leave my clothes, thanks.”
He had a feeling that having him do her laundry wasn’t on the top of her list of desires, but what else could she do but sit around in the hospital gown he’d made for her or stand naked in the bathroom while the washer and dryer ran through their cycles?
Catching sight of the bruise closest to her mouth, he reached behind her neck and pulled her closer. Under the bright light of the bathroom he could get a better...
“Don’t.” She jerked away from him. And stood there, meeting his gaze and then looking away. “I’m s—”
“No,” Simon stepped back. “I am so sorry, Cara. My bedside manner is usually impeccable. I should have told you I’d like to have a closer look at your face...”
It was then that it dawned on him that she hadn’t just been reacting to his pulling her forward, but that she’d thought he had something else entirely on his mind.
As if he’d take advantage...
“Why do you need a closer look at my face?”
“That bruise to the side of your mouth...its color is a little suspicious...” There’d been a slight cut there. If he hadn’t cleaned it out well enough, an infection could have developed.
She stepped closer to him, but didn’t look at herself in the mirror.
“Have at it, Doc,” she said, sounding completely not at ease. So much so that Simon felt sorry for her.
The woman had a lot of spunk for someone who’d been a regular punching bag for her lowlife husband.
He checked her bruise. Suspected that the swelling on the left side of her face indicated a minor zygoma—cheek—fracture but from all signs, including lack of displacement, nose bleeds or undue pain, he believed it was one that would heal itself.
As long as nothing happened to displace it.
He told her his findings.
Then left the bathroom to her.
But something had changed in those moments back there. Something that was going to have some impact. He’d realized something.
Something big. And problematic.
There was no way he was going to let her just walk away, to go back out into the world all alone, to go back to the life she’d led, and let that bastard hit her again.
Santa Raquel, California
EDWARD TOOK OFF his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair at Lila’s small dinette. She’d seen him in golf attire a couple of times, but she wasn’t used to seeing him in a dress shirt without his suitcoat on. Why he’d suddenly seem more vulnerable, she had no idea, and wasn’t sure enough of herself where he was concerned to risk delving any further.
In the fourteen years since her previous life had ended, Lila had never, ever, not once, been even remotely tempted to notice a man’s...attributes. Hadn’t been physically activated by the sight of man for much longer than that.
She’d shown him to the small table instead of to the sitting area that was where she’d occasionally invited other special guests over the years, because the table had felt more formal. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“I like your place,” he told her. Looking around, she had to wonder. A man with his financial success...a man in general...couldn’t possibly feel comfortable in her small, completely feminine apartment. The place really only consisted of one room divided into living room and kitchenette by the table at which they sat. There was a separate bedroom. And a bath. The entire place was decorated with lace and roses; prints of places she’d once dreamed of traveling to were framed on the walls. Her dishes were china. A gift from Brett Ackerman, founder of The Lemonade Stand.
Ashamed that it made her feel good to be able to impress him with her crystal wineglasses—wanting him to notice them—she opened the bottle and poured, carried both glasses to the table and then retrieved the deli tray out of the refrigerator. Pouring crackers into a lacy cloth-lined basket, she reached into a drawer for two rose-and-lace napkins—ones that matched the placemats on the table—and slid two dessert plates out of another cupboard.
All was done with silent, deliberate movements. Edward Mantle needed a friend. And Lila had to find her peace.
“Did you decorate this place yourself?” he asked as she sat down across from him, careful to keep enough of a distance that their knees didn’t touch.
She and Sara had shared a meal at the table a time or two. Mostly, she sat there alone.
“Yes.” She took a sip of wine before he could think about offering a toast. Afraid that he’d toast to their friendship and her heart would react again. Or that he wouldn’t. And her heart would react again.
“It reminds me of a cross between a tea room my mother used to go to when I was a kid and the Florida room my wife had at home.”
His wife. Cara’s mother. Lila didn’t know much about the other woman except that she’d passed away when Cara was in high school.
“Do you still live in the same house?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Cara was already exhibiting signs of extreme anger and rebellion by the time my wife passed and I felt that getting her out of that environment, reminders of the eighteen months she spent watching her mother slowly fade away, would be better for her. She loved the beach so much and our old home was a twenty-minute drive...”
“Your house on the beach... You bought it for her.” Edward had first mentioned the house in front of Joy, thinking he’d pique the little girl’s interest, but the gambit had failed miserably. Joy had withdrawn at the mere mention of the beach.
“Yes.”
“How long did the two of you live there before she moved to California with Shawn?” Ran off with him was more like it. Edward’s daughter had disappeared into the night without warning or word. As Lila understood it, the two of them had been barely speaking at that point—Cara blaming Edward for her every unhappiness, accusing him of hating Shawn.
“We lived there together for two years,” Edward said, no rancor in his tone. “Her room is still just as she left it.”
That news—evidence of Edward’s hidden emotional depths—didn’t surprise Lila.
Cara had met the guy who ran a surfing school shortly after her mother died—Edward had been certain the school was a front for drugs, but the more he questioned, the more Cara pulled away, saying that he didn’t want her to be happy.
Once they were out of the state, Shawn had contacted Edward and let him know where they were living, that they’d married on the way across the country and that Edward was not to contact his daughter.
Edward had insisted on speaking with Cara—which he had—and Cara had, not kindly, reiterated her new husband’s words. She’d been eighteen at the time. Shawn had been several years older. They’d opened a surfing school in California.
From what she understood from Edward’s nephew, Hunter, Edward
