by Nicole Deese
Patrick remained standing, the look on his face indecipherable.
Wait—did he think I had a part to play in this whole matchmaking ploy of Weston’s? If the gossip around the fitness center held any credence, women were practically lining up to date this ruggedly handsome bachelor. Did he think I was one of them? Did he think I’d asked my brother to bring him? My face flushed at the thought.
Nan took my plate. “Georgia, could you come help me with something in the kitchen for a minute? And Weston, would you mind getting Savannah the box of piano books from the top of my closet?”
In a matter of five seconds, Nan had revoked her previous offer of salvation. And no matter which name I called him—Ricky or Patrick or Dr. McCade—the result was the same. We were alone.
“So,” he started, still standing and holding the back of his chair with one hand and pulling on his neck with the other. “How’s the palm?”
I played with the hem of my sleeve, tugging it over the scabbed thorn wounds. “Better, thanks to Superman.”
His laugh was bold and bright. It plucked at the tight strings around my chest, one by one. “Superman always gets the credit—especially where beautiful women are concerned.”
The room pulsed and I wasn’t sure where to look, let alone what to say.
Again with the neck tug. “Your brother’s a fun guy.”
True, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk about my brother, at least not about his good qualities. However, this was probably the best time to clear up my involvement in tonight’s awkward dinner experience.
“Listen, Patrick, um, I’m not exactly sure what Weston may have implied, but I wanted to—well, if he asked you to—”
“Oh, it’s fine.” Patrick shook his head dismissively. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been asked.”
“Not the first time?” It was easy to imagine that Patrick had been set up a million times over, charming women worldwide with scar stories and safari tales, but the thought of him thinking I was one of those women was nothing short of mortifying.
“No, but it’s the first time I’ve said yes, so I think that should count for something.”
“Oh . . .” Was that supposed to be flattering?
I didn’t have to wonder for long. “He can be pretty persuasive.” Patrick’s chuckle felt like a pinprick to my diaphragm, my oxygen level running dangerously low. I was too stunned to speak, too shocked to blink.
This seemed like a whole new low for Weston—bribing a friend to spend time with his sister?
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “But what exactly did he persuade you with?”
Patrick pointed to the table. “Weekly dinners. I’d do almost anything for a good meal.” Each word was a swing of a rubber mallet to my chest. I tried and failed to swallow my hurt.
Something shifted on his face and I could almost hear the backpedal cranking away in his mind, as if looking for a way to further explain. Only he really shouldn’t have. “He’s been a good friend to me since I arrived in town. I was glad for the opportunity to return the favor.”
Forget the rubber mallet, Patrick had just plunged an ice pick straight into my chest and gouged out my heart.
A cold knot formed in my gut.
Return the favor?
So he’d agreed to spend time with me out of loyalty to his new friend—with a bonus of weekly dinners—while Weston got the satisfaction of watching his sister interact with a man he’d approved.
I stood up from the table, stiffened my shoulders, and forced a tight smile. It was time I struck a deal of my own with this man. “How about I don’t tell Weston about this conversation, if you don’t mention anything to him about the other day.”
A crease formed between his brows. “You mean at Savannah’s school?”
“What happened at Vannie’s school?” Weston sauntered into the room, looking between the two of us, a goofy grin spread wide across his face.
I stared at Patrick, willing him to keep my lunch break stalking a secret.
He gave a half shrug. “Nothing. I helped with a vaccine clinic there last Wednesday, is all.”
Please don’t say anything more, my eyes pleaded.
“And you were there, too?” Weston’s disbelief masked his usual cool-guy tone.
“Um . . .”
“No, I just saw her in passing. In the parking lot.”
I held my breath, hoping my brother wouldn’t ask for details. Lying by omission was so much easier than lying outright.
Patrick continued to stare at me, as if I were an equation he couldn’t solve. Which just might make him the smartest guy in the room.
“Ah, okay.” Weston nodded, yet I could tell the wheels of curiosity were still turning. Savannah often wore the same look. “Well, when Ricky here mentioned he’d met you, I figured it was only right to invite him over—encourage everyone to get better acquainted.” Weston winked at me and then slapped Patrick on the back. “Hey, ya know, maybe we could make these dinner dates a regular thing? Like once a week?”
Because that idea hadn’t already been thoroughly fleshed out between the two of them.
“I think I’ll pass. Please, excuse me.” Without a second glance back at either of them, I pushed in my chair and exited the room in search of Georgia.
I’d been in Georgia’s bedroom with her for nearly an hour, thumbing through bridal magazines and adding to-do notes in her wedding planner. Nan and Savannah were busy plunking away on piano keys, and from what I could hear, Patrick was regaling Weston with yet another riveting high-stakes story about that time when he sailed across the Atlantic, or maybe it was the Greek isles. Was there anything the man hadn’t done?
Whatever the answer, my hope to outlast him was fading faster than my resolve to stay.
“Are you really okay? We don’t have to do this tonight.” Georgia set her planner on her bedspread.
“Of course we do. You marked it down in your planner, remember?” I said, trying my best to ignore the male voices from two rooms over. I pointed at a picture of a white baggie filled to the brim with custom chocolate kisses. “What about something like this?”
“We already talked about that one.”
Oh. I pursed my lips, my crossed leg bouncing furiously fast.
She took the magazine from my hand. “I told Weston it was a bad idea to invite him without asking you first, but I won’t pretend I don’t know why he did it.”
I stared at the giant daisy pillow on her bed.
“Willa, your brother just wants you to be happy.”
“His version of happy, maybe.”
She sighed and brought her knees to her chest. “Would it be so bad . . . to put yourself out there? Date a bit?”
This conversation was as comfortable as hives. “I haven’t even—”
“Don’t try and tell me that you haven’t even thought about it. I know men have asked you out.” We both knew she was referring to Davis, though she didn’t speak his name. “You’re gorgeous and sweet and one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever known. I used to want to be you in high school.”
Now that made me laugh.
“I’m serious. Do you know how much people pay for your natural hair color in Hollywood? Not to mention your figure.” I rolled my eyes and she tossed the flower pillow at me. “What kind of brother would Weston be if he didn’t want to see his sister in a healthy, loving relationship?”
“The kind of brother who minded his own business?”
“Well, that’s never gonna happen.”
“Just like his matchmaking connections.”
“Touché.” She waved me up out of the chair, propped open her door, and waited for me to pass. “Now, let’s go get dessert.”
But even after her pep talk, my interest in dessert paled in comparison to my interest in getting the heck out of this house and away from a certain world traveler and his sidekick.
I took a deep breath. Two steps into the living room, I spotted Sav
annah. I made sure my gaze stayed focused only on her. “It’s time for us to go, sweetie. Make sure you tell Nan thank you and give her a hug good night.”
“But I didn’t get my pie yet. And I ate all my enchilada.”
And this was exactly why you shouldn’t make deals with children. “Maybe we can take a piece to go and you can eat at home?”
“Let me get you both a slice.” Patrick’s arm brushed mine as he passed me. I tried not to inhale his woodsy scent, but that proved an impossible feat.
I waited by the door while Patrick sliced his obviously homemade pie, which sat right next to my fake apple reject.
Patrick served everyone, ignoring my impatient stance. Fine, I’d take one bite of his stupid pie and then we’d leave. Unfortunately, that single bite tasted like heaven on my tongue. Whatever this butterscotch-cinnamon-apple goodness was, it was definitely unique.
“Oh my! What is this, Patrick? It’s delightful!” Nan said, her mouth full.
“It’s my mum’s favorite Scottish recipe.” He caught my eye. “Afraid I can’t take baking credit, though. She left it in the deep freezer for me and all I did was follow the heating instructions.”
“Well, you tell your mum that I’ll be knocking on her door come bake sale time,” Nan continued.
Patrick laughed. “I’ll do that.”
Georgia sat on Weston’s lap, feeding him a small bite of her pie, even though he’d polished off a slice of his own. My brother murmured something to her and she giggled. Their romantic display captured the attention of everyone in the room—which was the perfect opportunity for me to reach for Savannah’s hand and walk out that door. “Thanks again for dinner, Nan. Good night, everyone.” It was a statement that ended with the close of the front door while Savannah still chewed her final bite of pie.
Savannah buckled herself into the backseat, her favorite book already secured on her lap. The drive would be short, but I could tell by her eyes that she’d likely fall asleep before I even made it back to our driveway. I’d just opened my car door, the dull overhead light illuminating the interior, when Patrick jogged down the front porch steps with my jacket draped over his forearm.
Just let me leave.
“You forgot this,” he said, although he made no effort to hand the jacket to me.
Even in the shadows, his ocean-blue eyes were luminous.
I held out my hand, and slowly he offered me the captive piece of clothing. Leaning forward, he peered at something inside my car. All at once, my organs crystalized.
The prescription.
He shifted his gaze back to me. “You kept it?”
Like a fool.
Because the man who wrote me that note, the man who doctored me in a school parking lot, could not possibly be the same man I’d spoken to tonight. Had my brother sent him running after me, too? When would this nightmare end?
“The way that appointment went, I wasn’t sure you’d accept anything from me that day,” he said.
I turned my face away, my throat scratchy and tight. “I really should get Savannah home.”
He gripped the top of my door. “You know, I have the distinct feeling that I’ve done something wrong, and that usually means I have.”
“I think you and I have different definitions of wrong.”
His smile faltered. “How do you mean?”
“Your little agreement with my brother.”
“You think I should have told him no?”
“I think returning a favor,” I said using air quotes, “should be kept to dog sitting and airport pickups. Not agreeing to a pity date with your friend’s sister. Even if you get a weekly dinner out of the deal.”
Patrick’s grip of the door frame slackened. “What? How does agreeing to be a groomsman in your brother’s wedding make you my pity date?”
Air whooshed from my lungs and all I could do was blink.
“Wait—you thought, you thought I came here tonight because Weston persuaded me to . . .” He scrubbed a hand down his face as if replaying our conversation from earlier. “And then with the weekly dinners . . . oh, wow—”
“A groomsman?” My voice was a tiny squeak.
We stared at each other, each lost in our own world of humiliation. I, for one, couldn’t handle one more moment of embarrassment with this person.
“I’m so sorry . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.” I slumped into my seat. “Please, just forget this whole night—better yet, forget me.” I yanked my door closed, started the engine, and pulled out of Nan’s driveway.
I’d made it halfway down the road before I glanced in my rearview mirror. Patrick was still there, still staring after me.
With shaky fingers, I crumpled the prescription and tossed it to the floorboard. Then I popped a much-needed peppermint into my mouth.
If only this little fix could cure a case of chronic humiliation.
Chapter Eight
In a small town like Lenox, it was nearly impossible to avoid someone. Especially when that someone was Patrick McCade. He’d managed to invade my whole world the way a patch of thistles could overtake a hillside. I passed his car on random side streets, saw his name on gym sign-ups, and overheard stories of how he’d waived co-pays for several low-income families in our community.
And now he was in my brother’s wedding.
I clicked into his membership profile for the second time today, his picture creating a flurry of unwanted emotion. And just like the first time, I analyzed how different his picture was from real life. The camera had failed to capture all seventeen shades of Caribbean blue that swirled in his irises, just like it had failed to capture the unique quality in his smile, the one that could make a person feel interesting—even special—when it was directed at them.
Pretending to feel indifference for the town’s favorite philanthropist was almost harder than pretending to ignore him.
“Willa, can you come into my office for a moment, please?” Sydney’s voice crackled through the phone intercom at the front desk, and my pulse rate tripled.
I clicked out of the membership site, kicked my purse farther underneath the front desk, and then took the elevator up to the third floor.
I’d been called obsessive-compulsive a few times in my life, but walking into Sydney’s office was like walking into the headquarters for OCD. There wasn’t a speck of dust in sight—not a chair or notepad or pen out of place. She sat at her desk, posture perfect, her navy pantsuit a contrast to the ruby frames of her glasses.
They also highlighted her red-rimmed eyes.
“Please, have a seat.”
I sat in the fancy chair opposite her. I guessed it had cost more than my entire sofa set.
Sydney stared past me. “I need your help.”
“You do?” My reply was throaty and rough.
“Yes. I need you to oversee the health assessment workshop on the last Saturday of the month. I’d ask one of the college-age newbies to do it, but I’d be better off hiring children from the local preschool.” Sydney rubbed at the single crease in the center of her eyebrows. “I’ll be out of town that weekend and the date has already been advertised.” Her eyes shifted to a framed photograph on her desk, but all I could see was the glare off the glass.
There was something about the expression on Sydney’s face and the uncertainty of her voice that made her seem strangely vulnerable.
“I’ll pay you double time, even pay for a sitter if you need one.”
My mind skipped ahead to that weekend. “I think I can help out.”
Her shoulders relaxed, her model-thin body slouching ever so slightly against the back of her leather chair. “Thank you.”
I stared at her. The words were barely audible, muffled as if she were speaking into a blanket—very un-Sydney-like. We’d never been friends, but you didn’t have to be someone’s friend to recognize pain.
She rotated her chair, angling her face away from me. “I’ll e-mail you the details.”
Then
silence.
“Sydney?”
More silence.
There was no response except for the swift movement of her hand swiping her cheek.
I took a half step forward and said gently, “If you need someone to talk to . . . I’m here.”
A single nod and then she reached for her phone and pressed it to her ear.
Discussion over.
Weston’s garage was like a mini version of Home Depot. He was always building, always fixing, always imagining a solution to a problem. Which was why he circled me like a hawk.
“Consider it a peace offering.” Weston said, as we watched Savannah ooh and ahh over a new hand-carved dining room set for the dollhouse he’d made her last Christmas.
I shot him my best sisterly glare, and he bumped my shoulder. “Come on, you can’t stay mad at me forever. Inviting a single guy to dinner without checking with you isn’t a crime.”
“But the reason you didn’t check with me was because you knew I’d say no.”
“Exactly.”
“Wes.” I kneaded my temples and released a tension-filled sigh. This particular conversation had no end, a Ferris wheel we’d already hopped on many times over during the last week. I didn’t have the energy to discuss Patrick one more time. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“Dropped.”
He strode toward my daughter, who sat on a red rocking chair. It was the first piece of furniture Weston ever made for Savannah and she’d opted to keep it in his shop, so she’d always have somewhere to watch him create. They chatted about the tiny chairs and table set he’d created, and my heart warmed. I could fault Weston for being an overbearing brother at times, but I could never fault him for the way he loved his niece.
“I’m gonna grab a drink inside,” I said, leaving the two of them to plan the next dollhouse addition.
I flicked the light on in Weston’s kitchen. He ate with Georgia and Nan most nights, so the few coffee mugs in the sink and practically bare pantry didn’t surprise me. But the neon-yellow flyer on his fridge did.
LENOX LITTLE KICKS SOCCER