by Lori Wilde
Maybe he was afraid of starting something he couldn’t stick around for. He’d made it clear he was a wanderer by nature, and she accepted that. Respected him for his honesty. He was not a man who toyed with a woman’s affections. He could control himself.
It felt like an old-fashioned courtship, but she couldn’t afford to let herself think along those lines. He was not courting her. He’d be leaving when the bluebirds came back or when he got the job offer he was holding out for. Hopefully, they could remain friends.
Long-distance friendship would be enough.
Or so she told herself.
On Monday, sixteen days after Savannah Loving ran away from her wedding, Felicity and Tom fell into step as they headed to the back of the peach orchard where they’d set up the bluebird houses. In that short time, it had become a comfortable routine. The two of them walking together in the silence of the early morning. Dew gathering on their shoes as the morning birds sang.
Tom kept the grass clipped short here, mowing it every three days. As they had every day since they’d started this project, they put mealworms and bright red berries into the small, blue plastic open containers they’d tacked onto the top of the birdhouses. The blue flags they’d staked out in hopes of attracting the bluebirds’ attention fluttered in the breeze, sending the message: Free meal! Stop here!
The mealworms were pricey, especially since, so far, other birds had been dining on them, but Tom had assured her they were worth the investment. Mealworms were filet mignon to bluebirds. Tom promised as soon as the bluebirds found the mealworms, they would be hooked.
Unfortunately, that had not yet happened.
“What are the odds we can bring the bluebirds back this spring?” Felicity asked, wondering how much longer she could go without wedding bookings.
“Truth?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Less than fifty-fifty.”
“Is it worse than that? I mean if it were easy to lure the bluebirds back to Bluebird Way, you’d think someone around here would have already done it.”
“Probably.” He gave her a keep-your-chin-up-Champ grin. “But you’ve got a secret weapon the others don’t have.”
“What’s that?”
“Me.”
“There is that.” She laughed. “If nothing else, you’ve kept me from dwelling on my problems.”
“I have a feeling you’re not the kind of person who dwells. You strike me as a bootstrapper from way back.”
She was. Felicity tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, smiled, and cast a sidelong glance at him.
He one-upped her smile with a bigger one that lit his entire face. “We’re doing everything we can do to court those bluebirds. We’ve worked to reduce the house sparrow population on the property by putting fishing line and sparrow spookers on the boxes.” He ticked off the measures on his fingers. “We’ve bought predator guards to put over the birdhouse entrance holes after the first bluebird lays an egg. It’s the best we can do short of trapping and killing the sparrows.”
The house sparrows loved to harass bluebirds and would often peck bluebird eggs, and kill both nestlings and adults. Even so, neither Felicity nor Tom wanted to actively exterminate the sparrows unless there was no other option. Fortunately, a large number of the house sparrows that had initially chased off the bluebirds had recently migrated over to the big-box home improvement store that had just opened down the road. The house sparrows loved to fly into the garden section, peck open the bags of birdseed, and scrounge for discarded crumbs left by shoppers in the parking lots.
“Thank heavens for Lowe’s,” Tom said. “They’re going to give your bluebirds a fighting chance.”
Her bluebirds. Not our bluebirds. But of course. Why would he say “our” bluebirds?
“We’ve put out the right kind of birdbaths.” Another tick of his fingers as he waved at the three shallow birdbaths with gently sloping sides and a rough surface to provide good footing. He changed the water in the birdbaths every time he mowed, and they’d positioned the baths at least fifteen feet away from any of the peach trees where cats could hide.
“And,” he finished, flaring out his thumb to join his raised fingers. “We’ve planted blackberry bushes because bluebirds love ’em.”
“But we won’t see any blackberries before late May,” she pointed out. What she didn’t say was, will you still be around then?
He extended the index finger of his other hand, marking off the sixth measure that he and Savannah’s brother had brainstormed over dinner. “We’ve faced the entrance holes to the east because bluebirds prefer the morning sun more than some species, and it shelters them from prevailing winds.”
Felicity cocked her head, admiring how his eyes sparkled when he talked about the bluebirds. She moved closer to Tom. She couldn’t seem to stay away. The thought that he would eventually leave kept stabbing at her heart with sharp little knife cuts. After the past two weeks, she’d gotten used to having him beside her, gotten used to working as a team to lure the bluebirds back to Bluebird Way.
It had been fun and exciting, and she’d come to depend on him.
She should have known better, had known better, but she’d allowed herself to fall for him anyway.
“We added a longer roof to the houses and a longer lip under it so the birds have to go up and under to get to the hole. That will discourage tree swallows because they prefer a straight shot.” He had seven digits in the air, her amateur ornithologist.
“And, we painted bluebirds on the boxes.” Felicity giggled. “I know that probably doesn’t matter, but seeing the bluebirds on the birdhouses makes me happy.”
“A form of positive thinking.” Tom nodded and held up eight fingers. “We stenciled a dark faux entrance hole on the roof as an attraction spot to indicate to passing birds it’s a nesting cavity.” Nine fingers now.
“Plus we painted the front a lighter blue to make the actual dark entrance more visible.” Felicity bent to trace a finger around the opening of a nearby birdhouse.
“We’ve done all we can do,” Tom concluded, holding up both hands, all fingers splayed wide. “Nothing left to do but sit back, cross our fingers, and wait.”
“We’re going to sit and wait? As in you and me?”
He looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t . . . I . . .”
“I was just wondering how long you’re planning to stay,” she said lightly, as if she didn’t care. “You said it could be years before the bluebirds come back. Are you planning on hanging around in Serendipity for that long?”
Oh gosh, why had she asked that?
Tom stepped nearer, dipped his head, pressed his mouth to her ear, murmured, “This place is special. Just like you. The bluebirds will show up whether I’m here or not.”
His knuckles lightly grazed her breasts. So lightly she couldn’t decide if it was accidental or on purpose. His touch felt so good, she had to bite down on her lip to keep from groaning.
“Don’t say sweet things like that.” She shifted away from him.
“Why not?” He sounded perplexed.
“We’ve been building birdhouses, but . . .” Felicity trailed off.
“What?”
She shrugged, couldn’t meet the heat of his stare. “When you say things like that it makes me believe we’re building something more.”
He let go of her waist, and the absence of his arm stirred a fierce loneliness inside her.
Her feelings took her breath away. She could hardly stand the pain of it. “Tell me more about bluebirds,” she said, to distract herself.
He looked relieved that she’d changed the topic. “Bluebirds are recognized everywhere as symbols of happiness. Almost all birds have some negative legend or myth attached to them, but not bluebirds. Bluebirds are family-oriented, and they are only found in North America. . . .”
He went on, but Felicity didn’t hear what he was saying; she was too caught up in watching the utter joy on his face w
hen he talked about the birds. In that moment, she knew exactly what he must have been like as an enthusiastic little boy looking up birds in the bird book he’d told her that he used to carry around with him everywhere he went. She could almost see him, binoculars around his neck, tramping through the woods, on the hunt for some rare species in whatever country he found himself living at the time.
A strange sensation tugged at the bottom of her stomach, and she felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. The baby she’d lost had been a boy. She would never have a chance to teach a child about the joys of watching bluebirds, never have a baby of her own.
She was jinxed, and that was the truth of it.
“You’re crying,” Tom said, sounding alarmed.
She shook her head because she couldn’t speak, her throat clogged with tears. Damn it. Why was she so overcome?
“Felicity?” He came toward her. “Are you hurt?”
How could she explain to him all that she’d lost? All the things she’d never had. Could not have. Yes, she’d told him about her past, her unlucky history, her inability to have children. But she’d glossed over it, had spoken quietly and straightforwardly about her life as if it had happened to someone else, as if she was well and truly over it.
But she was not. She still had that ghost of a sonogram in the back of her reservation book. Haunting her with all the things she could not have.
He reached out a hand to touch her, but in that moment, she could not bear his sympathy. The pity in his eyes.
Pulse pounding, an unnamed fear coursing through her blood, she turned and fled to the house.
But Tom wasn’t going to let her get away with running off. She heard him come after her. Not quickly, but steadily. He was following her. His footsteps breaking fallen peach twigs with a sound like snapping bones in the quiet morning air.
She ran into the house, stood in the dining nook, suddenly frozen, legs wobbly, heart pounding.
He came up the back steps and opened the door.
Her gaze seared into his, hot as a branding iron. Her heart bubbled like champagne, sparkly and delicate.
The sun was to Tom’s back, casting his face in shadow. His broad shoulders filled the door frame; his tanned hands, roughened by callous and nicked with scars from years of hard work, dangled loosely at his sides.
Her breath caught at the beauty of his rugged masculinity. Short black hair sprinkled with gray, a beard stubble salting his angular jaw because he hadn’t shaved that morning. His beguiling smile, those astute dark eyes.
Handsomer than Steve. Taller too. Heartier.
She’d never found Steve lacking, but her late husband paled in comparison to the bundle of testosterone standing in the doorway. Immediately, she felt disloyal and guilty and any number of uncomfortable things, primarily among them, an irresistible attraction to Tom Loving.
The Army had honed and shaped him into a warrior, but there was a natural gentleness to him that he’d managed to hang onto. She admired how he could turn tough or tender depending on the situation.
His eyes pierced her, sharp as laser beams. It was as if he knew everything about her, all her flaws, mistakes, and misdeeds, and liked her anyway.
It was too much. His understanding.
Felicity let out a cry of pain and dropped down into the kitchen chair. How could he understand the depths of her sorrow, when she herself did not?
Why was she doing this? Breaking down for no discernible reason. Yes, there were things she would never be able to have, but she had been so very lucky. She’d been loved. Deeply, fully.
It hit her then. The root of her sorrow.
She missed being loved like that. With so much devotion and intensity. In Tom, she saw the potential to have such love again, but she dared not hope for it.
Lightning had indeed struck twice, and she wasn’t the least bit prepared for it.
She sank her hands into her upturned palms, did not want to sob. Tried to hold it back, but the tears were rain, pouring down her face.
He came and stood next to her, but did not touch her. Just his presence. Standing there. Holding space for her grief. Breathing audibly, long and slow and deep. A sweet soothing rhythm of breath. A mountain of man, steady, immovable, rock solid.
Her body quivered, wracked with grief.
Tom squatted beside her, patted his shoulders with crisscrossed arms. “I’ve got some pretty big shoulders if you need to cry on them.”
The next thing she knew she was in his arms, sitting on his strong thigh, head on his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. She cried and cried and cried as all her sorrows washed over her. Dampening his white T-shirt with tears.
And finally, she could cry no more, her body limp and wrung out.
He just held her. Calmly. Quietly. Powerfully.
In his arms, she felt safe in a way she hadn’t felt since her mother died. He was a comfort. A strength she hadn’t known she needed.
He cradled her head in his palm, held her as if he could wait here all day if she needed, crouching, her arms around his neck, her fanny resting on his thigh. Hungry for more, eager to have the man she’d been dreaming of for sixteen long days, Felicity raised her face to his.
“Make love to me, Tom,” she begged. “Please, make love to me now.”
Chapter Eight
No matter how much he wanted to, Tom knew that he could not make love to Felicity. She was vulnerable. Hurting. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t need the answers to understand she was in pain. Did it really matter what was the cause?
She was seeking comfort, not sex. Even if she might think otherwise, he knew better. Her request to make love stemmed from a place of loss and lack, and he didn’t want to take advantage. Didn’t want it for either of them. When he finally made love to her, he wanted pure, unbridled electricity. He wanted them both strong and powerful and knowing exactly what they were getting into, eyes wide open.
Slowly, he shook his head, eased her off his lap, and set her gently aside. Managed to stand from a crouching position without losing his balance. “Now is not the time.”
Felicity stared up at him, her blue eyes wet and baffled, so lost in her world of sorrow he wasn’t sure she heard him.
How easy it would be to scoop her into his arms and take her to bed. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Probably more. He’d wanted her from the moment he first saw her, smiling at him from behind the reception desk as if just by walking through the door he’d made her day. From the very beginning, whenever he was around her, he felt manly, desirable.
Heady stuff.
Her mouth dropped open, a perfect circle of surprise. “Oh,” she said, then again, “Oh.” Her tone flattening out, deepening, shifting from confused to hurt.
Tom could tell from that one word spoken twice that she took his refusal to mean that he did not want her.
Her cheeks reddened as if she’d been scalded, and she slammed her lips together.
“Felicity,” he murmured, keeping his voice soft, even. He reached out a hand to reassure her, but she spun from his touch.
She was embarrassed. From her point of view, she’d put herself out there, and he’d rejected her. Tom fought the urge to gather her in his arms again, knew it would only make things worse. He hated so much that he’d caused her to doubt herself, feel foolish and ashamed. She might be perky and bouncy and full of pep and heart, but she was a sensitive soul. Empathetic and attuned to the needs of others. Sweet and kind and just plain nice.
And he’d hurt her.
Christ, he’d made a mess of things.
Not a mess, he corrected. This could be fixed. He’d do whatever it took to fix it.
“I get it,” she said. “No need to explain. You’re just not that into me.”
“No,” he said, his tone coming out harsher than he intended. “That’s not it at all.”
“If you say, ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ I’m going to slug you,” she warned, fire igniting her flame-blue eyes.
“You’ve never slugged anyone in your entire life,” he said confidently.
She sank her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “Yes, well, there’s a first time for everything.”
He wanted to smile at her fierceness, but knew that now was not the time. “I should find somewhere else to stay.”
“You’re leaving?” Her face paled, eyes clouded, shoulders slumped. She looked both bruised and defeated. “Why?”
His heart hammered. Because if he didn’t get out of here, he was going to sweep her into his arms, take her to the bedroom, and make love to her, whether it was smart or not.
He tried to think of a way to say it so that she wouldn’t take it personally. “Because we’re finished”—not finished, don’t say finished—“there’s nothing more we can do to lure the bluebirds back. It’s just a waiting game now.”
She slanted her head, studied him with somber, sad, serious eyes. “I see.”
It was as if she could see right through him. Past the excuses and lies he’d been telling himself. His throat tightened, and he started to sweat.
“Do I get to weigh in on this?” she asked.
“Nothing to weigh in on. It’s time for me to go.”
His words brought a fresh round of red to her cheeks. Her chin firmed, and her spine straightened. “You don’t have to run away. I promise you won’t have to worry about my throwing myself at you again.”
“It’s not that—”
Her blush darkened, but being Felicity, she plunged ahead courageously. “Is it because I started crying? You don’t want to deal with a weeping woman, is that it? I’m too much trouble?”
“Huh? No. It’s not that. You’re good.” Good? Christ, he was mangling this. Why couldn’t he handle this with grace and style? She deserved grace and style. How about, you are the most fascinating, amazing, awesome woman I have ever met, and I don’t deserve you?