he’d been overjoyed when Dr. Conn had telephoned them on Monday with the good news.
“So why did you turn to someone else,” she whispered to the shadows on the ceiling. Was it her? Something she’d done? Or hadn’t done? Wasn’t she pretty enough? Smart enough? Interesting enough? Oh, Lord, wasn’t she woman enough?
Like bees buzzing in her brain, Emily’s thoughts bedeviled her into the wee hours of the morning, until finally exhaustion overtook her. She slept fitfully, and woke a little before eight feeling sluggish and headachy. She was vaguely aware that something was different this morning—something besides Keith’s absence—but she was too muzzy-headed to work it out.
She staggered into the adjoining bathroom, downed two Tylenol and stepped into the shower.
Emerging a short while later wrapped in a long, terrycloth robe, her wet auburn hair combed back from her face, she headed downstairs for a wake-up cup of coffee. The instant she stepped into the hallway and her gaze touched on the guest room, she remembered Dillon.
She stopped and caught her lower lip between her teeth. The door was open, and after a moment she crept across the hall and peeked inside. The bed was made and the room was neat as a pin. There was no sign of Dillon.
Of course, she thought with a sigh of relief as she glanced at the clock on the night stand. This was Friday. He had left for work hours ago.
Tightening the tie belt on her robe, she headed for the stairs.
The aroma of coffee and sausage drifted from the kitchen as she approached the door. Evidently Dillon had made himself breakfast before he left. Emily hoped he’d brewed a full pot of coffee and left some for her.
Pushing open the swinging door, she stepped inside the kitchen and came to a halt. “Dillon. What are you doing here?”
He turned from the stove and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Good morning to you, too.” He looked absurdly masculine with a mixing bowl in one hand, a wire whisk in the other and one of Ila Mae’s ruffled aprons tied around his lean middle.
He went back to whipping the contents of the bowl with brisk efficiency. “Why are you surprised? I told you last night that I was going to stay here.”
“Yes, but…I thought you would be at work by now.”
“I’m not going in for a few days.”
“Oh, please. You don’t have to do that on my account. Haven’t you just started an important job? An office complex or something?”
“An indoor shopping mall.”
“I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to take you away from that.”
“No problem. I have an excellent crew. My foreman can handle things for a few days. If something comes up, he has my cell phone number.”
He turned back to the stove. “You’re just in time for breakfast. I was about to cook pancakes.”
Only then did Emily notice that the table was set for two.
Dillon set the bowl and whisk aside, then filled a mug with coffee and plunked it down on the opposite side of the island counter and motioned for her to join him. “The coffee is decaf, so you don’t have to worry about hurting the baby. Come on over. You can keep me company.”
Keeping company with Dillon was the last thing Emily wanted, but she was still too muzzy-headed to think of an excuse to leave. Giving the belt on her robe another tug, she reluctantly crossed the room and hitched up onto one of the high barstools on the opposite side of the kitchen island from where he was working.
“I, uh…I had no idea you cooked,” she said, watching him pour batter onto a hot griddle.
Dillon darted her a look, his blue eyes glinting beneath ebony eyebrows. “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know.”
“Yes. I suppose there are,” she murmured. Oddly, she felt as though she’d just been chastised, though she couldn’t imagine why. Falling silent, she cradled the mug in both hands and sipped her coffee while she watched him deftly flip perfect, golden pancakes.
Despite his success and wealth, she had always thought of Dillon as tough and brawny, slightly rough around the edges, but yesterday at the funeral he had looked astonishingly smart in his custom-made suit. However, this morning, dressed in jeans and an old gray sweatshirt, he looked more like the Dillon she was accustomed to seeing—that is, if you overlooked the apron around his waist. That bit of ruffled material might have made some men look effeminate, but not Dillon. If anything, by stark contrast, it emphasized his compelling maleness.
The sleeves of his sweatshirt were pushed up to his elbows, and Emily’s gaze zeroed in on his muscled forearms and broad wrists, sprinkled with short black hair. His big, workman’s hands wielded the spatula with amazing grace and dexterity that spoke of long practice.
As always, just being in the same room with Dillon made Emily uneasy. His great size and that staggering masculinity alone were intimidating. Added to that, he was too intense, too remote and brooding.
It was funny how siblings could be so different, she mused, sipping her coffee. In looks, Dillon was a rough-cut version of Keith, bigger, brawnier, more intense, but with the same black hair and clear blue eyes, the same strong facial bone structure. In Keith’s case the combination had added up to debonair and handsome, whereas in Dillon’s the same features had produced a rugged, harshly masculine face.
In personality, however, Dillon was nothing at all like either his vivacious older sister or his glib, charming younger brother.
He had never been anything but polite to her, yet she’d always sensed that he didn’t want her as a sister-in-law.
“There. All done.” He came around the end of the island carrying a platter piled high with pancakes and sausage and put it on the table. “C’mon, let’s dig in while it’s hot.”
“I’m really not much of a breakfast person,” Emily began, but he silenced her with a look, and when he held out a chair for her she sighed and slid off the barstool. She just didn’t have the energy or the will to fight him.
Dillon settled into the chair across from hers. He picked up the platter and filled first her plate, then his own.
“Oh, no, please. I couldn’t possibly eat all this.”
“Eat,” he commanded, giving her a stern look. “You need to keep your strength up. These past three days you’ve barely touched your food. That’s not good for you or the baby.”
She wanted to argue, but of course he was correct. Trust Dillon to hit upon just the right argument. With a sigh, Emily poured syrup over the pancakes and picked up her fork.
Though the food was delicious, she had no appetite, and she had to force herself to take small, nibbling bites. It was as though the grief and depression weighing her down had numbed all her senses. She seemed to be functioning in a haze, oddly disconnected from the world around her—even from her own body. Except for her heart. It was an aching knot in her chest.
They ate in silence for several minutes. Concentrating on finishing her meal and getting out of there, Emily jumped when Dillon spoke.
“Would
