Max grinned and gave a little nod of acknowledgment, then turned back to their hostess. “And what about you, Emily?”
“What about me?”
“We heard all about your decision to leave Southern California for our northern climes. About how you were looking for a new start after losing your mother last year. But what we don’t know about are the broken hearts you left behind…”
She shifted in her seat and then rose. “You’re not really interested in that,” she said, gathering up the plates. “I’ll just—”
“Let the three of us do the dishes,” Will said, rising as well, and noting with satisfaction that his brothers did the same. While it had rarely seemed so at home, it looked as if they showed good manners when they were out in the world.
“You’ve already done enough,” Emily protested. “And I’m going to serve brownies next. I can—”
“Sit at the breakfast bar while we clean up,” Will said, and headed into the kitchen.
Of course, that went quickly, too. He and his brothers were experts in dishwashing and fell into a natural rhythm.
Emily seemed to appreciate the way they worked. She suggested, anyway, that they hire out at Thanksgiving.
“We’re too busy,” Tom said. “We make snowflakes on Thanksgiving night.”
“Snowflakes?” She looked from one brother’s face to another.
Will swallowed his silent groan. Not that the snowflakes were any big secret, but it sounded kind of tacky. Face it, the snowflakes looked kind of tacky, but at that first Thanksgiving without his folks, when usually they’d have been unloading from the attic all the Christmas decorations—Daileys had always started the holiday early—he’d come up with the snowflake idea instead, and it had kind of stuck.
“We drag out all kinds of paper and scissors,” Tom started.
And did anyone think how hard it was to find six pairs of working scissors in a household of six siblings? Will thought, as he continued to put dishes away. They went MIA like single socks in the dryer.
“And then we sit around after the Thanksgiving meal and cut snowflakes that we use to decorate the house and the tree for Christmas.”
“How charming,” Emily exclaimed. “How long does that tradition go back?”
As far back as Will’s inability to face the attic and all the memories stored there after his parents had died. As far back as Will’s grief over his parents’ death and his harrowing worry that he couldn’t do the job to raise his brothers and sisters right. As far back as the days when he picked up every extra shift at the station to afford to make Christmas a time of celebration and gift-giving and not a time of agonizing over where the gifts would come from.
The season had been just another heavy stone around his neck and every day he’d wondered if this was the day he’d drown. He’d loved them all—he was the oldest, he had to, didn’t he?—but he was so damn glad to now be free of all that care.
But hell, here in this room with his brothers and his wife…he wasn’t free.
He tossed the dishrag he was squeezing onto the counter. “I’ve got to go,” he said, without looking at Max, or Tom, or Emily. “I’ve got things to do.”
Things like getting on with that vida loca he’d been dreaming of for the past thirteen years, before he tangled himself up too tightly again with his relatives—and his wife—and this time drowned for sure.
Chapter Six
A small tin of the brownies in hand, Emily hurried up Will’s front walk, conscious of the passing minutes. She was using the last half of her lunch hour to leave her little token of gratitude. At the bottom of the porch steps, she paused a moment and tilted back her head to take in the farmhouse-styled Dailey family home. The siding was a pearly blue-gray, the trim white, the porch itself wide. It was a charming residence, with a vintage-looking swing placed at the left of the front door. For a family of six kids it wasn’t a large place, though, and she could imagine the rough-and-tumble chaos that must have existed within its walls during their growing-up years.
To her, the idea of constant company and ever-present noise sounded more than appealing, but it was obvious that Will had had his fill of it. Now he was in a place where solitude and independence were his dearest wish. She didn’t think she was wrong in deducing that he’d left dinner early the night before because he’d felt a need to be alone.
And he’d left so quickly she hadn’t been able to properly thank him. But when he came home to find baked goods on his doorstep she hoped he’d get the message she hadn’t been able to deliver in person the night before.
She stood on the porch, contemplating the best place to leave her tin, when the front door suddenly opened. Surprised, she stepped back, and Will did, too, so that she couldn’t read his expression as he stood in the shadowed foyer.
Besides startled, how did he feel about seeing her again? Annoyed? Glad?
Because glad was how she was feeling, darn it all. Every time, since bumping into him on that hotel pathway in Las Vegas, she’d experienced the incredible, giddy gladness at the sight of his dark hair and handsome features.
“Emily,” he murmured now. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I didn’t expect to see you either,” she said, using her free hand to smooth the skirt of her knee-length, crisp cotton shirtdress. Though it was sunny and warm outside, she wore sheer thigh-high stockings over her bare legs as defense against the air-conditioned cool of the library. “I thought you’d be at work.”
“I’m off today,” he said, gesturing toward the interior of the house. “Come on in.”
“Oh, I…” Surely it was good manners that accounted for his polite words, and not a true welcome. So she should shove the brownies at him and then hit the road herself—she was on the waning half of her lunch hour after all. Really, she should go. But she was as curious as the next temporary wife to see how her temporary husband lived, and she supposed she’d never have another chance. “I can only stay a minute.”
Inside, he led her to a narrow living room that was filled with a paisley, overstuffed sofa and a striped loveseat in similar muted colors. Framed artwork, bright and charming but obviously child-rendered, adorned the walls.
Will noticed the direction of her gaze. “A few years ago, the sibs each gave me their best piece of school art for Christmas.”
Even at a “few” Christmases ago, some of the paintings had to hark back to elementary school. “You had saved all their art?”
Will shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted on his feet. “I’ve got a file for each one of them. My mom started it.”
And he’d continued the practice. It shouldn’t melt her heart like it did, but the fact was, there now was a warm liquid center in that organ beating in the middle of her chest. Rubbing her knuckles against her breastbone, she crossed to a small upholstered chair to examine a loosely and unevenly stitched afghan in shades of olive green and eggplant yarn, an extraordinarily unattractive combination that clashed with every other color in the room. Certainly another handmade item. She cocked an eyebrow Will’s way.
He shifted on his feet again and cleared his throat. “Betsy made that in high school for me. Even she admits now that it’s butt-ugly. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it.”
Emily’s heart went softer still as she hid her smile. Call her crazy, but she’d bet that Will would be proudly displaying the thing when he was ninety years old. “I like it,” she said. Then she noticed the time on the grandfather clock that stood in a corner of the room. While she thought she could spend the rest of the afternoon exploring Will’s environs and figuring out what they said about the man he had become, work was waiting for her. “I should be getting back.”
“You haven’t said why you came by in the first place.”
She lifted the tin of brownies. “I wanted to leave a little thank-you for your help yesterday. Brownies. I realized that you missed out on dessert last night.”
“I regretted that.” He looked down at hi
s feet, clad in a pair of well-used running shoes.
With his hair damp at the ends, and in a worn pair of jeans and an untucked, rumpled dress shirt that he’d rolled up at the sleeves, he looked like a man about to embark on a few errands. But for all Emily knew, he had been heading out to meet a hot date…or had just tumbled out of bed after a long, late night with one.
She frowned at his bent head, a little mad at him now, and almost wishing she hadn’t brought him brownies after all. Let the woman—women?—Wild Will was dating give him the goodies.
Which they probably were, she thought with an internal grumble. Yes, okay, it was stupid to feel betrayed, but she knew she was frowning more fiercely at him anyway.
He caught her wearing that expression, because he suddenly looked up and said, “I regretted even more missing out on learning about the loves you left behind.”
Her slack jaw neutralized her previous disapproving expression. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Your romantic past. It struck me sometime after I came home last night that you very neatly sidestepped Max’s question. The one about the broken hearts you left back home.”
She set the tin of brownies onto a side table, taking her time to line up the little box. “Here is home now.”
“Nice try, friend.”
She shot him a look. The fact was, they weren’t even friends, were they? Old acquaintances, two people caught up in a mutual, whimsical mistake—that they really should do something about, like now, but she hated to be the one to remind footloose and fancy-free Wild Will that he was still actually, legally, married. Just because of that she had no obligation to explain to him that she’d spent her twenties as the embarrassing cliché of a librarian who spent most of her time nose-to-book instead of lip-to-lip with some man.
There was no reason to give any of that away.
“Look,” she said, making a big play of checking her watch. “I’m busy. I need to get back to the library.”
Will’s eyes narrowed, and then a grin broke over her face. “Ha. I get it now.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Get what?”
“That little phrase came too easy for you, sweetheart.” He shook his head. “‘I’m busy. I need to get back to the library.’ Has that been your standard line for the last thirteen years?”
No. While earning her degrees it had been, I’m busy. I need to study at the library.
So sue her, she hadn’t been much of a party girl or an amateur man-hunter. It wasn’t because she’d already given her heart away. Nothing like that. During the years since she’d last seen Will, there’d been other things to do besides finding the man of her dreams.
“I spent a lot of time with my mom after my dad died,” she heard herself say. Looking down, she toyed with the brownie tin. “And she needed a lot of care the last couple of years. So I did that when I wasn’t working.”
“Oh, hell.” Regret edged Will’s voice as he strode across the space separating them in order to smooth his hand over her hair. “I’m a jerk for teasing you like that, Em. And for reminding you of unpleasant things. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She shouldn’t like the way he stroked her again with his hand.
“No, it’s not. Go ahead and hit me or something.”
With a little smile, she looked up. “Will…”
Whatever she was going to say got lost in the short distance between them. Her smile faded away as she stared into his eyes, their deep brown color so familiar, the heat in them so distracting.
Exciting.
Memories flooded her, but not those childhood summer memories that had been so sweet when she’d first recognized him in Las Vegas. These were adult memories—the heat of his chest through his shirt as they danced on the hotel bar’s tiny parquet floor. The crazy beat of her heart as they said their marriage vows in front of a lousy Elvis impersonator to the strains of “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” The way she’d fallen into the deep kiss he’d given her at his sister’s barbecue. The quake to her system when he’d touched his tongue to hers in his truck the night of the football game.
Will’s fingers curled into her hair, taking hold of it so he could tilt her head back and get a clearer view of her face.
Or a more direct route to her lips.
He let out a soft groan. “Still a boy’s dream,” he murmured. “Your wide eyes, your soft mouth.” His gaze flicked down to Emily’s throat. “Why is your heart beating so fast, baby?”
“Because…” She licked her lips, unable to speak more, unable to think. Her heartbeat sped up even more. “I’ve got to get back. I’ve got to—”
“Don’t go. Don’t go anywhere.” His free hand moved to her face and his thumb drifted over her cheekbone, and then brushed across her mouth.
Your soft mouth.
The touch to her lips, the remembered words, speared through her. Her body jolted in reaction, her foot taking a quick, unsteady step that had her crashing against the end table. Will released her hair to grab her elbows, just as she felt the unmistakable tug of the nylon covering her calf catching on the leg of the little table.
“Damn,” she muttered, and she bent down to inspect the damage. Yep. The run was ugly and climbing higher as she disengaged the stocking’s mesh from the rough imperfection in the surface of the wood. Biting her lip, she quickly reached under her skirt to catch the lacy top of the damaged thigh high to draw it off.
At the sound of another low groan, Emily froze. Her gaze lifted to Will’s face. The hemline of her dress was nowhere near immodest—it had only risen an inch or two as she sought the top of the stocking—but from his expression she might as well have been performing a striptease in one of the clubs they’d walked past on the Las Vegas Strip.
She might have left the thigh high as is, but it was already pooling at her ankle, so she quickly stepped out of it, then slid her foot back into her low pump. “I…it was an ugly run…”
“Nothing is ugly when it comes to you, Emily.”
Oh, wow. Every word, every moment with him, was just melting her more. “I’ve really got to go,” she said again, reminding herself.
“Okay,” he answered, but he sank to his haunches in front of her. She swallowed, hard, and then harder as his hand touched the knee of her other leg. “But we can’t have you going out unmatched.”
And then, she couldn’t believe it, then he reached up under her dress, his fingertips sliding upward, over her stocking and then to the lacy top piece until he encountered bare skin. Goose bumps broke out from that point and rushed toward her heels and toward her—well, upward.
Still, she couldn’t move.
Frozen by the intimacy of the act, by the eroticism of it, she could only watch as he peeled the nylon from her leg, baring it like the other. When it came time, she put her hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she stepped out of the stocking and stepped back into her shoe.
Will slowly rose, the thigh-high balled in his hand. She reached for it, but he shook his head, then shoved the mesh in the front pocket of his jeans. “You’ll get it back tonight, Em.”
“Tonight?”
He smiled, and skated his thumb across her bottom lip. “You’ll come back for it, won’t you?”
You’ll come back for it, won’t you?
The question plagued her all afternoon. She knew what would happen if she returned to Will’s house. The certainty of that had been in the crackle of the air between them in his living room and in the sensitivity of her skin to his slightest touch. But it was a terrible idea to act on that…wasn’t it?
But…
Maybe if they did go through with it, if they actually went to bed together, then the distracting attraction would be finally put to rest.
Yeah, right.
Nobody fooled themselves with that argument, did they? If what came after the kisses was as explosive and powerful as the kisses themselves, then she couldn’t see how tumbling into Will’s bed would smother the fire that al
ways smoldered when they were together.
And if sex between them wasn’t any good—
Oh. Might that happen? Could the two of them, skin-to-skin, be more ash than flame?
That potential disappointment sealed the deal, she decided. No way was she getting naked with Will. Much better to live with unrequited sensual longing than the destruction of the sweet memory of their first love if they killed it with a dud of a real sexual experience.
So, yeah, she was going back to Will’s this evening, but armed with all the information they needed to start the proceedings to end their marriage, not begin an affair.
Surely, she could withstand even his most experienced attempts to convince her otherwise.
Despite her resolve, though, she was nervous as she got out of her car in front of Will’s house. There was still plenty of daylight left and the evening was warm, so it wasn’t a surprise to find the front door open—but the sound of country music blasting though the screen was a bit unexpected.
Who would have thought Will was a Carrie Underwood fan? And maybe she was mistaken about the intent of his invitation to return after all, because “Before He Cheats” wasn’t a song of seduction.
And then, when she rang the bell, it was his sister, Betsy, who came to the door. She smiled at Emily. “Will said you might be coming by, though he’s not here at the moment. I’m turning into your official greeter, I guess, and, I suppose, your official horn-inner of dates with my brother.”
Emily felt more relief than you’d expect for a woman strong in her resolve not to go to bed with a man. But with Betsy here, her backbone—or lack thereof—was moot. “I’m not dating your brother,” she clarified. “I’m here to, uh…” What excuse could she offer?
Betsy held open the screen door and waved Emily inside. “You’re here to help me, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m going to one of those come-in-an-old-prom-dress parties and I can always use a second opinion.”
“Uh, sure.” She followed the other woman down a narrow hallway, then paused at the threshold of a bedroom decorated in a masculine style. “Betsy?”
I Still Do Page 7
