The night breeze blew coolly against his heated skin.
And for a long while, Boone and Tara just stood there, frozen in time. The make-or-break moment. Would he be strong enough to stop this and walk away before he did something he would regret?
Heâd been resisting Taraâs allure for weeks, heck, months even. Trying to convince himself that getting together with her would be a bad thing.
His body didnât care about reasons or excuses. It was too late for either, his brain issuing a primal message he was helpless to resist or deny.
His arms tightened around her.
She went up on tiptoes and leaned into him.
Turn back. Turn back. Itâs still not too late. Just let her go. Move away.
But darn his Montana hide, he did not let her go. He did not turn away. He did not walk off. Instead Boone did what heâd been struggling hard not to doâ¦
He kissed her.
Dear Reader,
What could be more fun than a road trip?
That is the question that led me to the premise of my new series, STOP THE WEDDING! Since itâs a three-book series, I thought why not have three different kinds of road trips? One by land, one by sea, one by air. All with the same objective: to stop a wedding. And the wedding theyâre trying to stop is the marriage of Jackie Birchard and Coast Guard Lieutenant Scott Everly from Born Ready.
So to answer the question in Night Driving, what could be more fun than a road trip? Why, take one drop-dead handsome, broody former Green Beret in desperate need of love in his life. Add in one good-hearted dizzy hairdresser on a move from Bozeman, Montana, to Miami, Florida. Mix well and you have chemistry that lights up the night sky.
I hope you enjoy Night Driving, and that youâll be on the lookout next month for Smooth Sailing, the second book in the STOP THE WEDDING! series. If youâre on Pinterest, drop by my Night Driving board to see the collage I made of Boone and Taraâs trip at: pinterest.com/loriwilde/night-driving/.
Until then, happy reading!
Lori Wilde
Monday, June 29, 5:25 p.m.
FEELING LIKE Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, ex-Army Captain Boone Toliver stared glumly out at the treelined neighborhood as he sat on his front porch in Bozeman, Montana.
His right knee, fresh from a third surgery and wrapped in a stabilizing brace, lay propped up on a hassock. On the small table beside him sat a cell phone, a can of beer and a bottle of pain pills. He was trying to see if the beer would take the edge off his misery before surrendering to the medication. Although he knew well enough he wasnât supposed to mix the two, he was a big guy in a world of hurt. Not all of it physical.
Third timeâs a charm, the orthopedic surgeon had said.
It better damn well be. If not, he would never fully gain back the mobile life that a bomb in Afghanistan had stolen from him. For now, he had to hire someone to do everythingâgrocery shopping, housecleaning, chauffeuring him to doctorâs appointments.
Not that money was an issue. Along with this house, his father had left him over a million dollars. Boone had invested wisely; he was set for life, even if he never worked again. Although heâd much rather still have his dad around than any amount of money.
Plus, he was not an idle guy. He was at the end of his tether with this invalid malarkey. He had read books until his vision blurred, played video games until his thumbs ached and watched movies until his brain complained. All of his friends were military, and now that he was out of the service and injured to boot, their visits had become less and less frequent. He was no longer one of them.
Boone was bored, bummed out and bitter.
Not an attractive combo. He realized that, but he couldnât seem to snap himself out of the doldrums. This surgery was his last chance to reclaim what heâd lost. This time he was determined to follow doctorâs orders to a T. Which meant sitting here twiddling his thumbs and watching the world pass him by.
Awfully hard for a man whoâd spent a big chunk of his adult life at war.
He picked at the Velcro strap on his knee brace, pulling it off, then pressing it back down, then pulling it off again just to hear the crinkly, ripping noise it made as the two pieces separated. The sound underscored the monotony of his life.
A few houses over a couple of kids shot hoops in their driveway. The steady strumming of the basketball against cement made him nostalgic. Once upon a time, heâd been one helluva basketball player, but those days were long gone. The scent of supper hung in the air as the summer sun headed west. Idly, he thought about getting up and sticking a frozen dinner in the microwave, but he couldnât seem to drum up enough enthusiasm for even that task.