Garrett grinned and, again, opened his mouth, determined to deliver “The Perfect Line". What came out instead was two very loud, very violent sneezes.
“Are you okay?” Murphy asked, her tone bordering on serious, her green eyes still glistened with laughter.
“Fine,” he lied, and sneezed again. And again. “Damn it, they said…never mind. You wouldn't happen to have any Benadryl, would you?”
“As a matter of fact…” She grinned and gestured him inside.
He took a step forward, then stopped. His gaze scanned the hallway floor, skimming the carpet that was littered with what now looked like a dozen white roses bought at a bargain basement florist. The stems of half were broken, the petals on most of the rest were crushed. Yet, as luck would have it…
Bending at the waist, Garrett plucked up the paper bag, and the only unmangled rose. The stem was long and thornless, the bulb a white velvet cup in the initial stage of blooming. Nature couldn't have supplied a more flawless specimen. Well, no, that wasn't true. Nature had supplied twelve—this was the lone survivor.
Garrett straightened, and held the rose out to Murphy.
She smiled, her eyes watery, and reached for it.
Their fingers brushed.
He felt a bolt of heat shoot up his arm…and wrap around his heart. Maybe Bree was wrong? Maybe the roses hadn't been such a goofy idea after all?
Hell, if one perfect rose brought tears to Murphy's eyes, he'd have to give serious thought to buying shares in a local florist! Her smile, Garrett realized, was something he wanted to see again. Often. A smile that he, and he alone, wanted to bring to her lips. A smile that he had missed…much, much more than he'd imagined he would.
“Thank you,” she said softly, wiping her eyes and again gesturing him inside.
Garrett peered nervously around her, searching for signs of Moonshine, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped over the threshold. His leg still hurt, but in the last week he'd noticed that, while he limped, the limp wasn't as noticeable as it had been. Nor was his healed wound as painful. It was mending nicely…thanks in no small part to Murphy McKenna.
The doorway was narrow; their shoulders brushed as he passed. The enticing scent of Ivory Soap tickled Garrett's senses. His stomach somersaulted.
Her living room was comfortable and airy. Only the necessary furniture was present. A wicker couch painted white, with plump seat cushions upholstered in an uncluttered, brown and yellow flower pattern and two matching pillows—long and round and narrow, shaped like a Tootsie Roll—flanking either side. There was a chair, also wicker and high-backed, wedged in the corner beside the phone stand. A small, glass-topped coffee table stretched out in front of the couch.
The centerpiece of the room was an entertainment center that took up half the adjacent wall. Ensconced behind the two smoke-glass doors was a nine inch television set and, on the shelves beneath that, an expensive, state-of-the-art stereo system. The bottom shelf was crammed with Compact Discs; if Garrett had to guess, he's say there was well over two hundred CDs.
There were five windows; three on the wall to his left, two on the opposite wall, flanking the entertainment center. None of them had curtains, but instead housed thin, wood-tinted blinds that, at the moment, were scrunched at the top of each casing to let in an abundant flood of golden sunlight.
Garrett watch Murphy set down the rose on the telephone table.
Frowning, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and set both it and the paper bag on the wicker chair. He hadn't given so many women flowers in the past that he had a lot of experience to draw on, but when he had, he'd found the first reaction a woman had was to smell them then put them in a vase of water to keep them fresh. Why hadn't Murphy done that?
A second later, the unspoken question was answered.
Murphy's sneeze was equal in violence to any of Garrett's previous ones.
“Oh, no,” she said, and half-sighed, half-laughed. Her gaze volleyed guiltily between the rose and Garrett. Her next sneeze seemed to clench the decision for her. She retraced her path back to the table and picked up the rose with her index finger and thumb, holding it out to him at arms length like it was a squirming insect. “I'm sorry, Garrett. Really, I am. But would you mind putting this back in"—aaachooo! sniffle, sniffle—"the hallway?”
She glanced away, and he noticed that her eyes were more than just watery, they were red and puffy. Those were signs he recognized easily, having suffered them his entire life.
“Don't tell me, let me guess. You're allergic to roses?” Garrett grinned. He couldn't help it.
The way he said it made the words more a statement than question. Murphy answered him anyway. “Not just roses, flowers in general. Forsythia is the worst. You should see me in the springtime!”
I'd like to, Garrett thought as, still grinning, he crossed to the door and opened it. An elderly woman was poised on the landing. Her shrewd hazel gaze was curiously taking in the mess of flowers scattered over the floor.
Without a second thought, Garrett stepped into the hallway, gathered up all twelve roses and put them in a semblance of order—flower arrangement wasn't a specialty—then pressed the bouquet into the woman's arms.
After a split second hesitation, the old lady took them, mumbling something under her breath that might have been a “thank you". It was difficult to tell since her tired, creaking voice was hushed with shock.
Chapter 10
Murphy's Law #10: The chance of the bread falling with the buttered side down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet…
MURPHY STOOD inside the doorway, witness to the entire scene. The old woman was Mrs. Trumble, who'd no doubt descended from her fourth floor apartment, directly over Murphy's, with the intent of demanding Murphy turn down the volume on her stereo. The woman stared at Garrett, her age-wrinkled mouth agape.
Garrett's grin broadened, and he leaned forward, delivering a fleeting kiss to the woman's liver-spotted temple. Even at this distance, Murphy could see a blush heat Mrs. Trumble's cheeks.
“Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.” Garrett cut an awkward—he was still favoring his right leg—bow, then turned and reentered the apartment.
It might have been her imagination, but Murphy swore she heard Mrs. Trumble suck in a gasp. Her last glimpse of the old woman, before Garrett closed the door, was of her standing in the same spot, her mouth still sagging open.
Murphy laughed. “The poor woman. You took the steam right out of her. I've never seen Mrs. Trumble speechless before.”
“Then maybe it was about time you did?”
“Definitely,” Murphy agreed, and smiled. “I can imagine the questions she'll hit me with next time I see her. After she complains about my music, of course. I usually use my headphones, you see, but…” her voice trailed away. The last thing she wanted to admit was that the reason she hadn't been wearing the headphones today was because she'd been afraid she wouldn't hear Garrett when he arrived, afraid he'd come and go without her knowing it. “Maybe I should start leaving by the back hall?”
Her skin heated when she felt his gaze raked her head to toe. She'd forgotten how very blue his eyes were. Memories—dreams, fantasies—did not do their color justice.
“I can't see you sneaking out back doors, Murphy McKenna.”
She sneezed again, and at the same time wondered how Garrett could know her so well. “You're right. But I could start.”
“You know, you don't seem too shocked to see me,” he noted. “Why do I have a feeling one of my sisters called you?”
“Probably because one of them did?”
He didn't look surprised. “Which one?”
“Elise.”
Garrett grinned.
Murphy's heartbeat accelerated. That was something else she'd forgotten; the beauty, the power of this man's smile. It took her a second to be able to draw enough air into her burning, oxygen-deprived lungs to speak. “Would you, like a cup
of coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
“Decaf?”
She grimaced, shaking her head. “What's the sense in drinking coffee if there's no caffeine in it?”
“Ah, my kind of woman!” Garrett's smile broadened.
Murphy's stomach somersaulted, her palms went cool and moist. It was ridiculous to feel nervous around Garrett; in the short time they'd known each other they'd been through a lot. Yet nervous was how she felt. Nervous and…very excited, very happy to see him again, even if this would be the last time.
Her jaw clenched. She didn't want to think about that right now.
Telling him to make himself at home, she retreated to the kitchen. It took her twice as long as it should have to pour the coffee, and not only because her eyes were still puffy and watery. She was purposely going slow, giving herself some time to regain her composure.
The man in the next room was only Garrett Thayer, she reminded herself. Repeatedly. There wasn't a reason in the world to be nervous. Why didn't knowing that help? Why did she still feel more jittery now than she had on her first day of college?
The reason was as simple as it was illogical. This would be the last time she and Garrett would ever see each other, and Murphy wanted the short time they had left to be perfect. If it was, then maybe, just maybe, he might think about her, wonder about her, every now and again in the years to come.
She wasn't sure why that was important to her, it just was.
Garrett's sneeze echoed from the living room. Knowing she could no longer loiter in the kitchen without appearing rude, she picked up the copper serving tray—on which was balanced two mugs of coffee, a creamer, a sugar bowl, two spoons, a glass of water, and two of the Benadryl capsules that she'd scooted out to the store to buy after Tom had left—she'd already swallowed a couple herself—and carried it very carefully into the living room. A sigh of relief whispered past her lips only once she'd settled the tray on the glass-topped coffee table in front of the sofa.
With her luck, it was amazing she hadn't tripped and wasn't now wearing the coffee. Yet here she was, her white blouse and black skirt spotless, not a grain of sugar spilled.
Murphy's Law has to change sometime.
Maybe her luck really was changing?
She glanced at the coat Garrett had tossed casually onto the wicker chair. A nostalgic smile tugged at her lips. It was his brown leather bomber jacket. The frayed corner of a paper bag peeked from beneath the weathered sleeve. Her curiosity piqued, but only for a second.
Her attention shifted. Garrett was standing next to the window across the room. And suddenly she forgot all about the bag and what might be in it.
Had he always been so tall, so broad, so devastatingly handsome? Oh, yes. Murphy liked the way the hair at his nape curled just a little bit against his skin. One by one, her fingers curled inward, and she quenched the urge to go to him and rake her fingers through his sandy hair. Were the strands as soft to the touch as she remembered? Softer?
He was examining the fronds of the Boston fern sitting atop a small round table in front of one of the windows. The plant was full; its leaves cascaded from the center in a lush display that nearly concealed the red clay pot containing it.
“You have a green thumb,” he said.
She nodded distractedly. “I used to have lots of plants, until I got Moonshine. I'm down to one. Some houseplants are deadly to cats if they eat the leaves.”
“I didn't know that.”
He sounded surprised. She wondered why…then remembered the allergies that had prevented him from ever having a pet. Of course, he wouldn't know about such things.
Garrett had been absently fingering one of the silky green fronds of the fern. His gaze now lifted, his brilliant blue eyes locking with Murphy's wide green ones.
She decided it was a good thing she was standing so close to the sofa; it provided her with an unobtrusive way to sit down. Quickly. Before her knees buckled, the way they threatened.
“Sugar and cream?” she asked, her voice only slightly higher than normal. Inwardly, she prayed he would decline both; her hands were shaking so badly she wasn't sure she could complete the task without spilling something.
He shook his head.
Not for the first time since he'd arrived did she breathe a deep sigh of relief.
Since Garrett was wearing sneakers, his heels didn't click on the hardwood floor as he crossed the room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. He was, Murphy noticed from the corner of her eye, barely limping at all.
Leaning forward, Garrett reached for one of the mugs.
At the same time, so did Murphy.
True to form, Murphy's Law decreed they claim the same mug, and Murphy's Law was rarely disappointed.
“Oops, sorry, go ahead,” he murmured.
“No, no, you take that one,” she insisted simultaneously, their voices overriding each other. Also in unison, both changed direction, reaching for the other mug.
They froze.
Murphy's gaze lifted, even as Garrett's lowered.
Their laughter blended.
“I don't believe this,” she said as, leaning back, she ran her palms down her skirt-covered thighs. “Tell me something, Garrett. Are you half as nervous as I am?”
“Doubtful. Twice as nervous maybe,” he admitted, also sitting back. “Damned if I know why, though. I mean, it's not as though we don't know each other. You've seen me without my clothes on, for God's sake. And I've touched…”
Murphy wondered if her cheeks looked as red and hot as they felt? “I have not,” she protested. “Seen you without your clothes on,” she elaborated. “I mean, I took off your jeans, but only your jeans. And even then, I did it because I had to. How else could I get to your leg to bandage it?”
Garrett grinned, and Murphy's breath swelled in her throat. The glint in his eyes said he was very much aware of the part of his sentence she'd chosen to ignore.
It would, Murphy decided abruptly, not be in her best interest to dwell on the instinctive, physical reaction she had to this man. Not, that is, if she wanted to remain sane. She seized on the first diversion that sprang to mind. “And speaking of your leg…I take it the surgery went well?”
“The surgery, and physical therapy afterward—which I'm still going for weekly—was no picnic. But, I have to admit, I'm feeling better now than I was two weeks ago.” He rubbed his palm down his right, denim encased thigh, and Murphy remembered, oh, so vividly, when he couldn't have done that without suffering excruciating pain. “Doctor Peters says that if all goes well I should be walking without a limp in a couple of months.”
Murphy shook her head and reached for her mug, lifting it to her lips. She took a sip of the steamy, rich smelling coffee, and absently corrected him, “Roberts. Peters is the orthopedic surgeon Doctor Roberts consulted, but since you didn't have any broken bones—a miracle, when you think about it…”
Murphy clamped her mouth shut. If her cheeks had been red before, it was nothing compared to now. Garrett's gaze was on her; she could feel his attention in every pore of her body.
If she could have taken the words back, she would have. Of course, it was too late. Instead, she strove for a swift—and noticeably clumsy—change of topic in the hopes of distracting him. “So, tell me about your sister Elise. Is she the youngest?”
“Oldest. How do you know the names of my doctors?”
“Oldest? Really? Hmmm, for some reason I was sure she was the youngest. At least she sounded young on the phone, but—”
“How did you know the names of my doctors, Murphy?”
“—maybe it was a bad connection. Or maybe I—”
“Murphy…?”
“—just wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been.”
“Murphy!”
Murphy scowled, and in an equally irritated voice snapped, “What?”
Patiently, Garrett repeated, “How did you know the names of my doctors?”
“Elise told me,” she
lied. The words came out as a question, not a statement, bearing proof of the deception. His blue eyes narrowed, suggesting he didn't believe her for a second. Ah, well, can't blame a girl for trying.
“Okay,” she conceded grudgingly, “I may have called the hospital a couple of times. Just to check and see how you were doing,” she added quickly, afraid Garrett would get the wrong idea—afraid, also, that the wrong idea was exactly what had prompted her to place those calls in the first place. It was a hard thing to admit, even to herself, but she'd done it because she cared about Garrett. Too much, she cared.
“There's nothing wrong with that,” she added defensively.
His answer was silent, and therefore all the more devastating to her senses.
The cushions dipped when Garrett slid closer, and took out of her hand the mug Murphy had forgotten she was holding. He set it aside on the coffee table, then oh, so casually stretched his right arm at full length over the back of the sofa. He didn't touch her, yet beneath the linen blouse, her shoulders and the back of her neck warmed to his heat, tingled to his nearness.
In the weeks since she'd seen him, her dreams had been filled with visions of Garrett Thayer sitting so touchably close. With one minor difference. In her dreams, Murphy hadn't been afraid to reach out and stroke her palm boldly down his jaw, or trace the sensuously thin line of his bottom lip with the pad of her thumb…the way she wanted so badly to do now, but didn't.
She had wondered if Garrett would be different when he wasn't in so much pain. The answer was a resounding yes. Minus that disadvantage, a healthy Garrett Thayer was charming, his presence more sexually dynamic than ever. Lord knows, his closeness was wreaking havoc on her floundering senses.
The crook of his index finger hooked beneath her chin, nudging her gaze up. His touch was gentle, both warm and heart-achingly familiar.
Until that minute, Murphy didn't realize just how much she'd missed his touch. Odd, because when it came right down to it, she barely knew him. Not so odd, because, deep down, she felt like she'd known him all her life.
His gaze overwhelmed; like a woman set adrift on a raft in the rapids, she felt herself drowning in those striking blue eyes.
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