by Irene Hannon
At her soft comment, he released her hand at once, shut off the water, took a quick step back—and ran into the wall.
Smooth, Watson, real smooth.
“Dr. Chandler said dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes, and we’ve used up most of that.” At least his voice hadn’t come out in an adolescent squeak. “I’ll walk you over.”
He expected her to refuse—half hoped she would—but after a brief hesitation, she surprised him.
“Thanks. Give me a minute to change out of this and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” She swept a hand over her bloodstained T-shirt, edged past him in the confined space, and disappeared down the hall . . . leaving a pleasing, floral fragrance in her wake.
And stirring in him a sudden longing to reach for her hand again.
A red alert began to beep in his mind, urging him to run fast—and far.
Because Claire Summers was dangerous. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could date a couple of times, have a few laughs with, and walk away from. Claire was the white-picket-fence, ring-on-the-finger type—even if Haley’s father was MIA. She also had a daughter who needed to be considered, and other issues—like a house held together with spit—that would only complicate his life.
Any woman he decided to get involved with had to come unencumbered. He had enough baggage of his own without taking on someone else’s.
So he’d walk her back. Gather up Dr. Chandler’s files. Say good night.
And hope he didn’t cross paths again with the girl next door.
This was nuts.
She should have thanked him for his help, told him she was fine, and sent him on his way.
Instead, she was rooting through her closet like some frantic schoolgirl, trying to find the extravagant blue blouse she’d bought on a whim after that persuasive salesgirl had convinced her it was a once-in-a-lifetime perfect match for her eyes.
All because Keith Watson’s touch had sent shock waves rippling through her.
How pathetic was that?
Claire heaved a sigh.
Was she really so desperate for male companionship that even a guy who reminded her of Brett could turn her on?
Except this guy had been an Eagle Scout—an achievement that required service to the community. And he helped his mother.
Brett had never cared about anyone but himself.
Claire snagged the blouse and pulled it on with fumbling fingers, frowning at her trembling hands. That had to be a delayed reaction to her injury and unrelated to the man waiting in her kitchen. Right?
Wrong.
Expelling a breath, she yanked the elastic band out of her ponytail and picked up her brush. Might as well admit the truth. She was attracted to Keith Watson. Had been from the moment he’d wrangled the tub of sealer out of her grasp last Saturday and hauled it up the driveway for her.
So she was human. So what? Any lonely woman’s heart would pitter-patter if a handsome guy appeared out of nowhere and came to her rescue.
But if he turned out to be as much like Brett as she’d initially thought, despite that Eagle Scout and good-son stuff, his appeal would evaporate.
In the meantime, why not enjoy it?
She found him waiting for her in the kitchen, examining the recalcitrant sliding door.
“It’s on the list.”
He swiveled around at her comment, and a spark ignited in his eyes as he focused on the silky blouse. Then he jerked his gaze back to her face and cleared his throat. “It could be a worn roller.”
Maybe splurging on this blouse two years ago hadn’t been a mistake after all.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll get to it one of these days. Ready?”
He stepped out, and she followed behind him. Before she could maneuver the door shut, he grabbed it and tugged until it slid into place.
“Thanks.” She locked it and gestured toward the opening in the arborvitae. “I take it you found the secret passageway. Oh . . . watch your step.” She grabbed his arm as he headed toward a board she didn’t trust.
“Let me guess. Another project on the to-do list.”
“Near the bottom. I’m starting with the small stuff.”
“You don’t use the deck, do you?” He gave it a wary inspection.
“Not much. Haley and I mostly just cut across it when we go over to Maureen’s, but we know the safe boards.”
He followed in silence as they crossed her neighbor’s lawn and knocked on her door.
When Maureen opened it, her features flattened in shock. “Oh my goodness! What happened?”
Haley turned from the bowl of chips on the island, eyes wide with alarm.
“It’s just a small cut. Mr. Watson bandaged it for me.” Claire gave her daughter a reassuring smile as she entered. “How many of those have you wolfed down, young lady?”
The diversion worked. Her daughter’s expression went from worried to guilty in a heartbeat. “I can’t remember, but I’ll eat my dinner. Cross my heart.”
“Of course she will. It’s my world-famous lasagna. Keith, will you stay? I have plenty. Even with four of us eating, I’ll be freezing lots of leftovers. We set you a place.”
“I appreciate that, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition. Do you have other dinner plans?”
He cast a covetous eye at the pan of lasagna, the tossed green salad, the basket of Italian bread already on the table. He was tempted, but he was going to refuse. Claire could feel it.
“I wish you would. You deserve a nice meal after coming to my rescue, even if Maureen is providing the meal. But I contributed the brownies.” Impulsiveness was one of the traits she thought she’d beaten into submission years ago, but apparently she hadn’t tamed it after all.
Yet she didn’t regret her spontaneous invitation.
“You should stay.” Haley slid off the stool and joined them. “My mom makes the best brownies in the whole world, and Dr. Chandler’s lasagna is awesome.”
Keith checked his watch. “I do have some work to do tonight . . .”
“But you also have to have dinner.” Maureen added a bowl of grated parmesan cheese to the table. “We won’t be offended if you eat and run.”
He did one more sweep of the table and let out a slow breath. “All right, I’ll stay.”
As they all took their places, Claire’s heart suddenly felt lighter—even if his capitulation was due more to a homemade meal than her charms . . . whatever those might be. But it would be nice to share a meal with an attractive man here in the safety of Maureen’s kitchen. And an hour in his company should help her determine if his resemblance to Brett was merely superficial . . . or significant.
Good food, adult conversation, perhaps some laughter.
For tonight, that was enough.
He shouldn’t have caved.
The pace of the red alert beeping in his mind had gone from brisk to breakneck.
Keith helped himself to a second serving of lasagna, stealing a look at Claire. Her face was animated as she shared a story about one of her second grade students, her features relaxed, eyes bright, lips soft and smiling. Gone was the prickly, squeegee-wielding feminist from last Saturday.
That woman had been easier to dismiss.
This woman was engaging, interesting, smart, witty . . . and far too appealing.
But she came with a lot of baggage—including a house in desperate need of TLC. Money must be very tight, or she’d be hiring people to do the more urgent home repairs. And where was Haley’s father? Why wasn’t he contributing to the household income, helping make life more comfortable for his daughter, no matter his feelings for Claire?
“That story’s a treasure. Don’t you think so, Keith?” Maureen turned toward him.
Yanking his attention back to the conversation, he deposited the lasagna on his plate. Unfortunately, he’d been more interested in the storyteller than the story. Claire might as well have been speaking Greek for all he’d absorbed.
; He was busted.
“Yes.” His response might be lame and too brief, but it was safe—as long as they didn’t ask him any other questions.
The quiver in Maureen’s lips suggested she’d detected his problem. He braced, waiting for her to tease him, but instead she came to his rescue. “I don’t imagine you have to deal with anyone in your job who insists he has a magic cape that gives him the ability to fly.”
“No.” He relaxed and dug into the lasagna. “But I’ve dealt with a few people who try to work creative magic with numbers.”
“I bet. I can see where being a CPA would have its own set of challenges. Did you know Keith is both an MBA and CPA, Claire?”
“No. That’s impressive.”
Keith shoveled in another large bite of lasagna, willing the heat in his neck to stay below his collar as he shifted the conversation away from his professional accomplishments. “I can sympathize with the kid and the cape, though. When I was six, I had a cardboard box in my room that I believed had magic powers. For reasons I can’t begin to fathom at this stage of my life, I became convinced all I had to do was crawl inside and I’d be safe. That the box was like a magic force field and would protect me. It took my mom and dad two years to convince me to let them trash it.”
As his confession hovered in the air, he bunched the napkin on his lap into a ball. He’d never told anyone about his magic box. Why on earth had he done so tonight, with three people who were virtual strangers?
He did a quick survey of his dinner companions. Claire’s expression was speculative. Maureen’s, thoughtful. Haley’s, matter-of-fact.
“I had a blanket for a long time, when I was little.” Haley propped her elbow on the table and balanced her chin in her palm. “I used to take it to bed with me and carry it around. It made me feel safe, just like your box. But when I got older, I didn’t need it anymore, because I figured out that the thing that really made me feel safe was being with Mom. Is that what happened with you?”
“More or less.”
“Do you have a good mother?”
“The best.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Haley smiled at Claire, and the loving look that passed between mother and daughter tightened his throat.
He took a drink of water before he spoke. “I need to be on my way.”
“Before dessert?” Haley gawked at him as if he’d just turned down a million bucks.
“I’m afraid so. I have some work to do tonight.” And he didn’t want to risk revealing any more personal tidbits. “Thank you for the great dinner, Dr. Chandler.”
“It was my pleasure. And let’s make it Maureen. No reason for formalities at this point.”
“Is it all right if I take your files?” He released his grip on the napkin and stood. “I’d like to go over them more carefully at home. I can make copies and bring back the originals, if you prefer.”
“No need. I trust you to keep them safe.” She rose too. “I’ll show you out.”
As he gathered up the files, Claire circled around to the other side of the counter.
“Let me give you a couple of brownies to take home.” She slid the plate toward her and retrieved a box of plastic wrap from a drawer. “Unless you don’t like chocolate?” She hesitated and looked across the granite.
“I like chocolate.”
Their gazes met.
Held.
An electrical charge jolted through him.
“Hey, Mom, how come your face is red?” Haley bounded over to snag a brownie.
Claire dipped her chin and fumbled with the plastic wrap.
“Sometimes people get flushed from the heat in a kitchen.” Maureen glanced at Claire, then him. “Why don’t you help yourself to another glass of milk to go with your dessert?”
“Okay.” Haley returned to the table and grabbed her glass.
His lungs finally kicked in again.
Claire kept her head bent as she selected and wrapped two generous brownies. Only when she handed them over did she raise her chin.
Man, she had drop-dead gorgeous deep blue eyes—the color of the sky on a fresh, crisp autumn day.
He took the packet of brownies, his blood pressure edging up as their fingers brushed.
“How’s the arm?” His question came out hoarse.
She moistened her lips. “Fine. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”
“Listen . . . leave the gutter for now. I’ll borrow my dad’s drill on Sunday when I visit my mom and drop by your place afterward to reattach it—if that’s all right with you.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“It won’t take long, and you’re on my route home.” Sort of. If he went the long way.
“What time?”
He did some fast calculating. Dinner at his mom’s was always at five, and he usually stayed around until dusk. But he needed light for the gutter job—and he intended to fix the sliding door while he was at it. He’d just have to cut out early on his mom.
“Around seven?”
“That’s fine. There’s a youth program at church in the afternoon, but we’ll be home long before that.”
“See you then.” He gathered up the files, cradled the brownies in his hand, and followed Maureen to the front of the house.
“Call me if you have any questions.” She opened the door. “I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts on next steps—if you can think of any. My PI wasn’t hopeful he could uncover much more, and he didn’t think the odds of success were high enough to justify the cost of additional digging. I have to give him high marks for being honest if nothing else.”
“I’ll do a thorough review of everything. Thanks again for dinner.”
“It was my pleasure—and thank you for your help with my project. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Brownies in hand, files under his arm, he headed toward the curb, trying to figure out why he felt a whole lot better walking down this path than he had walking up it two hours ago.
He could attribute his upbeat mood to his meeting with Maureen, which had gone better than expected. In fact, he was beginning to like the woman.
He could also attribute it to the great dinner.
But neither of those were the real reason.
The credit belonged to Claire.
He surveyed her driveway as he slid behind the wheel of his car.
Who’d have guessed the professor’s prickly neighbor would turn out to be so appealing?
Or that he’d be looking forward to seeing her again?
Or that he’d end up hoping to find something in Maureen’s file worth following up on that would give him an excuse to drop by again?
He set the files and brownies on the seat beside him, started the car, and pulled away from the curb.
None of that was good, of course. Claire might have been nicer to him tonight, but her attitude the day they’d met spoke volumes about her opinion of men. An opinion likely formed by her experience with Haley’s missing father.
On top of that, she was struggling to make ends meet on her teacher’s salary. Struggling to raise a daughter alone. Struggling to prop up a disintegrating house.
She didn’t need a guy in her life who had a bunch of unresolved issues of his own, who . . .
Wait a minute.
He was the one who didn’t want to be saddled with more problems, not the other way around. Right?
He pulled into the cross traffic, aimed the car toward his condo, and admitted the truth.
His view of this situation had done a one-eighty tonight, starting the moment he’d found her trembling in the bathroom, tears streaming down her face, her blood tinting the water pink.
Now he cared more about protecting her from his baggage than vice versa.
But how was he supposed to do that?
Get your act together if you want to spare her more grief.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, turned a corner. Excellent advice, but far easier said than done. He’d spent thirty years trying
to banish the ghosts from his early years. What more could he do?
“If you connected with your birth mother, learned the reasons she did what she did, you might be able to move past that.”
His mother’s words echoed in his mind as he skirted around a stalled car.
Was she right?
Might such a meeting have a positive outcome?
But what if his birth mother was dead . . . or had disappeared . . . or worst of all, turned out to be as uncaring as she’d been nearly three decades ago?
He picked up speed again, fighting back a suffocating feeling of panic.
Chill, Watson. You don’t have to take any immediate action. Let the idea simmer for a while. See how the next visit with Claire goes.
Maybe he could even pray about it—not that he’d given God a whole lot of attention in recent years. His job had taken precedence over everything, become his refuge. The world of numbers was comfortable, predictable, safe.
Kind of like that box in his bedroom.
But eventually that childhood box had become confining. So he’d ventured into the bigger world, trusting his parents to take care of him.
Maybe it was time to venture out again from the secure adult world he’d created—this time putting his trust in God.
Except stepping into the unknown was risky. There was no guarantee of reward.
Darkness began to fall, and he switched on the headlights to illuminate his route.
Too bad he couldn’t do the same for the personal road before him.
But unfortunately, that one still lay in shadows.
8
“I thought I might find you out here on such a beautiful day.”
As the sound of her father’s voice carried over the spring breeze, Debbie shifted around on her knees at the edge of her weed-infested garden. He stood at the corner of the house, dressed in his field outfit of jeans, blue work shirt, and heavy boots, and he was holding a plant in a nursery container.
It had been a beautiful day—until now.
He hesitated for a moment when she didn’t greet him, then walked toward her.
She settled back and watched him approach. He was in great shape for a guy his age, trim and fit and limber. Much better shape than he’d been in two years ago, when all of her mom’s pleas that he watch his cholesterol, take up some regular exercise, and lose his paunch had gone unheeded.