so did I.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she teased, “because I’d hate to add that to my guilt burden, too.”
His soft laughter wafted through her hair as he hugged her. “You’re something else, you know that?” He sighed into her ear. “You’re in big trouble now, missy.”
She looked up at him, into his sparkling hazel eyes, willing him to kiss her.
“Something is happening here,” he whispered, lifting her chin, “and I don’t know whether to run from it or straight at it.”
Patrice trembled as his muscular body pinned her to the wall. She inhaled crisp aftershave and sweet cookie breath. If he isn’t the guy for me, Lord, she prayed, speak now or forever hold Your peace.
When his lips touched hers, Patrice gasped. The soul-stirring taste of him sent silent shock waves straight to her heart. Weak-kneed and light-headed, she felt his arms encircle her, providing surefooted and much-needed support. Slowly, his fingers combed through her hair, traced down her shoulders and back, gently caressed her cheeks. His lips skimmed, light as feathers, from her earlobes to her throat to her forehead, before sliding back to her slightly parted, waiting lips.
Between kisses, he stammered and stuttered, and his words made no sense to her. “It’s been…never thought I’d…you’re like…Patrice, oh Patrice….”
When he said her name, it was a soft spring breeze, rustling the pines and sending dogwood petals floating gently through the air. Liking the way he’d warmed her lonely heart, she wanted to learn more about this strong-willed man—until her decision to keep a safe distance echoed in her head.
He seemed to sense her sudden mood swing and gradually ended the delicious kiss. “I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” he murmured shakily. He kept her close, though, and looked deep into her eyes. “That’s a lie. I know exactly what’s gotten into me.”
A tightrope walker could have balanced on the taut thread that linked their gazes. Wade stood back slightly, his eyes sliding over her features, reminding Patrice where his lips had been mere seconds ago. She waited for him to tell her exactly what had gotten into him.
“I sure could use another cup of coffee,” he said instead.
Small talk over the minimountain of chocolate chip cookies was companionable, and when he stood to leave the next time, she wanted to stop him. Wanted to feel his big, protective arms around her again, making her forget the horrible nightmares that disturbed her sleep. Wanted him to prove to her that the guilt and remorse she’d heaped onto her shoulders all these years truly was misplaced.
“Wait,” she said.
He’d made a stack of cookies while they talked, and now he was straightening a teetering column. “For what?”
He sounded pleased, even happy, that she’d asked him to stay. “Let me pack a few of these for you to take home.”
Grinning, he said, “Do you do this often?” Wade gestured toward the cookie pile.
“Only when I’m upset. Baking…soothes me.”
Wade chuckled softly. “From the looks of things, something had you real upset.”
She was stuffing a small grocery sack with sweet treats when he bent to kiss her temple—the one with the scar. Her hands froze.
“Beautiful,” he rasped.
Her heart raced as she clutched the bag to her.
“Well,” Wade said, “guess I’d better get home.” He hugged her and a cookie crumbled between them. He kissed the top of her head. “Lock up tight when I’m gone, you hear?”
Nodding against his hard chest, she wondered about the myriad of sensations spiraling through her. What she felt with Wade was nothing like what she’d felt all those other times. If that had been love, what was this?
Chapter Three
Wade never really paid much attention to his home, such as it was, but those few hours at Patrice’s house made him see it differently. “Not your stereotypical bachelor pad,” his sister had said, the one and only time she’d seen it.
He’d laughed along with Anna—and quickly dismissed her opinion. What did he need with suede sofas, an intricate stereo system, and sophisticated lighting designed to romance a woman? His beat-up foldout bed and mismatched lamps suited him just fine. The only females who’d ever seen them were Anna and his cleaning lady. If anyone had asked him, he would have said that’s how it would stay—until he saw the way Patrice lived.
Dozens of times, he’d been invited to women’s houses. Except for the blond nurse whose town house resembled the sty of a certain Muppets character, his other lady friends had lived in organized style.
So why did Patrice’s place seem so…different?
Like a home.
Wade blew a stream of air through his teeth. Home is more than a place to store your clothes, eat TV dinners, spend the night, he thought dismally. It’s where a man goes to be with his kids…and the love of his life.
Things he’d never have.
A year ago this time, he would have been heading out the door in a tux and shiny black shoes, on his way to one gala or another. Either that, or rushing to pick up some model wannabe for dinner and dancing.
Wade put the soda bottle on the end table, aimed the remote at the TV and hit the on button. He tucked one hand under his head and squinted at the screen, determined to block Patrice’s pixie face and sweet voice and cozy home from his thoughts. He scrolled through the channels, but nothing—not even the super-sucker vacuum cleaner on the shopping station or the lion-hyena war on the science station—could take his attention from Patrice.
It was the chocolate chips, he thought, grinning to himself. But when he closed his eyes and licked his lips, cookies were the last thing on his mind.
After that McMonkey display in Emily Kirkpatrick’s room, he should’ve known she’d be animated, funny, sweeter even than those homemade cookies. Even if the shenanigans with the sick kids hadn’t told him a thing or two about her personality, the visit to her office should have.
Black-and-white photos of hospitalized kids lined the walls. Numerous illnesses kept them tethered to their beds by plastic tubes, slouching weakly in wheelchairs, leaning on IV poles—yet every child in the pictures had one thing in common: a Patrice-induced smile. On her bookshelves, she’d proudly displayed lumpy animals, flower vases, and candy dishes made of modeling clay—mementos for the young woman they’d lovingly dubbed Monkey Lady.
She’d been caring for her father for more than a decade, but Wade hadn’t noticed a trace of distress in her demeanor, hadn’t heard a hint of bitterness in her voice. Her dad’s cheerful attitude seemed proof that not even he had detected so much as a note of regret or resentment.
Wade started counting Patrice’s qualities on his fingers: smart, good sense of humor, a big heart… The spotless house told him she was an “attention to detail” kind of gal, and the tasty cookies she’d baked from scratch said she enjoyed the sweet things of life, too. With
