Wishing she’d had the guts to go for it even though she’d known it was wrong.
“I’m really sorry,” Marcus began. “I didn’t mean to make things awkward—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t mention it. How about we just pretend it never happened?”
He shrugged, then nodded. But his gaze searched hers for something else.
Was he trying to decide if she meant what she said?
“I was thinking,” he finally said. “You mentioned your house needs some work, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a little rusty, but as you might remember from my summer jobs, I know my way around a construction site pretty well.”
“Oh,” she said, blinking in surprise at the idea.
“How about I repay your generosity in letting us stay here with my carpentry services?”
“I don’t know.” This was the last thing she’d expected him to throw at her. “You’ll need to be spending time with Izzy, getting her settled, getting to know her—”
“Sure, but I’ll drive her crazy if I’m hovering around her constantly. She needs space, too.”
Ginger gave the matter some thought. She couldn’t afford to hire a contractor anyway, so in truth, she was thrilled at the prospect of free labor.
“Wow,” she finally said. “I have to admit, I love the idea.”
He smiled. “Great. I’ll get started in the next day or so. We can talk about your priority list tomorrow and what needs to be done.”
They said good-night, and Ginger went to her room, closed the door and flopped down on the bed, her body still buzzing with so much adrenaline from their kiss that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to fall asleep.
She buried her face in her pillow and let out one of those silent screams her therapist had taught her to use when she was frustrated and in a place where real screaming would be inappropriate. It didn’t help, though. She still wanted to scream out loud.
Flipping onto on her back, she did an inventory of all her tingling body parts and decided there wasn’t any use denying it—she was in for a long, sleepless, lonely night.
But Ginger was no stranger to insomnia. She’d suffered from it on and off since her parents’ deaths, and she got some of her best writing done in those long, sleepless nights. In a sick way, she almost looked forward to bouts of insomnia.
She rose from the bed, grabbed the laptop computer she kept on her nightstand for just such occasions as this, and climbed back under the covers. As the screen started to glow, her mind began to settle into the quiet rhythm of composition. She’d learned years ago at writer’s workshops in Iowa that writing, for her, was a form of salvation. It wasn’t about the glory or egotism of publication. It wasn’t about the need to make her voice heard. It was about saving herself from her own demons.
No, that made it sound more negative than it really was. More than anything, writing brought her joy. And a sense of peace that nothing else did. Lately, she’d been writing quiet little short stories about quiet characters making their way through quiet lives.
She didn’t write so much for others as she did for herself. Which partly explained why Marcus was the famous author and she was happy teaching at the local community college.
As Ginger opened up the document that held her latest work in progress, she found herself unable to concentrate. Instead, her thoughts kept returning to Marcus, to what he’d said about changing, wanting to settle down, and to that completely unexpected kiss. How was she to feel about any of it?
Marcus had just survived a near-death experience, and clearly that colored his actions now. Was he serious about settling down, or was it just his fear of death propelling him into a frenzy of change that he’d later regret?
She suspected the latter was true, and she would have to be vigilant against getting sucked into something they’d both later regret.
But what about that kiss…
What if he didn’t regret it? What if he wanted to see where it led? What if she did? What if the two people they’d become as adults had a chance to explore a relationship that they’d never had in their younger days?
Such questions were far too dangerous for her heart to contemplate, so she forced herself to begin typing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARCUS WOKE UP THE next day with a slight headache from the wine, wondering if the kiss could have worked out differently. He didn’t regret it, exactly, but did regret having made Ginger feel uncomfortable. Of course she would worry about his motives in pursuing her romantically. Here he was, a new dad, just back in the U.S. after having been shot, and he was throwing himself at her after a matter of hours?
He must have seemed like a lunatic. And maybe he was, but he also knew from experience that life wasn’t going to stop and wait for him. He had to seize his opportunities. Maybe he would just have to bide his time and prove to Ginger that he wasn’t acting out of desperation to find a mother for his kid. Instead, he was a new man, and what he felt was a growing attraction to a woman he’d always considered a friend.
The house was silent as he rose and went about his morning routine. It was only when he walked down the hallway toward the kitchen that he heard the faint click clack of fingers typing on a keyboard. He followed the sound to the door at the end of the hall and found Ginger there, sitting at a desk.
“Morning,” he said. “How long have you been up?”
She turned in the swiveling desk chair and smiled. “Oh, all night pretty much. I had trouble sleeping, and I eventually decided to spend my time writing instead of tossing and turning.”
She was already dressed for the day in a pair of jeans and a stretchy pink tank top that created a warm glow on her pale skin, contrasting with her dark red hair. She was so damn pretty. He forced his gaze from lingering on the rounded swell of her breasts, and looked around the office.
“I hope I wasn’t the cause of your sleeplessness.”
“Don’t give yourself so much credit,” she said in a teasing tone. “If you’ll remember, I’ve always had insomnia.”
“Oh, right.” He entered the room, perusing the bookshelves that lined the walls. “So this is where you write.”
“Sometimes. I have a laptop for when I want to be more mobile.”
“What are you working on these days?”
“Nothing much.”
“Nothing much that kept you up all night?”
She laughed. “Yeah, okay, it’s a short story, but I’m not going to let you read it.”
He spun around, assuming an expression of mock offense. “How can you not let me read it? You’re the best writer I know and I used to be your favorite critic.”
“False flattery will get you nowhere—and you haven’t read anything of mine in years.”
“Seriously, Ginger, that short story you wrote about the girl lost in the desert still gives me chills.”
Ginger rolled her eyes and groaned. “Oh God, you remember that thing?”
“I still have a copy of it. I found it while I was packing for my trip here.”
She pointed her finger at him. “Use it for kindling next time you need to start a fire.”
“You should write a novel.”
“Everyone who writes novels thinks I should stop wasting my time with short stories, and write a novel.”
Marcus leaned against her desk, wanting very much to read what she had on the computer monitor. She minimized the document to keep him from doing so.
“So why don’t you?” he said.
“If you’d stayed in touch, you’d know that I did write one, and it was an utter failure.”
A stab of well-deserved guilt shot through him. “I’m sorry. But sales have little to do with talent. I want to read your book. I bet it’s great.”
“It’s over there on a shelf somewhere. Help yourself.”
“So why not write another one?”
“I’ll leave the wordy tomes for talented writers like yourself.”
<
br /> “How about a book of short stories then?”
Ginger crossed her arms over her chest and peering up at him. “Is there some reason you’re so interested in my writing efforts?”
He loved the intelligent, feisty spark in her eyes.
“Because it’s a lot easier than thinking about my own writing?”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
He stood up and went to the bookshelves, scanning until his gaze landed on a book spine that bore the name Ginger Townsend.
“Spells for Lost Girls,” he said, reading the title aloud.
“It’s actually based on that short story about the girl in the desert.”
He pulled the book off the shelf, his chest swelling with pride. He’d known that story was outstanding. He’d always told her so.
“Wow,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. It sold about five copies.”
He quickly flipped pages to chapter one, eager to read the opening lines.
“Oh God,” she said. “Don’t read it in front of me.”
“Okay, okay.”
He closed the book and found himself staring at the back cover, which displayed a black-and-white photo of Ginger leaning against a brick wall, her wild, curly hair draped over her shoulders in all its glory, her face wearing a far-off, mysterious expression that was somewhere between knowing and searching. She didn’t look into the camera, but rather into the distance to some dreamy place where no one could reach her.
“Just tell me you like it after you read it, whether you do or not,” she said, and he knew she was quite serious. “I don’t want any brutal honesty.”
“Stop it. I know it’s going to be brilliant, because you wrote it.”
Her cheeks turned pinker, and she glanced down the hallway. “Izzy’s still sleeping, I guess.”
“I’ll check on her. Can I get you something for breakfast?”
“I’ve already had some toast,” she said, standing up. “Why don’t I get you something?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll—”
“I insist. You’re the guest, and I’m sick of writing now.”
“Thanks. I’ll read your book tonight.”
“I was thinking maybe I could show you guys around the area today. How does that sound?”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“I’d love to. It’s fun playing tour guide, and it’ll help you both feel more independent if you know your way around.”
“Okay, thanks. That sounds great.” He stepped aside and followed her into the kitchen.
Gratitude for her generosity welled up, and he had to resist the urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her again. Resisting went against his new philosophy to live life to its fullest, but he supposed a little self-restraint was in order at the moment.
How had he managed never to fall in love with this glorious woman before?
He went down the hall, forcing his thoughts away from Ginger, and stopped at Izzy’s door. He knocked softly and heard the whimper of the dog from inside, then the scrape-scrape of little toenails on the floor. He eased the door open and let the dog out, then peered in at the lump in the bed with the mess of long dark hair.
“Izzy?” he called softly.
No answer.
He stepped inside and walked over to the bed as the dog took off down the hall toward the kitchen, probably in desperate need of a potty trip outside. Izzy’s breathing didn’t have the slow steadiness of deep sleep, so he sat down on the edge of her bed and waited for her to open her eyes. For the moment she didn’t stir.
This girl he barely knew was depending on him to be the best father he could possibly be. Was he up to the task? He believed he was, and part of him was eager to prove he could be a good dad. But that made the responsibility no less daunting.
She was embarking on the teenage years, and the last time he’d known a teenage girl up close and personal…well, he’d been a teenager himself, doing things he couldn’t imagine—and didn’t want—this child ever doing. And part of her was still a child. That much was easy to see. She was straddling the easy innocence of childhood and the tumultuous issues of adolescence, with one foot more firmly in the latter.
She rolled over toward him and yawned. Her eyes fluttered open when her leg bumped against his hip.
“Morning, Izzy,” he said.
“Um, hi.”
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Where’s Lulu?” she said, scanning the bed and the floor.
“Probably outside doing her business.”
“What are you doing in here?” She sounded more curious than offended, and he was glad he’d made the effort to seek her out.
“I just thought I’d check in and see what you’d like for breakfast.”
“Oh. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to hang out in bed for a while and read maybe.”
He was still holding Ginger’s book. “That sounds nice, but Ginger wants to take us on a tour of the area.”
“Oh.”
“Did you know she’s an author, too? This is her novel.” He held it up for Izzy to see. “Maybe you can read it after I’m done with it.”
Izzy frowned. “Isn’t she your best friend? Why haven’t you read her book before?”
“It, um…” Wasn’t published in the Netherlands? Actually, he had no idea if it was, and he didn’t want to lie. “I haven’t been a very good friend,” he admitted, vowing to change that.
“Why not?”
This whole honesty thing was going to be harder than he’d thought, and he had a feeling that Izzy and Ginger were going to push him for answers.
“It was just easier, I guess, living on the other side of the world.” The excuse sounded lame even to him. “But I’m back now, and I’m going to make it up to her.”
Izzy shifted and sat up. “I need to hit the ladies’. Do you mind?”
“I’ll give you your privacy. We’ll be leaving soon, so you’d better get dressed and come out to have a bite to eat, okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice flat.
Why had she been so eager to meet him and spend time with him, when she seemed so cool and disinterested now? It was weird.
Marcus left the room, went into his own bedroom and put the book on his bed for later. But he’d been honest when he’d told Ginger he wanted to read it. Suddenly too curious to wait, he sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the novel.
Ten pages later, he was utterly engrossed. Her writing was so beautiful, so lyrical, such a perfect expression of her personality on the page…. He wanted to stay there all day and finish the book. He recognized the main character as the desert girl from the short story she’d written in college, and everything that had been good about that story was in the novel, only more polished. Better.
Why was she not the darling of the literary world?
Well, he did know the business well enough not to ask such naive questions. Success had to do with so many factors out of the author’s control… But still, she was a better writer than him, and he was going to insist she send her latest project to his literary agent.
“Marcus?” Ginger called from the doorway.
He looked up and grinned sheepishly.
“You’re reading it already?” she said with a pained expression.
“How could I not? I love it. The first chapter is absolutely brilliant.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a liar. Are you almost ready to go? Izzy’s in the kitchen finishing a bowl of oatmeal.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks for feeding her. I’ll be out in just a sec.”
Alone again, he read the last page of the first chapter, and a warm glow washed over him. If this wasn’t love, then he didn’t know what was. If it was possible to fall in love with a woman through the words she’d written, then he’d just done it. But no, that wasn’t entirely true. Because he already knew Ginger. He knew she was the best woman he’d ever met. He knew she was the
personification of all the beauty she managed to create on the page.
Sure, falling for her could ruin their friendship, but not if she fell for him, too. He just had to figure out how to make it happen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“IT’S JUST HERE, to the left,” Ginger said, gesturing with her hand.
Marcus steered the Prius onto the gravel road marked by a sign that read Rainbow Farm. They’d made their way around the town of Promise, poking into the shops, stopping at a café for lunch and learning the whereabouts of all the key businesses. And they’d done a quick and dirty tour of the outlying areas around the lake, with Ginger pointing out trailheads and swimming spots along the way.
The area was breathtakingly pretty. It reminded Marcus a little of the commune in Oregon where he’d spent much of his childhood. The trees, the endless green… But the town of Promise felt stable and historic. It lacked the uneasy transience of commune life.
Now they were on their way to visit Ginger’s friends Soleil and West.
“What is this place?” Izzy asked from the backseat. She sounded suspicious. “You’re not taking me to some back-to-nature program for bad teenagers, are you?”
Ginger made a little choked sound in her throat and shot a panicky glance at Marcus. “No!” she said, her voice too high. “This is my friend’s farm. It’s a really cool place I’ve been wanting to show you both.”
“Oh.” The response from the back of the car was unenthused.
“Well, I mean, actually, there is a program for teenagers here,” Ginger amended as the car crunched along the gravel road through a wooded area. “It’s an internship program for kids from Oakland. I thought you might enjoy meeting some other kids your age. You might want to hang out with them over the summer.”
Izzy was silent. Marcus glanced in the rearview mirror and caught her expression.
“This is an organic farm, right?” he asked, to break the silence. “What do the kids do here?”
“I think they learn how to grow vegetables and take care of animals, so they can go back to the city and work in an urban garden project,” Ginger explained.
“Why do they need to come all the way out here to learn that, if the project exists where they live?”
The One That Got Away Page 7
