Every Time We Fall in Love

by Bella Andre

  As was the hug Amelia gave him when he got up to the stage. The greatest gift in the entire world. "Dad, you're the best!"

  It didn't matter how long he and Amelia had known each other, their bond already felt strong and pure. Amazingly, she didn't seem to be holding on to anger or frustration about the past fifteen years. Instead, she had chosen to appreciate all they'd found and had to look forward to in the future.

  Whereas, Harry's family had been tethered to the past for as long as he could remember. Even thirty years later, the anniversary of his mother's passing was a hard day for his father--and Harry too, who always made sure to be with his dad in an attempt to forestall another breakdown.

  Now that everyone, including Harry's father, was doing so well, was it finally possible to transcend their past? To look back at their mother's life without mourning?

  Several times since reconnecting with Molly, Harry had talked about wanting to make a fresh start, though he hadn't known how exactly to go about doing it. Until now, when he realized Amelia was showing him the way with every smile, every hug, every excited plan she had for them as a family.

  After all these years, Harry thought he knew what family was all about. But nothing had prepared him for a love this deep. This profound. This boundless.

  For all that he'd wanted to give his heart to Molly in college, the truth was that Harry hadn't been ready to love her right.

  He'd needed his daughter to help him understand what love really was.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  While Amelia and Harry stayed on to finish up at the theater, Molly headed home to collect Aldwin from doggy day care and then get something going for dinner. She was glad for a few minutes alone to unpack her wildly careening thoughts and emotions and try to make sense of them.

  Aldwin seemed happy to see her again, and yet, he didn't seem to be in any rush to leave doggy day care. Not when he had made several furry friends, among them a tiny Pekingese and a mixed-breed puppy. Janet confirmed that he had settled right in with the other dogs and was probably going to be exhausted tonight after all the fun they'd had playing together and even running along the beach at lunchtime.

  Aldwin stopped to sniff every plant and pole and mailbox on the way home, making the five-minute walk three times as long. As they meandered down the block, with Aldwin nearly tugging her arm off whenever he saw a squirrel, Molly marveled at the fact that Harry had done eight hours of inventory, working harder and faster than anyone else, without complaint. He'd charmed her co-workers--even Greta and Stanley, who were extremely tough customers where eligible men were concerned. And then after making friends with half the parents in the school, he was now single-handedly saving the musical. Molly had thought the director was going to swoon when Harry stood up to offer his carpentry skills.

  On top of all that, from everything he'd said to Molly today, and from every indication he'd given, he seemed to want her back.

  How the heck was she going to resist him?

  Somehow, she needed to firm up her self-control. Needed to stop flushing and wanting every time he so much as smiled at her, let alone touched her.

  Despite her undeniable attraction to him, Molly couldn't risk anything where Amelia was concerned. How horrible would it be for their daughter if her mother and long-lost father started dating and then broke up in the end?

  But even as she thought it, she knew it was a cop-out, at least partially. Because Molly wasn't afraid of only Amelia being hurt.

  She was afraid of being hurt too.

  Finally back at the cottage, Aldwin plopped down on his big pillow in the corner of the living room, while Molly went to the cupboard to pull out the fixings for homemade pizza. It was good to use her hands to mix, then knead the dough. The repetitive, physical work helped ground her a little.

  Half an hour later, Molly heard laughter outside, and then the front door opened. Aldwin found enough of a second wind to barrel toward Amelia and Harry, jumping to lick their faces.

  As Amelia and Harry laughed, both working to keep from toppling over at the dog's enthusiastic greeting, they looked so much alike, even in their gestures, that Molly wondered how she had never seen the resemblance before.

  That right there was another reason she couldn't see how she and Harry could ever make things work as a couple: How could they, when Molly would never be able to forgive herself for believing another man was Amelia's father? Regardless of what he'd said about moving forward, would Harry--and his family--ever really be able to forgive her?

  "I'm starved," Amelia said as she dropped her backpack on the floor and went to wash her hands, Aldwin at her heels. "Did you make pizza?"

  "It's almost ready to come out of the oven." Molly smiled at Harry, hoping she looked relaxed and friendly instead of skittish and off-kilter. "We usually eat it with the works, but I know you're not a fan of mushrooms, so I left them off."

  "Good memory." His grin held enough warmth to make her go hot all over, despite the warnings she'd been giving herself for the past hour. "What can I help with?"

  "Everything is ready to go." She brought over the salad, feeling awkward as she moved from the kitchen into the dining area, as though he could read her thoughts and know how hard she was finding it to keep her cool around him. No other man had ever affected her the way he did. And now that they shared Amelia, their bond felt even richer, deeper.

  She took the pizza out of the oven, the cheese deliciously melted, the crust perfectly crunchy, the toppings fresh from the garden, including her homemade tomato sauce.

  "This is the best pizza I've ever had," Harry said after he'd all but inhaled his first slice. "Did you make everything by hand?"

  "I did." He had to be wondering when she'd made such a culinary transformation--the girl he'd known in college could barely boil water. "Moving into this house was the first time I ever had a kitchen of my own." At boarding school, they had never been allowed into the kitchen. "Plus, going to restaurants with a little kid in tow was hard enough that it was always easier to eat in."

  "Mom says I was a nightmare when we went out to dinner, especially when I was tired. She says I either screamed my head off or crawled under the table and didn't want her to move me if I fell asleep."

  "Fun times," Molly said with a smile, before turning back to Harry. "Anyway, I figured that if I was going to be cooking, I might as well learn how to make things taste good."

  "What about you, Dad?" Amelia asked. "What's your best dish?"

  "Let's put it this way--when I call the Chinese place around the corner from my apartment, I don't have to tell them what I want. They just deliver the usual."

  Amelia wanted to know all about what it was like to live in the city, and Molly was happy to sit and listen to them talk. Too soon, though, Amelia left to do homework in her bedroom with headphones on and Aldwin happily ensconced on the bed beside her. Harry also gave her a draft of his book, for whenever she had the time or inclination to look at it.

  Molly couldn't have been happier about all the time Amelia and Harry were spending together, especially now that he had volunteered to help with the musical. More than anything, she wanted them to bond and be close with each other.

  But Amelia was a teenager with her own life--friends, school, sports, and the musical meant she was very busy indeed. Which meant that Harry had plenty of time on his hands, at least until he resumed work on his book or some other project.

  Molly had been dreading this time of night, when it would be just her and Harry, alone in the living room. She couldn't risk another kiss--not when she wasn't at all sure that she'd have the self-control to walk away from temptation a second time.

  "I've got a paper to write for my class tomorrow night, so I'm going to head into my room now."

  "I thought you normally worked at the kitchen table?"

  Of course Harry knew just what a creature of habit she was, especially when she needed to concentrate. Back in college, she'd liked to work at the same desk, on the same floor o
f the library.

  "I do, but I've learned to work pretty much anywhere over the years." Waiting for one of Amelia's soccer games to start, sitting in a doctor's office or in a coffee shop until the end of Amelia's piano lessons.

  "Okay," he said. "I just wanted to make sure my being here isn't cramping your style."

  "Of course not," she said, a little more enthusiastically than she needed to.

  She shouldn't have let herself be affected by his slightly sad expression, or feel as though she was abandoning him. Especially when she knew it would be nearly impossible to concentrate on her paper when he was only a few feet away. But she'd always been too soft for her own good. Not just when it came to other people, but with herself too. Someone firmer and more resolute would have marched into her bedroom and simply locked the door behind her.

  Anything but saying, "Actually, maybe I will work out here for a bit."

  Harry's grin made her heart beat even faster. "Great. I promise I'll keep quiet so that you can concentrate."

  Both of them took out their laptops, with Molly settling in at the kitchen table and Harry sitting in the armchair by the bookcase.

  Of course he had to put those darned glasses on again.

  Why did he have to be so sexy?

  Molly had assumed she'd stare blankly at the screen the whole time, trying not to drool over the ridiculously good-looking man in her living room. One whose kisses lit up every part of her. But she was surprised to find that when she looked over her notes on the topic--soldiers returning to their families after war and the effect on both the family structure and society as a whole--she had an entirely new perspective just days after having jotted down the notes. Probably because it didn't feel too far from her own situation with Harry.

  Her fingers flew across the keyboard, the ideas coming so fast she could barely keep up. By the time she looked up, more than an hour had passed. Her shoulders had grown stiff, so she reached over her head to stretch them out. And realized Harry was smiling at her.

  "Looks like you were just visited by the writing fairy."

  "That hasn't happened in a long time." She couldn't believe how easy the essay had been to write. She still needed to edit it, but the hard work of getting her thoughts down in a mostly coherent way was done.

  "You always were my good luck charm," he said. "Maybe I'm yours now."

  Now that the rush of creativity had passed, she realized how tired she was. Too tired to keep her defenses up around the charming, handsome man who could all too easily destroy the peace and happiness she'd fought so hard to achieve without him.

  "Maybe," she said as she gathered up her papers. "I should get to bed now." She closed her laptop. "Good night."

  "Good night." She hoped he wasn't going to tempt her even more by getting up to give her a hug, or even another kiss. Only to be irrationally disappointed when he didn't. "See you in the morning."

  As she walked down the hall to her bedroom, she could feel his gaze on her. She should not be wondering if he liked what he saw, many years and one child later.

  Looking into the bathroom mirror while brushing her teeth, she couldn't miss the lines around her eyes and mouth. Silently, she reminded herself that the handful of men she'd dated over the past few years had seemed to find her plenty attractive enough. Though it hadn't worked out with any of them--primarily, if she was being totally honest with herself, because none of them were Harry--one day she hoped to find someone who was willing to open himself up to her and let her into his life.

  Ugh, she was so tired she was falling into the trap of overthinking everything. Surely, after a good night's sleep, she'd be ready to face another day with all of her defenses intact.

  In any case, there was no way another kiss was going to happen tonight--no matter what, she wasn't going to risk running into him again by leaving her bedroom until morning. She and Harry were going to make it through tonight as nothing more than two friendly co-parents sleeping in separate bedrooms.

  She pulled off her clothes, pulled on the silky top she liked to sleep in, then crawled under the covers. Turning off her bedside lamp, she closed her eyes, snuggling into her pillow, ready for sleep to take her.

  Drip.

  She scrunched her eyes shut, willing herself not to hear it.

  Drop.

  She gritted her teeth as she counted backward from one hundred. She'd made it to ninety-one when it came again.

  Sploosh.

  She sat up in bed. Gosh darn it, did the bathroom faucet really need to act up tonight, of all nights? The problem was, she'd never sleep a wink if she didn't fix it--she'd just lie there in bed waiting for the next drop of water to hit the porcelain. And of course her toolbox was in the hall closet.

  Not wanting to bother getting fully dressed again, she put on a soft wrap sweater Greta had given her for Christmas. It didn't cover her completely, but it went almost to her knees, so she wasn't showing much more skin than she would have in a cocktail dress.

  Molly opened her door and looked out into the hall. Harry's bedroom door was closed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. As long as she didn't wake him up, she would still be in the clear.

  Two minutes later, she was back inside her room, toolbox in hand. This was the third time her faucet had started leaking, and she knew she should get a plumber in to fix it properly. But plumbers were expensive, so she'd been putting it off. Tomorrow, she'd make the call. Tonight, she simply needed to get it to stop dripping so that she could sleep.

  Unfortunately, none of her usual tricks worked. Not that she had all that many plumbing tricks up her sleeve, but with a little help from DIY videos, she had always been able to take care of minor issues like this.

  She yawned and reached up to cover her mouth, so exhausted she forgot she was still holding the wrench. When the heavy piece of metal clunked into her tooth, pain shot through her gums, and she dropped it.

  Right on the toes of her right foot.

  "Ow!"

  She couldn't keep quiet as she hopped around on one foot, holding her bruised toes with her right hand, her left hand over her mouth where it was still stinging.

  There was a knock at the door. "Are you okay?" Harry asked from out in the hall.

  She was about to tell him that she was fine, but before she could, she did a one-legged stumble into the bathroom door frame and cried out in pain.

  This time, Harry didn't wait for an invitation. Throwing open the door, he rushed inside. He'd taken off his glasses, thank God. But now he was wearing only pajama bottoms, his torso bare. He was ridiculously ripped, from his arms to his chest to his abdominal muscles. So gorgeous, in fact, that she had to concentrate to keep her tongue inside her sore mouth.

  He'd been in good shape back in college--but surely she couldn't have forgotten this. What the heck kind of workouts was he doing now? And could she watch?

  Heck, she could sell tickets to that show...

  "Molly? Are you hurt?"

  He scanned her from head to toe, which was when she realized her sweater wrap had nearly fallen completely off when she'd been jumping around her room on one foot and smashing into things.

  She wasn't sure she'd ever felt more like an idiot than she did right then. She pulled the sweater back on and tied the sash tightly at her waist. "My sink was dripping, so I was trying to fix it, but I ended up dropping the wrench on my toes."

  "Let me see your foot."

  Before she could tell him she was fine, he was on his knees and reaching for her foot. He ran his fingers over her skin, and she shivered at his touch.

  If it felt this good just to have him run his hand over her foot, how good would it feel if he caressed all of her? If he stopped being such a gentleman, and pulled her tight against his bare, muscular, beyond gorgeous chest?

  But she already knew, didn't she? Knew precisely how her body would go up in flames, that she'd be putty in his strong, talented hands.

  Molly knew better than to imagine Harry touching her...and her to
uching him right back. The problem was that when he was this close, she honestly didn't know how to shut these yearnings down.

  "Nothing looks broken," he said, though he hadn't moved his hand from her skin yet. "Why don't you get back into bed and I'll get you some ice?"

  When he left the room, she sat on her bed, pulling the sheets up so that she was fully covered, apart from her right leg and foot.

  Harry came back into her bedroom holding a bag of frozen peas. "This is all I could find." He gently laid the bag over her foot. "How's that?"

  Perfect, because you're here.

  Thankfully, all that actually came out of her mouth was, "Perfect." Hoping he couldn't hear the slight breathlessness that had crept into her voice, she said, "I know you must be tired and want to get back to bed. But thanks for checking on me."

  He looked over at the sink. "How about I take a look at the faucet?"

  "I can call a plumber in the morning."

  "My father might not have been around much when I was growing up," Harry said, "but he made sure we all knew our way around a toolbox. Whenever I was at his place at Summer Lake, I was helping him build or remodel something."

  Just that, right there, was more than he had ever shared with her about his father back in college. In fact, hadn't Harry been pretty forthcoming about him in the store today too?

  "I always wondered how your father transitioned from being a painter into construction." But she'd never had the guts to ask, not when Harry had always made it clear that talking about his father's issues was off-limits. Things were different now, though. Not only was William Amelia's grandfather, but Molly also had a feeling Harry finally wanted to talk to her about him. "I think I understand why he stopped painting," she said in a gentle voice, "but what made him turn to building?"

  "Dad has always been good with his hands, obviously." She couldn't see Harry at the sink from her bed, but she could hear him using the wrench, or possibly a screwdriver. "I used to think that was all there was to it--that because he couldn't paint, he needed another creative outlet."

  She heard the water run, then shut off, then Harry walked back into the bedroom. "Your faucet is fixed. All it needed was a new washer."

  "Thank you." When they were younger, she would have let him go without pressing him for more insights about his father, but that hadn't done them any favors then, had it? "If building houses wasn't just another creative outlet for your dad, what else do you think it was about?"