take a look at the temperamental motor while he was here.
Two long years. Two years of risking his life every way he knew how, of staying on the move, of trying to outrun a guilty conscience and the bloodred memory of the explosion that took the life of the best friend he ever had. Maybe the only friend he ever had. In all that time heâd rarely wanted a woman. Never had he wanted one badly enough to go out of his way to have her or to drink too much because he couldnât. In less than twenty-four hours Gabrielle had him drinking and wanting and hating himself for it.
He stood with the tool poised over the motor and simply stared into its grimy, rusted crevices, his thoughts trapped in a no win land between desire and guilt. The truth, something he was ashamed to admit even to himself and would never confess to anyone else, was that he had always wanted Gabrielle. He gritted his teeth and rode the wave of revulsion the acknowledgment always brought with it. From the first moment he saw her all those years ago, he had been hooked in a way he couldnât understand, much less explain.
Not that it was love at first sight. Far from it. Theyâd clashed right from the start, so much so that whenever they were together there always seemed to be sparks flying just beneath the surface of their mutual effort to be courteous. Besides, from day one Gabrielle had belonged to Joel, and that alone meant he was honor bound to keep his hands off her. It should also have meant that thoughts of her were off-limits, but for some reason he had never been able to quite manage that degree of nobility.
It bothered him that he couldnât. Then and now. He prided himself on his willpower. There was nothing he couldnât do, no challenge he
She turned away from the window with a resigned sigh. There was no way around it, she decided. She was going to have to find Connor and listen again to what he had to say. This time with an open mind.
Â
Connor bent over the outboard motor he was working on and tried for at least the fifth time to position his screwdriver to grip the screw positioned just beneath the swivel bracket. He needed to loosen the screw to remove the bracket so he could get at the transom clamp. Once that was off, he would be able to lay the motor on its side, lift off the cowling and see what the hell was wrong with the clutch lever. He carefully twisted the screwdriver, and once again it slipped off the screw without moving it so much as a millimeter.
âDamn,â he muttered as he used his free hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The red bandanna heâd tied around his head to keep the sweat from running into his eyes wasnât doing squat.
Straightening, he flexed his shoulder muscles and squinted first at the sun, which hung like a ball of fire in the cloudless sky overhead, and then at the oversize thermometer mounted on the side of the house. Eighty in the shade. No wonder he was sweating. It was too damn hot for June and too early in the day for a beer.
Especially, he thought derisively, when his brain cells were still struggling to regroup after the six-pack heâd chugged down last night. It had been a long time since heâd felt compelled to drink so much he could still feel it the next day. His fuzzy head was a reminderânot that he needed oneâthat dealing with Gabrielle was going to complicate his life in ways he should have been smart enough to anticipate.
Heâd expected her to be furious with him for ruining her wedding, heâd expected her to fight him tooth and nail and heâd expected to feel like a louse for doing what he had to do. What he hadnât expected was that two years wouldnât have changed in the slightest the way Gabrielle made him feel.
He gripped the screwdriver and grunted with the effort of making yet another unsuccessful attempt to loosen the screw, wishing he had never promised Charlie heâd take a look at the temperamental motor while he was here.
Two long years. Two years of risking his life every way he knew how, of staying on the move, of trying to outrun a guilty conscience and the bloodred memory of the explosion that took the life of the best friend he ever had. Maybe the only friend he ever had. In all that time heâd rarely wanted a woman. Never had he wanted one badly enough to go out of his way to have her or to drink too much because he couldnât. In less than twenty-four hours Gabrielle had him drinking and wanting and hating himself for it.
He stood with the tool poised over the motor and simply stared into its grimy, rusted crevices, his thoughts trapped in a no win land between desire and guilt. The truth, something he was ashamed to admit even to himself and would never confess to anyone else, was that he had always wanted Gabrielle. He gritted his teeth and rode the wave of revulsion the acknowledgment always brought with it. From the first moment he saw her all those years ago, he had been hooked in a way he couldnât understand, much less explain.
Not that it was love at first sight. Far from it. Theyâd clashed right from the start, so much so that whenever they were together there always seemed to be sparks flying just beneath the surface of their mutual effort to be courteous. Besides, from day one Gabrielle had belonged to Joel, and that alone meant he was honor bound to keep his hands off her. It should also have meant that thoughts of her were off-limits, but for some reason he had never been able to quite manage that degree of nobility.
It bothered him that he couldnât. Then and now. He prided himself on his willpower. There was nothing he couldnât do, no challenge he
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