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“I’d better be shovin’ off, too,” Curtis said, eyeing his daughter fondly. “Big day tomorrow.”
“The biggest.”
Curtis glanced up at Denver. “I thought Colton might show up.”
“So did I.” Denver checked his watch. His forehead was grooved with worry. “He’s still got a few hours.”
“Not many,” Curtis said tightly, and Tessa wondered if the bad blood between her father and Denver’s brother could ever really be cleansed. Colton had been released from the hospital two days before, and Denver had hoped his brother would make it back for the wedding.
Colton, Denver had warned her, hadn’t been thrilled at the prospect of Denver’s marriage. Tessa figured there was nothing she could do to change his mind. That would take time.
“See ya tomorrow,” Curtis said, waving as he shoved open the back door.
Tessa watched through the window. Her father ambled down the path and hunched his shoulders against the rain. “Do you believe in bad omens?” she asked as Curtis’s old pickup drove away, the taillights barely visible through the zigzagging drops trailing on the glass.
“I’ve never thought of a summer storm as a bad omen.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. “In fact, I take it as a good sign. You know, a fresh start—that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered leaning against him heavily. His arms were so strong, so protective.
“Don’t borrow trouble.” He turned her to face him. “Here we are, finally alone, the night before our wedding, and you’re worried.” He smoothed the lines furrowing her brow with one finger. “How about a toast?”
“A toast—with what?”
“A bottle of champagne.” He eyed the pantry, where two cases of effervescent wine were stacked near the door.
“Milly will kill you.”
“Milly will never know.” Grinning devilishly, he strode into the pantry, pulled a jackknife from his pocket and deftly sliced the top case.
A conspiring smile twisted her lips. “I guess it is our wedding—our champagne.”
“I doubt if we’ll find many parched throats t
omorrow. Not with this much champagne. We can spare a bottle, don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe just one.”
He poured them each a drink, clinked his long-stemmed glass to hers and said, “Here’s to the most gorgeous bride in Montana.”
“And California?”
“Most definitely California.” His blue eyes danced. “And probably all the states west of the Mississippi.”
“How about east?” she teased.
“Don’t know about that.” He wrapped one arm around her. “There might be one or two girls who are prettier than you.”
“I’ll remember that,” she said with a laugh, sending him a wicked, provocative look.
Together they sipped champagne and shared chaste, wine-flavored kisses on the living room couch. After a week of self-imposed celibacy, Denver was about to go out of his mind. “I could carry you upstairs,” he said, his eyes moving slowly down her neck to rest at the hollow of her throat.
“Then why don’t you?” she teased. Half-lying across him, she poured the last of the bottle into each of their empty glasses.
“Because that damned brother of yours said he’d be back.”
“He probably forgot. And he’s not my ‘damned brother,’ he’s your damned brother-in-law,” she reminded him.
“Well, whoever he is, he’ll show up the minute we go upstairs—”
