Persuading Spring: A Sexy New Zealand Romance (The Four Seasons Book 4) (3 page)

“Take as long as you like. Mat and I
promise to save you some ice cream. Probably.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Okay.” She walked
into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. He heard the sound of her
locking it, which didn’t surprise him.

He blew out a breath and looked at his son,
who raised his eyebrows.

“Why didn’t anyone else help her?” Mateo
wanted to know.

“I don’t know. It makes me sad.”

“When someone’s hurt you should always
help, shouldn’t you, Dad?”

“I think so.”

“What happened to her?”

Aaron put his backpack on the counter, slid
the tub of ice cream into the tiny freezer compartment at the top of the
fridge, then retrieved a fresh towel from the cupboard. “She was supposed to
get married, but I don’t think her husband-to-be turned up.” He beckoned the
boy toward him and unzipped his jacket.

Mateo shouldered it off and let his father
place it over a nearby chair. Even though he’d worn a hood, most of his hair
was wet. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Aaron began to dry it with
the towel. “It was an awful thing to do though. That poor girl. She would have
felt an inch high.”

“She must have spent a lot of money on her
dress and everything.”

“Yes.”

“Will she get it back?”

“I doubt it.”

“What church was it?”

“It wasn’t a church, it was a registry
office.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, there are lots of reasons.
People who aren’t religious don’t normally get married in a church.”

“You were married in a church weren’t you,
Dad?”

“Yes.” He turned the boy around and
directed him to the bed. “Put the TV on, and we’ll share the ice cream, shall
we?”

“Okay.” Mateo climbed onto the bed. “Are
you religious then, Dad? Is that why you married in a church?”

“No.” Aaron dried his own hair, then
unbuttoned his wet shirt. “But Mum is. She’s a Catholic. She wanted to get
married in church, and I agreed.”

“Did she wear a white dress like Bridget’s?”

“Yes, she looked very beautiful.” He tossed
the wet shirt into the kitchenette and then tugged on a fresh top. He didn’t
want to think about Nita now. “Okay, two spoons.” He retrieved them and took
out the ice cream.

“We have to save some for Bridget, though,”
Mateo reminded him. “I hope she likes chocolate fudge brownie.”

“All women like chocolate, mate. It’s a
good lesson to learn.”

They sat on the bed against the pillows and
ate the ice cream while they watched a children’s program that involved two
brightly-colored, non-threatening monsters talking to each other while they made
cookies, covering the whole room and each other in batter.

Aaron watched and chatted to his son, but
he kept seeing the image of Bridget’s large blue eyes, and her shy smile.

Bridget stood in front of the huge mirror
and studied her reflection. Jesus. She was surprised she hadn’t made the little
boy burst into tears at the sight of her.

She looked down at her hands and held up
her left, fingers splayed. She still wore her engagement ring, although the
wide band that should have sat beneath it was still tucked into the best man’s
pocket, no doubt. Unless Mal had sold it already. She wouldn’t have put that
past him.

Tugging off the engagement ring, she put it
on the edge of the sink. She should have thrown it into the sea.

Part of her wanted to slide down the wall
and curl up on the floor. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. She
didn’t want to deal with the after effects of what had happened today. She
wanted it all to go away.

That wasn’t her though, was it? Birdie
Hitchcock, who ran the Four Seasons shop and who’d dated Mal since she was
twenty-one, was practical and sensible, and didn’t give in to violent displays
of emotion. Birdie would reason that it was better for Mal to have not turned
up than to have married her first and then changed his mind. Birdie would have
remained at the registry office, insisted she was fine, and spent an hour
ringing around to cancel the restaurant and honeymoon, apologizing to everyone
for the inconvenience. Birdie would shake hands with Mal and say it had been
good, and wouldn’t it be great if they could stay friends.

For the first time in her life, Bridget
couldn’t associate with that girl at all. She wanted to rip Mal’s head from his
shoulders and spit down his neck. She wanted to scream and cry and lash out at
everyone in reach. She wanted to keep walking, and never come back.

Maybe she would. Maybe she’d go home, grab
her passport and purse, head off to the airport in the morning, and jump on the
first available plane. Actually, perhaps she should go to Vanuatu on her own.
She might meet some gorgeous islander there, and she could take him back to the
honeymoon suite and screw him in her wedding bed.

Fuck Mal.

Fuck everyone.

Hot tears coursed down her cheeks.

Turning, she opened the cubicle door and
switched on the shower. The guy—what was his name? Aaron?—was right. She needed
to get out of the dress, have a shower, and have a drink. Or two. Then she’d
head off. She couldn’t possibly impose on him any longer. He’d been so sweet,
but she needed to be alone.

She slid off his padded jacket and hung it
on the back of the door, then surveyed her veil. Her stylist had pinned it to
her hair with hundreds of grips to keep it in place. She began to pull them
out, losing her temper when several got stuck. She tugged it viciously, ripping
out strands of hair in the process, relieved when the veil slopped to the floor
in a heap of sodden lace.

The cowl-back wedding dress had no zippers
or buttons, so it only took seconds to lift it over her head and drop it on top
of the veil. It was an elegant but simple gown she’d chosen because Mal had
said a frothy dress wouldn’t fit with their small ceremony. She’d studied the
gorgeous tulle ball gowns with envy before turning the pages to the more modest
slim line ones. Oh well. If she’d had a more expensive dress she would have
wasted more money. She had to look on the bright side.

She gave a humorless laugh. There wasn’t a
bright side to this, no matter how hard she looked. She’d been jilted at the
altar.
Find the silver lining in that, Birdie.

It left her standing in what Rowan called a
torsolette—a torso-hugging camisole resembling an old-fashioned corset in a
beautiful white lace embroidered with silver thread, complete with garters that
held up her white stockings. She scowled at it and spent a few minutes
struggling with the hook-and-eye fastenings and the ribbons to get it undone.

Perhaps she should ask Aaron to help, she
thought darkly, imagining his face if she opened the door and called for him.

She’d hardly been able to focus out on the
quay and had only been aware of a pair of kind gray eyes, dark brown hair, and
a short beard. In the elevator, she’d gotten a better look at him. He was older
than her, she thought, early to mid-thirties, a big guy, good looking in a
boy-next-door kind of way, with broad shoulders, large hands, and a no-nonsense
look in his eye that suggested he was a true Kiwi man—the sort of guy who could
change a tire, cook a mean steak on the barbecue, score a try at rugby, and
still have enough energy to kiss a girl senseless when the sun went down.

Normally, she would never have considered
accompanying a man she didn’t know back to his hotel room, but his kind eyes,
as well as the fact that he had a young son, had told her he could be trusted.

Unlike some people.

She gritted her teeth and returned to
taking off her underwear.

After undoing the final hook, she peeled it
off and threw the whole lot on the pile, adding her panties and stockings to
finish.

Old Birdie would have hung it up carefully
so that someone else would be able to use it.

New Bridget kicked it into the corner.

She opened the door to the shower, stepped
in, and turned it up to scalding. The hot water covered her, and she ducked her
head under it and stood there for a long, long time, letting the warmth sink
into her bones, feeling the tension leaving her shoulders. It was like a
baptism of fire, she thought, as she tipped back her face and let the water run
over it. She was washing away the old Birdie, and when she stepped out, she’d
be reborn. For too long she’d waited for Mal—breaking up with him to try to get
him to commit. Old Birdie disgusted her. She didn’t ever want to be that woman
again.

When her fingers started to turn into
prunes, she washed her face with a bar of hotel soap then finally turned off
the hot water. Stepping out, she dried herself and wrapped the towel around her
hair before surveying the products next to the sink. She picked up the can of
man’s deodorant and used it, then shyly lifted the bottle of aftershave,
removed the stopper, and sniffed it. Warm tones of cinnamon and sandalwood
filtered to her nose with a touch of lemon, making her mouth water. Feeling as
if she was intruding, she replaced the stopper and put it down.

Luckily, the hotel supplied makeup remover
pads, so she used a couple to get rid of the last remnants of her panda eyes
and threw the pads in the bin. There was no brush though, and she didn’t want
to use Aaron’s comb, so she just braided her hair and tore one of the ribbons
from the torsolette and used it to tie the bottom of the braid.

Lastly, she had to consider clothing. She
studied the underwear Aaron had supplied with amusement. She’d never worn men’s
boxers before. It felt a bit weird to put on clothing he’d worn next to his…
skin. But what other option did she have? Her own panties were soaked, and the
only other option was going commando in his track pants, and that hardly seemed
fair to the dude.

Stepping into the boxer-briefs, she pulled
them up her legs and over her butt. They were too big but comfortable enough.
The socks were miles too large, but her feet were cold so she turned the tops
down a few times and left them on. Her lips twisting, she pulled on the track
pants. Even when she pulled the tie tight, they were still too big, but beggars
couldn’t be choosers, so she left them on and tugged the T-shirt over her head.
It fell to her thighs, the short sleeves reaching to her elbows, but at least
she was dry and clothed, so she couldn’t complain.

She observed herself in the mirror,
somewhat nervously. She looked exhausted and pale, but more composed. She would
rather have stayed in the bathroom while she thought about what to do next, but
it seemed rude, especially when they’d been so kind to her, so she took a deep
breath and opened the door.

The two of them were on the bed nearest the
window. The boy lay on his front, half watching the TV while he fitted together
a Lego set. Aaron sat next to him, leaning against the pillows, his eyes
closed. As she walked into the room, though, he opened them and surveyed her.

“Hi,” she said, folding her arms across her
breasts, conscious she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Hello, Bridget.” Mateo sat up. “I’m making
a digger, look.”

She approached the bed and glanced down at
the box of pieces. “Are you following those instructions? That’s clever of
you.”

“I’m making this one, but you can also make
this one too.” He turned the page to show her. “I’ll do that one when I’ve
finished.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“Daddy was going to eat all the ice cream
but I made him save some for you.”

“Is that so?” She glanced at Aaron. He was
watching her, a small smile on his face. He’d changed out of his wet shirt into
an All Blacks rugby shirt, the home jersey that clung to men’s bodies in all
the right places. Wow. The guy had some serious muscles going on.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m better, thank you.” She was unable to
suppress a little shiver, still chilled in spite of the hot shower.

“Here.” He rose from the bed, surprisingly
graceful for a big guy, picked up a gray sweatshirt, and passed it to her.

“Thank you.” She pulled it on. He’d worn it
before—she could smell his aftershave on it. It felt like he’d put his arms
around her.

“What did you do with your wet clothing?”
he asked. “Do you want me to get room service to clean and dry it for you?”

“No.” She spoke sharply and cleared her
throat. “I don’t want it. I want to get rid of it.”

“All right.” He spoke softly. “I’ll deal with
it. Now, what would you like to drink? A hot cup of tea or coffee? Or something
stronger? The mini bar’s stocked. Wine? Whisky? Brandy?”

The notion of drinking herself into a
stupor appealed, but she’d have to wait until she was on her own to do that—she
couldn’t get plastered in front of the boy. “Tea would be lovely.”

“Sure.” He gestured to the bed as he passed
her to switch on the kettle. “Have a seat.”

Somewhat shyly, she lowered herself down
beside Mateo. His little fingers fumbled occasionally at the tiny Lego pieces,
but he was surprisingly adept and appeared to be reading the instructions well
enough.

“I wondered whether you wanted to call
someone to let them know you’re all right,” Aaron said as he put two tea bags
into mugs.

“I don’t know.” Panic tightened her throat.

“You don’t have to tell them where you
are.” He held her gaze, and suddenly she knew what it must feel like to be a
wounded animal someone had brought into his surgery for treatment. She could
imagine how he would handle an injured dog, talking to it in a low voice,
reassuring and comforting. “They’re probably very worried about you,” he said
gently before turning his gaze back to the mugs.

She thought about her friends. They
would
be worried. Callie, Rowan, and Neve would be so upset, and the guys would be
considering tracking down Mal and castrating him. And as for her brother… She
thought about how he’d thrown his phone across the room. He was such a teddy
bear—she’d never seen him so angry. It brought a lump to her throat.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Use my phone,” he said, indicating where
it rested on the table. “You can go outside if you want to.”

“No, that’s okay.” Oddly, she didn’t want
to be alone.

She picked up the phone and brought it over
to him. “How do I unlock it?”

He showed her the pattern to draw between
the dots.

“You’re very trusting,” she said wryly.

“I think you’re the least of my worries.”
He folded his arms and leaned against the counter, watching her.

She started dialing Hitch’s number. Then
she remembered that he’d smashed his phone, so she canceled that and dialed
Rowan’s mobile instead.

“Hello?” Rowan’s voice, curious at the
sight of an unknown number.

“It’s Birdie,” she said automatically.
Beside her, Aaron tilted his head to look at her, but she kept her eyes downcast.

“Birdie! Thank God. Oh Jesus, we’ve been so
worried about you. Hitch, it’s Birdie.”

Thank goodness, her brother was with Rowan.
“Can I talk to him?” she whispered.

“Of course. Are… are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” It was a lie, but Rowan wanted
reassurance and she was happy to give it.

“Okay. That’s all I wanted to know. Hold
on.”

A rustle as the phone changed hands. Beside
her, the kettle boiled, and Aaron turned to make the tea.

Hitch’s deep voice came through the phone,
filled with relief. “Birdie?”

Emotion rolled over her, and she could just
about manage a squeaky, “Hi.”

“Where are you?” he wanted to know.

She swallowed hard. “I just wanted to let
you know I’m okay.”

“Where did you go?”

“I just need some time to myself.”

“You don’t want me to come pick you up?”

“No.”