With Will bearing the brunt of the duties and the worry, she guessed. “You should have written me. Called.”
He was already shaking his head. “What were you going to do, Em? You were hundreds of miles away and all of what…seventeen?”
“But—”
“I handled it, Emily. I handled it just fine on my own.”
She swallowed her next words, though it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she would have liked to have known, if only to have winged a few good thoughts his way. But he, apparently, hadn’t wanted anything from her then.
He was right, she supposed. She’d been a teenager, and they’d been…What had they really been to each other then? Teenage crush? Summer fling?
Still, her heart ached a little that he hadn’t turned to her all those years ago. Ignoring the hurt, she pasted on a smile. “Well, in any case, it looks like you did a great job. They’re nice people, Will, your brothers and sisters. Everyone here.”
“Including my competition, right?”
“Your competition?” She hadn’t noticed another man that night besides Will. “What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”
“About two feet tall? Towhead? You’ve already forgotten the guy in whose arms I caught you not ten minutes ago?”
She laughed. “Oh, yeah. He’s nice people, too. Though short. I like them a little taller and a little older than that.”
“Really?” He drew out the word as he drew her close again. “Why don’t you tell me exactly how you like them.”
The fun, flirtatious tone was exactly how he’d played her last week. In Las Vegas, his warm, free and easy manner had completely disarmed her, evaporating her normal caution and innate common sense. It had been so darn attractive and so darn seductive that she’d never imagined there were deeper, colder currents running beneath all that surface charm and smoldering sexuality.
“You should have told me in Las Vegas, Will,” she murmured.
“What?”
“You should have told me about your parents, your family, what you’ve gone through.”
His feet stopped moving. Dusk had turned to night, and he’d danced them into the shadows of the eaves. “Why the hell would I tell you any of that?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, moving back so her shoulder blades bumped the wall of the house. “It’s a pretty big thing about a person.”
“So you think I should go around spilling my guts to every pretty lady I meet?” There was a trace of irritation in his voice. “You think that I need their pity to get their interest?”
“No.” Every pretty lady? How about just the ones he married? “That’s not what I said. But when you want to get to know a woman, build a relationship—”
“I’m not interested in ‘getting to know’ women. I don’t want ‘relationships.’ Not in the way that you mean. Do you realize that when other guys my age were hitting on chicks and heading out to parties that I was at home giving parties, and showing little kids how to hit piñatas?” His voice was low, rough. Obviously she’d poked a sore spot.
“Okay, but there’ll come a time—”
“Now’s the time, Emily. My time. I don’t need a relationship that will tie me up or tie me down. God, I’ve been there, done that, and washed all the freakin’ T-shirts. And the sheets, and the towels and three-thousand pairs of socks. Do you know how many socks a family of six goes through in a week?”
She might have laughed, if he didn’t sound so serious. “Okay, okay. I understand.”
He made a disgusted sound and turned away. “You understand nothing.” Then he spun back, and yanked her close again. “Or if you do, explain it to me. Because I don’t understand this.”
His mouth slammed into hers.
Her heart jumped, her lips parted, and as his tongue slid into her mouth she rose to her tiptoes to get even closer to him. One of her arms wrapped his neck, one of his scooped around her hips and pulled her against his pelvis.
His body was hot, the part of him pressing against her stomach was hard and insistent and she pushed herself harder against it, wanting friction. Closeness. Wanting Will.
His hand slid up her side and his mouth angled for a tighter fit just as his fingers closed over her breast. The pleasure of it made her gasp, and then that little bit of fresh oxygen reached her brain and made her wake up to where they were.
What they were doing.
Why they shouldn’t be doing it. He’d been waiting thirteen years to be a bachelor, to have his time, to be heading out to parties and picking up women other than the one who was—just for the moment—his wife.
Making a sound of distress, she broke the kiss. His arms dropped instantly, but Emily ran anyway.
Too late, she worried. She’d run from him too late.
The small house was a beige stucco, cottage-styled, with the door painted a mossy green. Will stared into the grated, hand-sized, eye-level window cut into the wood that served as a peephole. No bright blue eyes stared back, despite the fact that he’d rung the bell, knocked, then rang the bell a second time.
He drummed his fingers on his thigh with frustration. After Jamie and Ty’s party, he’d kicked himself for forgetting to get her cell phone number. That had him heading back to the library only to discover that Emily had deserted her post. According to her boss, she’d called in sick. It had taken two days and all the charm at his disposal—not to mention showing up in his firefighter’s uniform—for the older lady to give in and give him Emily’s address so he could “check up on her.”
But she was either ill enough to suffer hearing loss, or she was avoiding him.
Was it the latter? Was there a reason she wouldn’t be as eager as he to sever that impulsive knot they’d tied in Las Vegas? He hoped to hell that wasn’t the case, because it was his plan to task her with finding out what steps were necessary for them to get a divorce or an annulment or whatever. She was the reference librarian, after all.
And he was a bachelor on a mission, he reminded himself as he once again banged his fist against the door. A bachelor on a mission to live like a single man should. His rash action in Las Vegas had already made him break his vow to keep clear of his family. Now he needed his connection with Emily separated before it caused other unintended consequences.
When his next knock came and went unanswered, he felt an uneasy chill creep down his spine. This was the right address. That was her car in the driveway, he’d bet on it, because the sticker on the back bumper was a plain giveaway: Reading Is Sexy.
Grateful he was still in his Paxton FD uniform, he stepped over the low fence that corralled her side yard and made his way around to the stamp-sized back garden. The rear door to the house was open, only the screen across the opening, and when he peered inside what looked to be a narrow den, he saw a figure curled on a loveseat.
“Em?” he called. “Emily?”
The figure twitched, then stilled. He supposed it was Emily, it was Emily-colored hair that was hanging over the place where the body should have a face, so he pulled open the screen and stepped inside.
“Em,” he said again. Crouching down beside the loveseat, he palmed the hair away to expose her features. Emily’s pale features. So pale, that her brown lashes were a startling contrast to her white cheeks. “Emily.”
Her eyes slowly opened. They were a dull version of their usual blue. “Oh. This isn’t heaven.”
“What? I look like the devil?”
“No.” She drifted off again, her words a mumble. “But I was hoping to move on to a better place.”
He settled onto the rag rug covering the hardwood, and stroked her hair to rouse her again. “You really are sick, huh?”
Her eyes stayed closed. “Do firefighters like Dalmatians and posing half-naked for charity calendars?”
“What?”
“You should, you know. Izzy says…Izzy says you have a great body.”
“What?”
Her eyes popped open. She blinked.
“I’m not dreaming. You really are here.”
“Yep.”
She stared another moment. Then she closed her eyes again, as if her lashes were too heavy to hold up. “Go away.”
“I can’t—”
“I’m sick.”
“And I’ve been around a dozen or so sufferers of the Firefighters’ Flu—what I’d venture a guess you have—in the past couple of days and am so far unscathed. As a matter of fact, it was probably me who exposed you to the virus in the first place.”
She looked at him again. “Then I hate you. Go away.”
“You know,” he said, propping his shoulder against the cushion of the loveseat. “They say men are lousy patients, but in my experience, it was the girls who were the worst. When she didn’t feel well, Jamie could make the whole house miserable with her bad temper. Betsy wasn’t a complainer, but she’d insist I hold her hand the whole time she was in bed.”
“I don’t want you to hold my hand in bed.”
And if she was in bed—no, no, he wasn’t going to go there, not even in his imagination. He cleared his throat. “Look, can I get you anything?”
“No.”
His conscience pricked him. “I just can’t run off. I promised your boss I’d look in on you.”
“But you did look. You can see it isn’t pretty. Now please leave me alone.”
It was perverse of him, he knew that, but the more she tried to push him away, the more stubborn he got about staying. Until he could do something for her at least.
“How’s your stomach?” he asked.
“I might have lost it altogether sometime last night. As a matter of fact, I hope that’s the case.”
“It’s been quiet since then?”
He took her head movement as a yes. “Then you need liquids. Water. Gatorade.”
Without waiting for an answer, he found his way to the kitchen. No Gatorade, but she had a low-calorie version of the stuff in a sports bottle and that would do. It was the electrolytes and the liquid that her body thirsted for.
When he got back she didn’t protest much as he helped her to a sitting position and brought the bottle to her mouth. She tried to hold it herself, but he brushed her weak hand away and she ended up leaning on him as she took greedy sips.
“Not so fast,” he murmured, brushing her hair off her face again. He wondered how many times he’d done something similar for one of his siblings. “Take it slow.”
She turned her face away and he lowered the bottle, as she continued to rest against him. A few minutes later they repeated the process. Two more times, and she pronounced herself feeling steady enough to get up and make a trip to the bathroom.
A muted half shriek from the hallway had him dashing the few feet to find her, staring aghast at her reflection. She met his eyes in the mirror over the sink. “I did die, and hell is that you had to see me looking like this.” Her hand gestured to the wild state of her messy hair.
He grinned. “You always know a woman’s feeling better when she’s worried about her hairstyle or the size of her butt.”
“Later, I’m going to be insulted by that,” she said, her voice weary. “But right now I don’t have the energy.”
To hide his second grin, he pulled open the door to the shower stall and adjusted the taps. “Save your strength for some soap and water. You’ll be fifty percent better once you get out.”
“I’m not settling for less than eighty-five.”
“Sixty.”
“Eighty.”
“Sixty-five.”
“Pessimist,” she said, as he let himself out into the hallway and shut the door behind him.
Even sick, she made him smile.
He was glad she didn’t take long in there. The idea that he might have to barge in and rescue her, naked and wet, wasn’t a prospect he was feeling as clinical about as he should. When she pulled open the bathroom door, he was waiting nearby, his back braced against the wall, and they stared at each other a long minute.
Her wet hair was slicked back from her face. He smelled sweet shampoo and minty toothpaste and her pallor was warmed by a flush brought on—he supposed—by the hot shower. The pink color ran from her cheeks and down the flesh of her neck, all the way to the vee of her chest exposed by her tightly wrapped, white terry cloth robe. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She’d rubbed something on them, because where they’d been chapped before, they were now already shiny.
His glance slid away and he straightened from the wall. “I made some soup I found in your cupboard. And oyster crackers. Where shall I bring it to you?”
“You don’t—” she started, stepping forward, but then she wobbled, and had to grab the doorjamb for support.
He leaped to her, wrapping her waist with his arm. “Let’s get you to bed.”
The shuddering sigh that went through her body was the only answer he needed. In minutes she was tucked between floral printed sheets and he was settling a tray of soup and crackers across her lap.
She murmured a thanks, then looked up. “You have to go now.”
“I will, when—”
“I’m not one of your charges. I’m not your responsibility.”
Irritation flashed through him. Okay, and maybe a half dose of guilt. “Gee, Em. Your gratefulness overwhelms.”
Her mouth set in a stubborn line. “Take offense. And then take it and yourself out of my house.”
“I take it back,” he said, scowling. “You’re more like Jamie than Besty after all.”
“It’s just that…” Her shoulders slumped. “It’s just that after all you’ve done for others you don’t deserve being saddled with another person to care for.”
It didn’t feel like saddling. It felt like…hell, he didn’t know. And she was right. He wasn’t responsible for her and damn sure didn’t want to be. His footsteps backed toward the door. “Fine, then. But you should call someone.”
“I’ll ring Izzy.”
“Can she come from wherever she is to make sure you’re all right?”
Emily shook her head. “I told you I don’t need a keeper.”
But looking wan and fragile like that, she did need someone, he thought. “I know your folks are at the other end of the state, but can you call them? Maybe your mom could come stay for a few days.”
“Oh.” A strange expression crossed Emily’s face. “No. My mom and dad are gone now.”
“What? When?” He thought she’d been close to them as a kid. If he remembered right, they’d had Emily late in life and she’d been an only child.
“My dad had a massive heart attack when I was twenty-five. Then I stayed with my mom in our old house for the next few years. She had a couple of strokes about eight months ago—the last one…well, it was the last one.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Em.” She’d said those same words to him a couple of days ago, and though he realized she was years older than he’d been when he lost his folks, he knew it still had to hurt.
“That’s when I decided to make a move,” she said. “I needed to get away from all those old memories to make a fresh start in a new place.”
Meaning she was away from all that was familiar, he realized. And that meant she was here in his part of the state, in his county knowing no one but him. Having no one, but him.
Her husband.
Hell.
Maybe another bachelor could have pushed that out of his mind right now. Maybe another man could have brought up to her—sick or not—that they had to get on that quickie divorce. It was the kind of bachelor he’d always thought he would be someday.
Or not.
Because, God, he couldn’t do it. Separating himself from her at this point would leave her all alone. Without him, who would have gone looking for her when she didn’t show up at work? As yet, no one knew her well enough—heck, how many people even knew her phone number or new home address?—to make sure she was safe. Not to mention happy.
Will’s fingers curled into fists and he
shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his frustration. There wouldn’t be any quickie divorce or speedy annulment. Not yet. He couldn’t break his ties with Emily until he found her a community of friends, a circle of caring people who would let him finally leave her for good—and leave him with a clear conscience.
Chapter Four
Emily was back at her new job and feeling like her old self by the second half of the following week. She hadn’t seen or heard from Will since he’d come to her aid that day on her couch. Still, when she picked up the phone with the greeting, “Reference Desk,” she immediately recognized the voice on the other end.
“Can the librarian tell me the most popular Friday night activity in the county?” he asked.
“This librarian enjoys putting a dent in her to-be-read pile of books,” Emily answered, “but if you’ll let me put you on hold a moment, Will, I’ll research how the rest of the Ponderosa County residents like to celebrate TGIF.”
“No, no, no hold,” he put in hastily. “I haven’t had a minute to spare this week thanks to a second wave of Firefighters’ Flu and I’m afraid I might never reach you again. I want to—”
“Talk, I know,” Emily interrupted, guilt making her toes curl in her sensible low heels. “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you, too.”
He’d been right about the Danielle Phillips thing. Emily indeed had the ostrich-like habit of trying to ignore unpleasant or uncomfortable circumstances in the hopes they would go away. But burying her head in the proverbial sand—or in this case, bookshelves—wasn’t going to fix what hot Vegas sun and too many mojitos had wrought.
She plucked the pencil she had tucked behind her ear and brought forward a scratch pad. “Obviously I’m the one who has the skills to find out the best way to—”
“I don’t have time for that now,” Will suddenly said.
Through the phone, Emily heard the clang of an alarm and then other commotion—pounding feet and maybe the clink of equipment?
“We’ve got a call,” he continued, his voice hurried, “so I have to make this quick. Will you go with me to the Paxton High football game tomorrow night?”
I Still Do Page 4
