“I’ll go first,” he said. “Abby, I know you’re still grieving William and Olivia, and I won’t try to tell you that the girls and I have recovered from losing Eve, because we haven’t. But something happened to all of us when you came into the house—into the family. Something good. The girls are happier and more settled. I’m happier and more settled. And you...you smile a lot more now than you did when you came to us. And yes, some of it has to do with being more organized and having routines and schedules, but I think it’s more than that. At least, for me it is, and—”
“You didn’t ask me to stay.” Her interruption dropped between them, bald and blunt. She raised her gaze to his. “That’s why I left,” she said. “Because you didn’t ask me to stay.”
“I know. And believe it or not, I did it for you. Letting you leave, I mean. I thought it was the right thing to do because—” Mitch broke off and turned to pace the floor near the Palladian windows. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his forearms corded with tension. “I didn’t want to be another William in your life, expecting you to stay home and look after the house and the kids and me. And I didn’t want you to be another Eve in mine. I have so many regrets about not giving her the chance to have her own life outside of being a wife and mother, I can’t even begin to list them. I wanted you to have more. I want you to have more. I want you to go to school, and to have that independence you’re trying to achieve, and—”
“You know she stayed home because she wanted to, right?”
Mitch stopped pacing. “What?”
“Eve. She stayed home because she wanted to. She looked after the girls and the house and you because that’s what she wanted to do.”
His jaw went tight. “You don’t know that.”
“But I do. I know it because you’re not another William, Mitch. You’re not anything like him. You never took choices away from Eve. She did what she wanted to do. And when I offered to stay longer to help you out, that was what I wanted to do.”
“But you hesitated.”
“Because of what—because of—because...” She trailed off and looked away, unable to give voice to the tiny flare of hope that resided just beneath her ribs.
“Because you felt something between us?” His voice took on the husky note that made her knees want to dissolve. “I felt it, too, Abby. I still do. I’m just not sure what...”
“To do about it?” She swallowed a slightly hysterical giggle at how they were finishing each other’s sentences. “Me, either.”
“The girls and I know there are no guarantees this will work out,” he said, “and there’s a lot to lose, for all of us.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“But as Britt pointed out to me, we’ve already lost if we don’t at least try.”
“Your daughters are wise girls.”
Mitch gave a snort of laughter and said, “You have no idea,” but he didn’t explain. Instead, he strolled toward her and stopped a few inches away, close enough that she had to tip her head back to look at him. Close enough that his warmth reached out to mingle with hers. His gaze turned serious and searching.
“Will you give it a try, Abigail Jamieson?” he asked. “Will you come home with us and see where this goes, whatever it is? We’ll take it slow, and we’ll get help so you can still do what you want—I saw the classes you circled in the course catalog—so after-school help, a housekeeper, whatever works for you. And I’ll make sure I take Kia to her appointments, and—”
“Yes,” Abby said.
He stared at her, then exhaled a long, slow breath. “It won’t be easy,” he cautioned. “We both come with a lot of baggage, and we’re going to need to be honest with one another. No holding back secrets in an effort not to hurt the other’s feelings.”
Abby thought about her role as investor in his company, decided it wasn’t the kind of secret he meant, and tucked away the revelation for later. “Agreed.”
“Well, then.” He regarded her across the space separating them, and Abby’s stomach did a queer little flip-flop as she met the banked, slumbering heat of his gaze. “Well, then,” he said again. “I’m sure the girls would like to know you’re coming home—”
Home. Abby’s heart swelled at the thought.
“—but first,” Mitch continued in that low rumble she loved so much, “if it’s okay with you, there’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”
“There—there is?”
“Mm.” He reached out and traced a thumb over the swell of her bottom lip. “Even before you beat me to it, in fact.”
Beat him—Abby felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Oh. He was talking about the time she’d so brazenly kissed him.
Oh. He’s talking about kissing.
“May I?” he asked huskily, his gaze searching.
Every atom of air left Abby’s lungs in a hiss, rendering her incapable of voicing the yes, please that sprang to her mind in answer. But she nodded, and Mitch stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and his hands cupped her face, and finally—finally—his lips touched hers and—
“They’re kissing! Everything’s okay, everyone!” a boy’s voice yelled, and Abby’s eyes shot open to find her nephew grinning at them over the railing behind the couch.
“Nicholas!” Gareth's voice bellowed from the other end of the house.
Her nephew heaved a sigh and scuffed a toe against the floor. Oh, man! I always have to miss the good stuff." He slouched across the kitchen toward the hallway, turning at the doorway. “You can go back to kissing now. Sorry I interrupted you.”
“NI-CHO-LAS!”
“Coming!” Nicholas thundered down the hall, leaving silence in his wake, but not for long, because almost immediately, more footsteps thundered in the opposite direction, followed by a chorus of voices calling out Kiana’s name—presumably to no avail, given their increasing volume.
Mitch’s wry gaze met Abby’s. “Well,” he said. “So much for that idea. Is he always like that?"
“Gwyn can tell you stories that will give you nightmares,” Abby replied. “Let’s just say her and Gareth’s courtship was... challenging.”
“I can imagine. And I suspect we’ll have a few challenges of our own.” Mitch tipped his head in the direction of the little body hurtling across the kitchen toward them, followed closely by Rachel and Britt, who were still trying to recall their baby sister. “You’re okay with that?”
“I’m fine with it.” Abby smiled up at him, her heart doing its own private little dance at the idea of a courtship with this amazing man.
And then Kiana wedged herself between them, and Rachel and Britt joined them, and a babble of voices vied to be heard, and the warmest, most comfortable glow Abby had ever experienced enveloped her in a bubble that radiated outward to include Mitch and his daughters—all wrapped up in the bittersweet memory of Olivia. She was absolutely fine with challenges, she thought as she watched Kiana bounce and flap, then raised her gaze to meet the answering glow in Mitch’s eyes.
And she would be eternally grateful for the chance to have them, too.
-END-
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GWYNNETH EVER AFTER
An Ever After Romance
Chapter 1
Gwyn Jacobs stuffed sketchpad and charcoal pencils into her shoulder bag, and then, satisfied she had everything she needed, she turned to her babysitter.
“There,” she said, pulling on black leather gloves. “I think I’m organized. Any questions?”
Her neighbor’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Kirsten, eyed the black bag. “Are you sure they’ll let you do that?”
“What?”
“Sketch during the play. It just seems..
.I don’t know...rude, I guess.”
“I arranged for a private box.” Gwyn tucked a stray auburn curl behind her ear with one hand and waved away Kirsten’s concerns with the other. “Besides, even if the other seat happens to occupied, which isn’t likely on a Sunday, how distracting can a piece of paper and a pencil be?”
She slung the bag over her shoulder and, using her gloved fingers, ticked off a list of instructions. “Lunch is in the fridge, they can have fruit and cookies for a snack, and I’ll keep my cell phone on vibrate in case you need me. Oh, and Katie will be home sometime around two from the birthday party, so if you go to the park, you’ll need to be back in time for her. I should be home around four thirty.”
She called a final farewell to Maggie and Nicholas, parked in the adjacent living room in front of their favorite computer game, then pulled open the front door and stepped onto the porch. A gust of wind whipped her coat around her legs. Eyeing the gloomy November sky, she looked over her shoulder at Kristen.
“And make sure—”
“Raincoats,” Kristen said, making shooing motions. “They’ll wear them, I promise. Now stop worrying and go have fun!”
Gwyn stashed her shoulder bag behind the driver’s seat and checked her watch. Late, of course. When was she ever on time for anything? She sighed and slid in behind the steering wheel. Even if she hit every light green along the way, she’d be lucky to make it in time for the curtain.
A few fat raindrops spattered against the windshield and she muttered an imprecation under her breath. Great. First a long-winded conversation with a client, then a desperate sprint to the department store for a birthday gift for Katie to take to the party she’d forgotten, then a juice incident in the living room, and now rain. Everyone from the kids to the weather gods appeared to be conspiring against her last-ditch effort to get Sandy’s birthday present under way.
The rain fell faster, pinging against the car’s metal shell. With another sigh, she switched on first the windshield wipers and then the headlights.
She arrived at the theater and dashed in as the lobby lights flickered on and off in a warning to patrons to take their seats. An usher met her at the top of the sweeping staircase and guided her to a small, private box. He murmured to her to enjoy the show, then disappeared behind the crimson velvet drape that dropped across the doorway. In a tangle of coat, gloves, scarf, and bag, she plopped into a seat.
A sideways glance told her the other seat was occupied after all. Her heart sank a little. So much for the hope of not disturbing anyone else with her sketching, though given the day so far, she supposed she should have expected as much.
The house lights flickered again, prompting her to sort herself out. She tried to do so with as little fuss as possible but still managed to whack her seat companion on the knee with her bag—twice—before dropping her gloves at his feet. Then, when she dived down to retrieve the errant items, her pencils spilled onto the floor with a clatter and her coat slid off her lap onto her feet.
Pausing, Gwyn closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. If she continued like this, she’d knock apart the theater before the curtain rose. Or else get herself kicked out.
She opened her eyes again. With all the calm she could muster, she picked up her coat, stuffed gloves and scarf into one sleeve, and shoved the bundle under her seat, hoping to God as she did that the floor had been swept sometime in the last decade. Turning to retrieve her pencils, she blinked as they came into focus under her nose, held out to her by her neighbor.
“Are you always this organized?” a deep male voice asked, a faint accent—British?—and a definite thread of amusement running through it.
Wrinkling her nose, Gwyn reached to accept the pencils from her seat companion. A lighthearted comment about not getting out often sat enough on the tip of her tongue, but it died there as she raised her eyes to the face beyond the hand. It couldn’t be. No way. A look-alike, maybe, but not the genuine article, because things like this just didn’t happen in real life.
Women like her simply didn’t sit down in a faded, yesteryear Ottawa theater and find themselves staring into the eyes of a Hollywood star.
She realized her companion waited for her response, one heavy black eyebrow raised. The lights began to dim. Snapping her mouth closed, she hoped against hope the encroaching dark would hide the blush scorching her cheeks. And then, because eloquence failed no matter how hard she tried, she fell back on automatic and very dull manners.
“Sorry,” she muttered, and subsided into her seat.
Sorry? She thought she had an honest-to-God, real-live famous actor in the seat next to her, and all she could find to say was sorry? Whatever happened to wow, you look just like Gareth Connor—or something even more straightforward, like aren’t you—? Heck, even if the man weren’t the actor himself, he was the spitting image...and he was sharing her box!
She missed the first act entirely.
When Gareth—or whoever he was—began applauding, she jumped in her seat and took a full ten seconds before following suit. Then, as the stage curtain descended and the lights brightened, she risked a sideways peek from under her lashes. The man slumped sideways in his seat, leaning against the armrest furthest from her and studying his program.
He wore a thick fisherman’s knit sweater, its snowy color accenting dark and undeniably familiar good looks. Her mouth went dry. She swallowed hard, then let her eyes take in other details.
Same trademark thick, wavy hair brushing his shoulders. Same high cheekbones. Same heavy eyebrows. Same mouth that thousands of women in the developed world fantasized about...
She gave herself a mental shake.
But definitely the wrong odds.
Gareth Connor lived, she presumed, either in Wales, his country of origin, or in Hollywood, where he made his films. The chances of his being in the Canterbury Theater in west-end Ottawa on a Sunday afternoon in November—and sharing her box, to top it off...
It simply wasn’t possible.
After what had to have been the longest intermission in all of history, and certainly the most awkward, uncomfortable silence Gwyn had ever experienced, the overhead lights dimmed again. Reminding herself she’d come to the theater for a reason other than adolescent gawking, she withdrew her sketchbook from her bag. Between school activities, Halloween costumes, and client deadlines, it had taken her the better part of a month to make time for this project in the first place. With Sandy’s birthday only a couple of weeks away, it had become a now-or-never kind of thing. So. She’d just ignore who’s-his-face next to her, pretend she was in complete control, and—
The curtain lifted. Focusing on the stage construction, she put pencil to paper and, by the glow of the exit sign over the curtained doorway, began to work.
It wasn’t easy. Every time the Gareth look-alike shifted in his seat, her heart gave an absurd little jump, and her pencil quite maddeningly followed suit. Halfway through the third act, however, she had a reasonable sketch of the stage, and her concentration had returned.
By the time the overhead lights came on at the end of the play, she was so absorbed in adding last-minute details that she’d quite forgotten about the man seated next to her. Right up until she heard his voice beside her ear.
“You’re very talented.”
Gwyn’s charcoal pencil tip skidded across the page. She swore under her breath.
Her seatmate did the same. “Damn. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He picked up the eraser from the armrest and handed it to her.
“That’s all right. It’s repairable.” She scrubbed away the error and then held up the sketchpad. To her critical eye, her earlier lack of focus was painfully obvious. She sighed. At least it was a start, however, and she still had time to improve on it before taking it in for framing.
“I think it’s very good. But do you always come to plays so you can ignore the actors and draw pictures?” A glint of laughter in his dark eyes belied the seriousness of his voice.
Gwyn smiled back. “Only when I’ve sat through so many rehearsals I think I know everyone’s lines by heart. I helped with the set design.”
“And today you sketched it because—?”
“It’s a birthday present for my best friend. She wrote and directed the play—it’s her first. I wanted to do something for her as a keepsake, but for all the times I’ve sat here and stared at that blasted stage, do you think I could remember a single detail when I tried to do this at home?”
Her companion chuckled. “Well, it was worth the effort. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“Thank you. Here, let me get my things out of your way.”
She reached down, only to have history—to her everlasting mortification—repeat itself. The bag tipped, and an assortment of charcoal pencils scattered for a second time at their feet. Gwyn sat, frozen. Then she ventured a peek at her neighbor.
“I don’t suppose you’ll believe me if I say that I’m not usually this clumsy, will you?”
He met her gaze with a solemnity that lost something in the twitching of his lips. “Not a chance,” he replied.
“I didn’t think so.” She started to lean over, but a hand on her arm stopped her. Her heart skipped two full beats.
“Maybe I should do the honors.”
He gathered the pencils with quick efficiency and handed them over once again. Then he waited for her to replace everything in her bag, refusing her offer to move out of his way so he could leave.
“I think we’ll get everything sealed up where it can’t escape first,” he said.
When she had her drawing tools packed and the zipper done up on her bag, he retrieved her coat, removed her gloves and scarf, and shook everything out. Gwyn slid her arms into the lined, navy-blue wool garment he held for her.
“Thank you,” she said. “For your patience as well as your help. I hope I didn’t distract you too much.”
Her seat companion opened his mouth as though to say something, paused, and smiled. “It was for a good cause. I hope your friend likes her gift.”
Abigail Always Page 26
