Chloe had no idea how long she slept, waking, if possible, even more disoriented than before. She’d barely turned over in her bed to squint at the clock, when her bedroom door opened slowly, quietly.

Addie and Robbie peeked in, whispering furiously to each other.

“I’m awake,” she said.

They nearly tripped over each other getting inside, then just stared at her like she might have dropped in from a spaceship or something. She looked down at herself in the bed. She was in her favorite sleep attire, cotton spaghetti-strap camisole and pajama bottoms, nothing out of the ordinary about that.

“What?” she finally asked.

“She’s dressed in her PJs,” Robbie said. “He wouldn’t … you know … and then dress her again afterward.”

“Maybe he didn’t take the time to undress her at all,” Addie argued. “It’s not like it’s completely necessary. Maybe he’s that kind of guy. You know. In. Out. Done. Over. Outta here.”

“I bet he’s better than that. You know. You can tell—”

“I can’t tell. How do you tell just from looking that a guy will take the time to undress you completely first?”

And then it was all starting to come back to Chloe.

The crazy brides with the bouquets, but really with garment bags, probably with shoes in them, because they were heavy. Especially when people were swinging them at her. And then … then …

“Oh, my God! He was here?” she cried.

Addie and Robbie fell silent and solemn, just looking at her.

She started gasping for breath. “I think I might hyperventilate. He was really here?”

They nodded.

“He saved me from the rioting brides?”

“He did,” Robbie confirmed. “It was like something out of Gone with the Wind. Rhett and Scarlett on the stairs and all.”

“James Elliott was here, and he carried me up the stairs? To my room? This room?” She tried breathing faster and faster, conscious but in that fuzzy-headed way of one who’s slept too long and can’t really wake up.

“We followed as soon as we could,” Robbie said.

James must have been here for a while. She vaguely remembered him touching her softly, sweetly, his body pressing hers down into the mattress, his mouth on hers, just as hot and sexy as ever.

Chloe lifted up the covers and peeked beneath them at herself. Yes, she was completely dressed, and he was definitely a man to completely undress a woman in those kinds of situations, though she wasn’t confirming or denying any of that to Addie or Robbie.

So, he’d just kissed her? And held her? And then left?

“How long was he in my room with me?” she asked finally.

“Thirty-seven and a half minutes,” Robbie said.

They’d timed the visit? Of course.

“We were thinking of breaking in—”

“Because we thought … I don’t know, maybe you’d lost your mind or something, and we should try to save you from yourself,” Addie finished. “Should we have been saving you from yourself?”

“Probably. Yes.” Then she had a new, even more horrible thought. “He knew why those crazy brides were here?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She looked up into their equally worried faces and felt anew the sinking feeling of complete humiliation. Not just the rest of the known world, but James, too, knew her ex No. 3 had a thing for men, and he’d been here to witness the aftermath of her latest disastrous relationship.

“What in the world was he doing here?” she asked finally.

“He said he was having a business meeting with Adam Landrey when they heard about the riot. Adam was here, too,” Addie told her.

“I still can’t believe it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

He was here? Yes, she could still smell him in her bed. That fresh, clean, citrusy smell of him. She thought she could feel his arms around her, her body snuggled up to his, could remember feeling safe and cherished and so turned on. Why would he charge in, rescue her from the crazy brides and then carry her up here and kiss her? Then leave without a word?

Addie frowned at her. “He thought you might have been hit in the head, that you were a little out of it, a little confused.”

Oh, perfect. At least she had an excuse for whatever she’d done.

“Do you need a doctor?” Robbie asked.

“A mental-health professional. We should probably keep one on call.”

James was whistling as he approached the newsstand the next morning, then saw that Vince was waiting for him, tabloid in hand.

Uh-oh. Did they have photos of the mob scene from Chloe’s?

But as he got closer, he saw that Vince was beaming at him. “Today, it’s on the house! This and your Wall Street Journal.”

This, it turned out, was a tabloid with a cover shot of him saving Chloe from the mob!

“You’re the first one of my regulars to make the cover of a periodical I carry!” Vince said. “How ’bout that? I’ve been telling everybody this morning that I know you, that I see you here every day!”

James groaned and looked again. Could anyone—except maybe people who saw him every day—tell that was him? In the photo, his head was bent down toward Chloe’s as he carried her through a sea of rioting brides. She looked like a waif, a beautiful, fragile, helpless waif. And he was mostly just a dark suit with dark hair, he thought.

“So, you and that designer get back together?” Vince asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Hey, come ’ere.” Vince motioned for James to lean over the counter, closer to Vince, who’d pulled out his cell phone and held it out in front of them.

“No!” James pulled away as the flash went off. He could only hope he’d gotten out of the way in time. “No pictures. Not today.”

Vince looked mightily disappointed. “I was gonna put it up on the newsstand. You know, to show people that I really know you.”

“Yeah. I’m just not ready for that, Vince. And I really hate having my picture taken,” he said.

“You date that crazy girl, you’re gonna get your picture taken.”

He hadn’t thought of that when he’d charged to her rescue, but he couldn’t really say he regretted it, either. Because he’d gotten to see her again, to hold her again, to kiss her. He’d gotten into her bed again. He grinned at that thought. Not in the way he’d really like to be back in her bed, but it was certainly better than not being anywhere near her bed.

“I gotta ask you,” Vince said, grinning wickedly. “Once you carried her off like that, what did you do to her then?”

“Nothing,” James claimed. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Yeah, right,” Vince said.

A gentleman didn’t kiss and tell, after all, and he prided himself on being a gentleman.

He got to his office to see Marcy waiting for him, looking as freaked out as he’d ever seen her and carrying a rolled-up copy of a tabloid.

“Let me guess.” James went into his office, Marcy following. “You’ve never worked with anyone who made the cover of a tabloid before?”

Her mouth fell open. “You’ve seen it?”

“If it’s the one I’m thinking of, I have. Please tell me I didn’t make the cover of more than one?”

“No, just the one.” She laid it down in front of him on his desk. “We’re probably going to start getting calls—”

“From the tabloids? They know who I am?”

“Suspect, at least. The Bride Blog piece yesterday did mention you by name in connection with Ms. Allen, and if we’re going to get calls, I need to know what to say.”

She waited, looking so eager and excited.

“You mean, you want me to tell you what happened yesterday?”

“Only so I can do my job,” she claimed.

Yeah, right. She was practically salivating at the thought of getting the tabloid news before anyone else.

“There is something seriously wrong with you, Marcy,” he said.

“I know. Believe me, I do. I’m so sorry. Everyone has a weakness, a dirty little secret, and this is mine.”