Hot to the Touch

by Jennifer Greene

  A half hour later he heard the baby start wailing again—followed by Phoebe’s slow, ever-patient, soothing voice and her ghastly off-key humming. A few minutes after that she showed up in the doorway.

  “Are we going to be in your way if I give him a bath here, Fox?”

  “No sweat.” He was nowhere ready for power-tool noise yet. He was still interpreting the plumbing instructions, laying out the fittings. And he kept at it, although he watched her from the corner of his eye and became more and more confused at what she was doing. She filled up the big claw-footed bathtub in the middle of the room. The location of the tub didn’t surprise him; he’d just figured she used it for physical therapy, but it was huge, hardly baby-size. He’d have thought the sink would be a lot easier way to bathe a baby that little. But he’d stopped talking by then, didn’t want to interfere, and truth to tell, he’d sunk into a skunky mood. Her comment had done it, the one about how the baby hadn’t found a reason for living.

  His mind kept jolting back to the little dark-haired boy—the one in his nightmare, the one he’d tried to approach. The one he’d tried to show that there were people in this life who could be trusted, who wanted to help, who’d reach out. Everyone in his family and circle of friends had fought him about going into the military. They said it was a crazy choice for a man who hated guns, but they didn’t get it. That was the point. That he hated guns. That he loved children. If people didn’t stand up for kids, didn’t take a risk and reach out, how was anything going to change?

  Aw, hell. Whenever his mind crept down those dark alleys, he always seemed to sink like a stone. He could feel the ugliness creeping inside him, the darkness he’d been trying to swim out of for weeks now. Or at least he’d been trying to—since Phoebe.

  And there she was, suddenly. When the tub was full, she stripped the baby of clothes and diaper—no surprise—but the surprise when she scooped the baby into her arms again and stepped into the tub.

  His jaw dropped.

  She wasn’t naked herself. She had on a little T-shirt and boxers. But he’d just never expected her to climb in the bath with the baby. The little one almost immediately stopped crying—possibly from shock, possibly because it liked the warm water. Who could guess?

  But she laughed with delight, praising him softly, gently. “So is water going to be your Achilles’ heel, Manuel? Because if we’ve finally found out what turns you on, little one, we’re going to be wet a lot.…”

  Finally he understood what she was doing. She’d already told him that her intent was to stay physically in touch with the baby 24/7 if possible; he just hadn’t realized that meant really 24/7—that even in activities like a bath, the baby would have her to hold on to, like now. Naked as a newborn, he was lying on her tummy, feeling her security, her hands, the warmth of her heartbeat.

  Fox’s pulse suddenly drummed, drummed. She was really a damned extraordinary woman. Her confidence with the baby, her endless patience, the love she gave so freely, so generously…God. It was no wonder he couldn’t help loving her. What human being could not love her?

  But it still ripped through his mind that there’d been a time he’d had confidence and patience. A time he’d believed he even had a gift with kids. Kids had always been his calling. He’d really believed it.

  But that sure as hell wasn’t true anymore.

  “Fox?”

  He turned around at the doorway, carrying his jacket and tool box. “I didn’t want to interrupt the two of you. But I have to go.”

  “Right this second? You weren’t going to say anything?”

  “When the kid wasn’t crying?” He motioned toward the work corner. “I know I left it a complete mess, but I’ll be back later. I figured I’d just cover it up for now.” Both theoretically and symbolically, he thought.

  “You’re due over tomorrow night for your session.”

  “Yeah, I know.” But right then he felt the worst hell-hot headache coming on that he’d suffered in a while. He knew it was bad. The kind that would make him sick as a dog. He just wanted to get out of there and get home.

  And right then he was unsure whether he was coming back. Ever.

  Eight

  P hoebe lit the melon-scented candle and blew out the match. She stepped back with her hands on her hips and surveyed the table worriedly. Mop and Duster both yipped, just in case she’d forgotten they were there. They certainly couldn’t forget the fabulous smells drifting from the stovetop, and for some God unknown reason, no one was giving them tidbits.

  Phoebe had given the beggars plenty of treats, but right now she was too concerned about Fergus to concentrate on anything else.

  The rap on the front door inspired the dogs to race, barking the whole time, to great the visitor. Phoebe had barely opened the door before they leaped on Fergus, but when he looked up from the petting frenzy, his eyes were definitely only on her.

  “I am due here tonight, right?”

  “Right.” She knew how he could make her feel, yet still had to fight the rush and her zooming pulse rate. Naturally he was surprised to find her dressed differently, because he never saw her in anything but loose-fitting clothes. Form-fitting attire would hardly work for a masseuse. Her soft black sweater and slacks were hardly sexy—she didn’t do sexy—but yeah, she’d made a different kind of effort tonight. She still hadn’t put on shoes because she never wore shoes if she could help it, but she’d brushed her hair loose and put on a little face goop. Not much. Just some lip gloss, a little blush, a little mascara.

  Judging from the dangerous glint in Fox’s eyes, you’d think she’d put on major war paint.

  She led him toward the kitchen, musing that she had strategized a major war effort tonight. From her clothes to the setting, she’d wanted to create something that would startle him—because she had really, really doubted he intended to show up today.

  Something had been seriously wrong when he left two days ago. She didn’t know what, but in the space of a short conversation, Fergus had changed from a recovering, functioning, whole-hearted guy back into a taciturn shadow again. When he’d left, she’d desperately wanted to chase after him and confront whatever was wrong—but she’d had the baby to take care of. Besides which, she’d realized joltingly that she had no right to chase after him—that she had no personal right to care about Fergus.

  Tonight, though, she’d convinced herself that her strategic choices were all strictly professional. His recovery was her business, right? So if she chose to wear a snuggly black sweater and if it happened to catch his attention—as long as it was for a professional reason, that was okay.

  He asked about Manuel, and they chatted a few minutes about the baby and how her work was going. Since he was only planning to stay for the usual two-hour session, though, she needed to hustle the dinner along, and motioned him to sit down. “I have another exercise for you to try today.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He didn’t seem to notice the candles, the linen, the setting she’d worked so hard on. The darn man hadn’t taken his eyes off her yet. It was downright distracting. “What are those smells?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Dinner wasn’t part of the deal,” he said.

  “It is today. Anything’s part of the deal that puts you on a healing track, cookie.”

  “Cookie?” He almost choked on the teasing endearment, but she just chuckled—and put on oven gloves. Her scarred relic of a kitchen table had been covered with an elegant navy blue tablecloth—alias a bedsheet. She’d dimmed the lights, set up a centerpiece of melon-, peach- and strawberry-scented candles. Scraps of navy velvet ribbon tied the silverware, since she didn’t own real napkin holders.

  The menu was far from gourmet. Hot buttered, homemade bread. The potato dish everybody made for holidays with sour cream and corn flakes and cheddar cheese. Chicken rubbed with fresh cilantro and island pepper. Fresh cherries and blueberries, and eventually, a marshmallow sundae with double-chocolate ice cream. All easy, basic stuff. All comfort food.<
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  Fox, though, raised an eyebrow as more bowls and plates showed up on the table. “What is this?”

  “Like I said—just dinner.”

  “This is ‘just dinner’ like a diamond is ‘just a stone.’ You think I can’t tell when a woman’s determined to seduce me?”

  “What?” She dropped a hot pad. Then a fork.

  “Give me a break. You know what the smell of homemade bread does to a guy’s hormones, don’t you?”

  He was teasing with her. Flirting. Her heart soared a few thousand feet—not because he made her feel mooshy inside, but because, darn it, all the risks she’d taken for him really were paying off. For him, if not for her. Even a few weeks ago, he’d still been locking himself in a dark room, unwilling to be around people and, for darn sure, stingy with his smiles.

  “The homemade bread was about motivating your hunger,” she insisted.

  “That’s exactly what I said. That the smell of homemade bread is a foolproof way to motivate hunger in a guy. Better than just about anything on earth—give or take that sweater you’re wearing.”

  “It’s just a sweater, Fox! I—” The cell phone chimed, forcing her to peel off an oven glove to answer it.

  It was her mom, and because it was an unusual time for her mother to call, she motioned to Fox that she’d just be a few seconds, and continued bringing on the food. “There’s nothing wrong is there, Mom? You’re okay? Dad’s okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.” Her mother’s magnolia-sweet voice was a little too careful, but Phoebe swiftly learned why. “I just wanted to tell you something, honey. I saw in the paper tonight that Alan’s getting married. I know you two are long over, but I just didn’t want any stranger springing the news on you.…”

  The chicken was going to dry out if she didn’t get the dinner served, so she promised to call her mom later and hung up as quickly as she could, then hustled to sit across from Fox.

  “Sorry about the interruption,” she said with a smile. “I talk to my mom a few times a week, but we still never seem to be able to have a short conversation.”

  “She said something that bothered you?”

  “Oh, no. Everything’s fine.”

  “She must have said something or told you something—”

  To ward off another direct question, Phoebe served potatoes—no man alive so far had ever resisted those potatoes—and freely offered him some of her family background. “My dad and mom are both from Asheville. Dad’s an anesthesiologist. My mom always claimed it was a good thing he made good money, because she was too lazy to work—but that was a complete fib. She’s a hard-core volunteerer. Works with sick kids at the hospital. And troubled teenagers at a runaway place. And she’s on the board of directors for an adoption agency. She never stops running.… She also paints.”

  “So that’s where all these colors come from?” He motioned around her house.

  “Oh, yeah. Mom definitely taught me not to be afraid of color.”

  “You sound pretty close.”

  “Couldn’t be closer. Same for my dad.”

  “So what’d she say that bugged you?”

  Her smile dipped, but only for a second. “Fox,” she said firmly, “this is about you. Your time, your dollar. I don’t mind talking about myself, but not when we’re working together.” She glanced at his plate, though, and realized he was on his second helping. “Forget it. Ask me anything you want.”

  “Pardon?”

  She motioned. “Look at you. Eating like a pig. I’m so proud.” She passed him the plate of warm bread again. “Okay, I forgot, what was it you wanted to know?”

  “What your mother said. And I’m not eating like a pig.”

  “Come on, you,” she crooned. “Try the glazed carrots. The recipe’s so good you won’t even realize it’s a vegetable, I promise. She was just telling me that a man I used to know was getting married.”

  “I take it you and this guy were a thing?”

  “Yup. Was engaged to him myself, in fact. She was afraid I’d be shook up and hurt when I found out about it.”

  “So…are you? All shook up and hurt?”

  “Do I look remotely shook up?” But over the flickering candlelight, she saw his expression. “Damn. Quit looking at me like that, Fox. Go back to eating.”

  “How long were you with the guy?”

  “Three years. Close to four.”

  “So he’s the one you broke up with. The reason you moved here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Nosy. If you want the down and ugly, he broke my heart. Bad enough that I couldn’t seem to shake it without moving to a new place, totally starting over, physically and emotionally. But that’s water way over the dam now. Eat those carrots.”

  He was. But he was still like a hound with a bone. “How did the son of a bitch break your heart?”

  She waved the royal finger at him. “Normally I wouldn’t care what language you use. I can do all the four-letter words myself. But not tonight, Fergus. The whole dinner and program tonight is to coax you to feeling calm and relaxed. To help you heal. That’s not going to happen if you get yourself all revved up.”

  “I’m not revved up. I just want to know what the bastard did. Cheat on you?”

  “No.”

  Fox suddenly slammed down his glass of water. “Hell. He didn’t hit you, did he?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Did you forget who you were talking to? No one in this life is going to hit me and live to tell it.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that was a foolish fear, Red. Zipped out of my mouth before I stopped to think. Any guy who’d try that kind of nonsense wouldn’t still be alive. And you sure wouldn’t have mourned him.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  Fergus heaped another helping of potatoes on her plate. “You’re tough and strong and can take care of yourself. No question about that. So what exactly did this guy do to hurt you?”

  She sighed. “I’ll answer that. I’ll even give you the long, boring, embarrassing answer—but you’ll have to answer something for me first. I want to know what happened. In the Middle East. I know the cover story, how you were hit with a dirty bomb and all. But I want the details. Where were you, what was going on, what was the whole shemola.”

  It was his turn to hesitate. In fact, he apparently wanted to avoid that question so much he scooped up their empty plates and carted them to the sink, then turned around to give her one of those fierce, glowering looks that always successfully made his two big brothers back off pronto.

  It didn’t work on her. She just had a feeling this was it—it with a capital I. Either they had some kind of breakthrough together or he was going to back off from seeing her—not because she hadn’t helped him with the pain, but because something in Fox wasn’t sure he wanted to heal.

  Surprisingly he ambled into an answer, as if the subject bored him but he was willing to go along with her. At least for a while. “I enlisted in the service because of the kids. Because teachers need to be role models for kids, and history teachers get stuck being role models of a unique kind. Every day, see, I was talking about heroes in American history. What made a hero. Why we studied certain men and women over others. How we defined leadership and courage and all that big hairy stuff.”

  “Okay.” Since he was clearing away the dishes, she stood up, too. The dogs trailed her like hopeful shadows. She slid them scraps, washed her hands, then brought out her ruby-glass bowls and the double-chocolate ice cream. Then waited.

  “Okay,” he echoed her. “So a part of teaching history is teaching heroes—teaching kids that all of them had the potential to be heroic in the right circumstance. That being a hero wasn’t about having courage. It was about finding courage. That everybody was vulnerable and scared sometimes, but that the right thing to do is to stand up for people more vulnerable than you are.”

  God. He was going to turn her into mush. She heaped five big globs of ice cream without even thinking. Her heart just squished for what he said, how he
said it, what he so clearly believed from his heart. But she said just “okay” again as if leading him to continue.

  “So…” He fed plates into the dishwasher as if he were dealing cards, whisk, whisk, whisk. “So there came a point when we came to a unit about the Middle East, talking about history there, what had been happening over the last several decades specifically. The problem, as I could see it, was that the grown-ups in their families tend to wring their hands about anything to do with the Middle East, you know? Everybody’s tired of trying to fix something that nobody thinks we can fix. Of trying to do something we don’t have the power to do. We’re tired of getting involved, wanting to feel like we’re good guys, and then getting kicked in the teeth for it. And because that’s what the kids were hearing at home, that’s what they brought to me at school.”

  “And you did what about this?” She sat down with the two ruby bowls of ice cream, then poured on the warmed marshmallow on top.

  “God,” he said, watching her.

  “Now, don’t get diverted. Keep talking.”

  He did, but with a spoon in motion. “So…I didn’t see I had any choice but to volunteer for the military—because that’s what I’d taught them. That you couldn’t just talk. You had to show up. That even weak-kneed, gun-hating, sissy teacher types…such as myself…had the power to change things—”

  “Fox. You haven’t got a sissy bone in your body.”

  “Maybe not. But it still tends to be the stereotype for male teachers, that we’re lightweight fighters, so to speak. And it bugged me, what the kids were hearing at home. Anyway, I’m just trying to explain. I felt I’d lost the right to talk to them about heroes and leaders, if I wasn’t willing to stand up myself.”

  Phoebe put her spoon down. She was the worst sucker for sweets ever born, especially for this kind of sundae, but she suddenly knew something bad was coming. She knew. And she didn’t prompt him when he hesitated this time because right there, right there, she changed her mind about whether he should tell her this. She wasn’t a psychologist. What was she thinking, to be so arrogant to believe she could help?