by Nicole Deese
The shadow along Patrick’s jaw matched the russet brown of his hair. The color was so rich, like the blending of cayenne pepper and cocoa powder.
I blinked away. “Let’s see . . . you rock climb, you jump off bridges, you forge across alligator-infested waters, you doctor people around the globe, you ballroom dance . . . oh, and let’s not forget your little photography hobby.”
“That sounds like a badly written online dating profile.”
I laughed and then quickly bit my bottom lip when Lou glanced my way. “Stop trying to get me in trouble.”
He lowered his voice. “Then accept the fact that there are plenty of things I don’t know how to do—and an even longer list of things I don’t do well.”
“Prove it.”
He stopped midstep and my feet staggered on either side of his right shoe.
“How exactly do you propose I do that? Would you like me to cook you the worst omelet you’ve ever eaten? Because I’m horrible with eggs. Or maybe you’d like me to show you my mess of an e-mail account? I’m awful at replying—no matter how vital. Or maybe you’d like to hear about my woodworking skills. That is to say, I have none.”
I dipped my head, allowing his arm to block my outburst of giggles. “Those aren’t even real flaws.”
“No? Then tell me yours.”
Perhaps I should have thought this through a bit more. This game wasn’t exactly in my favor. Not when I was dealing with a man who thought bad omelet making was a weakness.
“Pass,” I said, holding his gaze just long enough to feel the flurries in my belly.
“Pass? You get to pass?”
I rubbed my lips together. “Mm-hm.”
“Then I should get a redo question, right?”
Anything to move away from my “issues.” We started dancing again and Patrick turned us in a circle. Weston and Georgia were at a standstill as Lou lectured them once again on the roles of leading and following.
“Sure,” I said.
“Who is Davis Carter to you?”
Patrick’s question killed all sensation below my chest.
“A family friend.”
Patrick tipped his head back and scanned the ceiling—for what? I had no idea. “Does he know that?”
I studied the button at the base of his collar. “I’ve known him a long time.”
“I’ve known my grandma a long time.”
“He’s . . . been very helpful over the last couple of years.” Loyal to a fault. “And considerate.”
Patrick said nothing, and I racked my brain for a new conversation starter, something to take us far away from the Davis Carter trail.
Several inches evaporated between us. “There’s a balance between being considerate of someone’s needs and thinking a person is incapable of dealing with their own.” His breath swept over my ear. “You’re far from incapable, Willa.”
A prickle of heat burst in my chest like a sparkler.
Lou clapped and we broke apart. We awaited our next set of instructions, though Patrick’s attention wasn’t on the front of the room.
Why did he care who Davis was to me? He might have a “family friend” waiting around for him in some war-torn village in Africa. Maybe he had multiple “family friends.” I would never know, and therefore, couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask. The same way he shouldn’t have asked about Davis.
Patrick was only here for a season.
And just like summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter, Patrick’s time in Lenox would come to an end.
Weston caught my eye and ran a finger across his throat, his tongue hanging out of his mouth like roadkill. Unfortunately, Lou saw the gesture, too. She called him to the front of the class once again. He’d just secured himself the role of Lou’s designated dance partner.
Georgia nearly buckled with silent laughter.
Lou showed the class two classic spins—both of which I’d learned years ago, and chances were good that Patrick knew them as well.
A new song played through the overhead speakers, and the couples drew together again.
I readied myself for the closed-hold position, only this time when Patrick stepped forward and gripped my waist, he tugged me closer, the space between us melting away. Everything from his gaze to his touch to his breath on my cheek hummed with new awareness. This dance was no longer instructional but intimate. No longer practice but personal.
One step, then two. Three steps, then four. Our feet were quick. He led and I followed.
The air thinned into a universal pause—time measured in beats and blinks and breaths. Heat seared at our every point of connection.
And then he let go—only not entirely.
He spun me out and then back.
My hair was a golden whip, flinging into my face and then curling back over my shoulder again. When he spun me in a third time, my palm thumped flat against his chest. Our breaths a soft pant. Our hearts a steady thrum.
Chins tipped toward each other; a current of recognition crossed our gazes.
“Bravo!” Lou applauded. “Now that is how you spin with passion.”
Patrick slid his arm from my waist and my hand from his grasp. I stepped back, believing that distance alone could break our connection.
I was wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
The vintage fainting couch in my mother’s sewing room might have been ornately carved and structurally sophisticated, but what it offered in aesthetics, it lacked in comfort. I didn’t have the heart to wake Savannah from her special princess bed at my parents’ house, so instead, I tossed and turned all night on a glorified park bench, replaying the memory of a certain dance with a certain doctor. Thankfully, my good-morning/good-bye kiss from Savannah before heading off to Fitness Day had made the long night worth it.
As I pushed through the doors of the fitness center, my phone beeped, and my heart leapt.
False alarm.
ALEX: If I don’t come back alive you can keep my black boots.
ME: Funny. Be nice to your sister and I’m sure you’ll make it back.
ALEX: Maybe you should try texting her that, too.
ME: Alex.
I’d done my best to encourage Sydney to enjoy her previously scheduled day off by spending some much-needed time with her baby sister, especially since the subject of a certain all-girls boarding school had been placed on hold for the time being. Surprisingly, she had taken my advice.
ALEX: Fine. We just got to some fancy spa place.
ME: You dyeing your hair?
If I squinted I could almost imagine Alex as a blonde.
ALEX: Yup. Gonna go purple.
I laughed out loud and slid my phone back into my pocket. Only Alex.
Squatting, I opened the ice chest and added a few dozen mini water bottles to the mix of energy and protein drinks. Since the assessment began, a steady stream of Lenox residents had passed through the glass doors of the lobby. Sydney’s thorough memos and bullet-point instructions had been easy enough to follow, and the personal trainers had kept busy with dozens of potential new members. So far, my only break from the monotony of body fat testing and sit-up counting was the momentary mental invasions of a ruggedly handsome man who wouldn’t listen to my halfhearted pleas to exit my mind.
I didn’t even have to close my eyes to see the curve of his smile or to remember the pressure of his hand on my waist. It was all right there, floating on the surface of my subconscious. The lure of a daydream I couldn’t allow myself to fall into. Not completely.
“You’re far from incapable.”
I ignored the memory of the feather-soft words spoken against my ear and instead took a long swig of ice-cold water.
The large picture windows in the lobby perfectly framed a vast, cloudless sky. For the fortieth time that day, I calculated the remaining hours left in my workday. One hour and thirty-two minutes. It was too perfect an afternoon to be cooped up indoors. My mind drifted again. What was he doing today? No doubt Patrick was tak
ing advantage of this rare fall weather. Oregon only had so many rainless days in autumn. Snow would be here within a month, and with it the commencement of winter hibernation.
I imagined Patrick on an exploratory day hike, or maybe he’d taken the guided rafting trip downriver, or—
“Excuse me—Mrs. Hart?”
Preston Wilkerson—Alex’s least-favorite jock—stood at the front desk, baseball cap snugly fit to his head. His arms cradled a large paper sack.
“Hi, Preston. The locker room’s open if you need to drop that off. Don’t mind the crowd.” I pointed to the dwindling line.
He glanced down at the bulky bag. “No. Uh, this isn’t mine. It’s a delivery.”
“A delivery?”
He tipped his head, the bill of his cap shadowing his eyes momentarily. “Yep.”
He lowered the bag to the counter and slid it toward me. A colorful tubular package stuck out from the top. I rotated the bag, examining the outside for some kind of instruction or note. Nothing.
I peeked inside, not recognizing any of the contents as my own.
“Um . . . I’m afraid I don’t have a clue who this is for—”
“It’s for you.” The inflection in his tone held more of a question than a statement. “I was told you’d know what to do with it.”
“You were told? By who?”
He took an easy step back, one side of his mouth twitching. “Sorry, I’m not supposed to say any more than that. Have a good day, Mrs. Hart.”
With a simple wave, Preston jogged out the front doors.
I reached into the bag and my fingers brushed against a crinkly piece of paper. I pulled it out into the light and read the familiar handwriting.
Willa—
Lesson 3.5 (see, I told you dancing would earn you extra credit): “Always reward a hard day of work with an even harder day of play.”
Meet me at Lenox Community Park at 3:30. Bring Savannah. And this bag.
Patrick
Pursing my lips, I took inventory of the contents: a peacock-inspired kite, a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee, a rubber foursquare ball, and a yo-yo.
Savannah tore from the car, rushing through the mushy park grass toward the swing set nestled between an old-fashioned merry-go-round and a vintage metal slide. I hollered for her to slow down, to be careful of her knee, but that was the equivalent of telling our dog not to bark when company knocked at the door.
Her feathery blond hair caught the breeze as she ran, sending my already spastic heartbeat into another fit of wild delight.
Vibrant leaves clung to their branches, teetering on the edge of a changing season. The cloudless blue sky was the cherry on top of a forecasted fifty-nine degrees. But it was the sunshine—that gloriously bright orb in the sky—that seemed to warm something inside me I hadn’t even registered was cold.
Until today.
Wearing dark jeans and a black lightweight pullover, Patrick jogged toward me from the picnic table, relieving me of the Bag O’ Fun.
“You’ve stooped to using delivery boys now, huh?” I asked, keeping my stride even with his.
“He owed me a favor.”
Patrick’s reply made me do a double take.
“What?” He laughed. “You don’t think I’m capable of making friends outside of you and Weston.”
Patrick thought of me as a friend. I gave myself a silent reprimand. Friend was the term I should be thinking, too.
My efforts to climb up the slippery slope of idealism back to reality seemed to be a solo trek. If Patrick’s easy way of conversing was any indication of his inner dialogue, he was just fine reverting to how things had been before the dance class. And despite the pinch in my chest, I had to be fine with that, too. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked forward to spending time with a friend as much as I did with Patrick.
“How do you know Preston?” It was easy to forget that Patrick likely knew half this town because of his profession. “Of course, if it’s patient confidentiality you don’t have to—”
He bumped into my shoulder. “It’s not. He got a camera for his birthday so I gave him some pointers. His mom is—”
“Marsha, the receptionist at McCade Medical. I should have put that together sooner.” The small-town circle connected once again.
“Yeah. Small town.” He looked at me. “Think you’ll stay here? In Lenox?”
“I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Not permanently, anyway.” I spotted Savannah near the swing set and waved. “When we stayed near the hospital in Portland last year, I could see the appeal of living in a big city. But at the same time, I realized that city life just isn’t for me. There’s something really special about knowing your neighbors and the checkers at the grocery store and the grandkids of the pizza parlor owners.” We stopped in front of the picnic table. “It’s easy to get distracted by the busyness of life, ya know . . . miss the people right in front of you.”
His stare left a tingling sensation in my cheeks, and I realized how small-minded my answer probably sounded to a man who had spent years traveling the globe, extending himself to hundreds and thousands of people. “It’s not that I never want to travel and see the world, I do. It’s just—”
He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “I get it. The residents of Lenox are as much a home to you as the town itself.”
“That’s it, exactly.”
Savannah hopped off a slowing swing and ran to meet us. “What do you have in that bag, Dr. Patrick?”
Although Patrick had encouraged her to downgrade from Dr. Patrick to Patrick given our ever-mingling professional and personal lives, I hadn’t been a fan of that idea.
He dropped to his haunches. “I’ll tell you what, if you can guess one of the items in this bag . . . I’ll give it to you.”
Her dark-brown eyes went round. “For keeps?”
“Yep. For keeps.”
“How many guesses do I get?” she asked.
“How about three.”
“Okay.” A crease indented her forehead. “Is one of them a toy?”
“Um . . .” Patrick glanced to me for confirmation. “Yes. Definitely one could count as a toy. Possibly more.”
She tugged at her fingers, and I knew by the look on her face that her brain was hard at work. “Is one a playground toy?”
Patrick grinned. “You’re good at this game. Right again.”
Savannah tapped her finger on her chin. “Is there a ball in that bag?”
“Do you have X-ray vision?” He ticked his chin at me. “You should have told me I was at an unfair advantage with your little prodigy here.”
I laughed. “She is that.”
He set the bag down and reached inside to grab the red rubber ball. Savannah whooped as he handed it down to her.
“Don’t kick that too far into the trees. If you can’t see me, then I can’t see you.”
“I know, Mommy,” she said in a voice that was way closer to seventeen than seven.
With a swift kick, the ball went bouncing into a long stretch of dewy grass.
Together, Patrick and I watched her bob and weave through two large oaks bordering the spacious field.
“Her knee seems to be healing up well. Remind me to take a look tonight.”
I pulled my attention from Savannah. “We can make an appointment for that. I don’t want you to have to—”
“There’s no have to involved. I offered.” He reached into the bag again and pulled out the kite. “Here.” He tried to offer it to me, but I shook my head.
“Why don’t you go first . . . I don’t know the first thing about flying a kite.”
“Says the woman who wasn’t sure she would remember how to dance.” He held my gaze for one, two, three stomach spasms, then pushed the kite into my hands and let go. “And we both know how that turned out.”
Actually, I hadn’t a clue. I’d give my right dancing foot to hear his thoughts, though. We’d avoided the topic driving home, choosing to discuss upcom
ing wedding commitments rather than what had passed between us. Part of me—primarily the lonely part—still wondered if I’d only imagined that sexy smolder in his eyes and the racing thump-thump-thump vibration of his chest.
“Fine. I’ll try it.” I unwrapped the diamond-shaped kite from the plastic.
“A try is to step onto the road that leads to success,” Patrick said as if quoting straight out of the book of Proverbs. Only I’d never heard that verse before in my life and I’d grown up in church. Wait—
I whirled around. “Was that a line from Rex’s journal?”
Patrick kicked a runaway ball back to Savannah with a laugh. “You’re catching on, Willa.”
I fiddled with the package in my hand and Savannah skipped over to us, ball tucked under her arm. “Cool kite. Are you gonna fly it?”
“I guess I am.” I set the kite on the picnic table and picked up the two loose wooden rods, poking the ends into each of the four corners. And just like that, the kite went from flimsy to taut and ready to fly.
I carried the peacock kite to the center of the field, a tightly wound spool of string in my fist, then glanced back at Patrick. He followed about three paces behind me, wearing the same face as the night of the auction. That now-familiar hands-off expression.
“How does it fly, Mommy?”
“Um . . . well, I guess you just hold it out sort of like this.” I held the diamond out, stick side to the ground, in the air. The breeze popped it up immediately and Savannah squealed, but the string was too short and within half a blink, it nose-dived straight into the ground.
I jogged toward it, hoping I hadn’t broken the thing on my first try, and waited for Patrick to lend some magical kite-flying words. But he offered only a smile.
“Fine. I’ll do it again.”
This time, I unwound the spool a little more, held the kite above my head, and waited for the ideal breeze to sail it into the open sky. Or at least keep it from dive-bombing in the first two seconds.