particular woman stirred him, deep down, in ways he couldn’t quite explain, rational thinker that he was. She made him want to take chances again, live for himself as well as his children.
But what if he fell for Becca—Bex, as the others called her—and his young sons got their hopes up, let down their guard, started to believe they might have a mother again, only to see the whole thing crash and burn? Would there be survivors?
He had no choice but to be philosophical.
Like it or not—Tate both did and didn’t like it—he and Bex were face-to-face again.
The boys had both scrambled out of the truck the minute he pulled to a stop. He was grateful that they enjoyed visiting the ranch so much, and were distracted, as always, by the dogs and horses and all that space to run wild in. It meant the kids probably hadn’t noticed that their dad had been flash frozen before their very eyes.
Tate worked up a smile, acknowledging Tripp and Hadleigh and Melody and Spence’s existence with a slight wave of one hand as he approached them. Odd, how, just a moment before, he’d been so focused on Bex that she might’ve been standing all alone on the ranch house porch.
In fact, she might have been the only other human being on the planet.
Still, he was nothing if not a left-brained realist, and his attention had slowly widened, after that first weird instant, to include the others.
The cognitive dials in his head began to click, registering further details. Construction had started on the new house, for one thing.
Tripp and Spence looked like what they were—happily married men. Satisfied men, maybe even a little smug.
Their wives, he noted, were downright radiant, the way women tended to be when they were not only cherished by their husbands, but gloriously pregnant, too.
And all the time he was formulating these observations, his sons were tearing around the yard with the dogs, overjoyed, high on blue skies and green grass and every blessing in between.
Of course, part of this boyish exuberance was for his benefit; Ben and Adam had been actively engaged in a campaign for a furry friend of their own for quite a while now. Although Tate wasn’t averse to the idea—he’d always loved animals himself—they lived in a rented house, and the landlord didn’t allow pets. So for the time being, anyway, adopting a critter was out of the question.
In the meanwhile, Muggles and Ridley filled the canine-companion bill.
Tate shifted mental gears, centering himself in the now. It was a beautiful afternoon, Ben and Adam were healthy, balanced kids and they were having fun.
Plus, they had a decent meal to look forward to. Tate’s version of Saturday lunch was usually something along the lines of canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. He had the feeling that they’d get something a little more appealing from Hadleigh Galloway.
Inevitably, since Tate was flesh and blood, reasonably young and completely normal, his gaze strayed back to Bex. Ms. Stuart had looked two notches above terrific in her jogging clothes. Now, in a pair of well-cut jeans and a red sweater that showed off her feminine figure, she was downright distracting.
Just a few yards from the casual gathering on the porch, Tate almost froze again—so much for getting centered—but an amused, all-too-knowing glance from Tripp kept him moving forward.
“Hello again,” he heard himself say, his voice suddenly husky.
Damned if the Galloways and Hogans hadn’t evaporated once more, leaving him and Bex alone on the planet. He gravitated toward her, like a passing asteroid yanked into the orbit of some strange new sun, and then—then he literally collided with the woman, for God’s sake, right there at the top of the porch steps.
What the hell? he thought, but what he said was, “Sorry. I was thinking about the boys.”
Fool.
Flustered, Tate looked back over one shoulder, trying to lend some credence to his fib, and saw no sign of the kids or the dogs.
Bex pointed in the direction of the barn and said, “They went thataway.”
He gave a muffled laugh, realized he’d gripped Bex’s shoulders at some point, and that he was still holding her, as though he’d expected her to fall. He let go. “Thanks.”
After that brief expansion, the universe zoomed in again, with a swiftness that left Tate’s head spinning.
She smiled, which only increased the sensation, and her voice seemed far away. “Good luck catching up with them, though. All parties were moving fast. They could be in Canada by now.”
Tate struggled to regain his equilibrium. “That’s a definite possibility,” he agreed. “They’re both a little hyper.”
This was a routine, even mundane, conversation. So why did everything seem so awkward?
Bex appeared to be at ease, but that could’ve been an act, he supposed. The air around them practically pulsed with electricity, and if Tate knew one thing, it was that the invisible charge was flowing both ways. “Don’t worry about the kids,” she said lightly. “Mel and Hadleigh are both in mama-tiger mode, which means nothing bad would dare happen—not on their watch.”
Mel and Hadleigh? Oh. Yeah. He remembered who they were now. Two of the other people populating the earth, in addition to him and Bex and, somewhere in the immediate vicinity, his children.
Get a grip, Calder.
But a light breeze lifted Bex’s hair just then, and she had beautiful hair. It seemed to curl naturally as it fell past her shoulders, emphasizing her graceful neck.
She was right, of course. The boys were okay. The ranch was as safe as anyplace else, safer than many, and besides, the dogs would raise hell if they sensed danger.
“So, how was the run?” he asked.
He’d meant to sound simply polite, asking a casual question that didn’t reveal too much interest. The truth was, he wanted to know everything there was to know about Bex Stuart—which movies she liked, what kinds of books she read, the shape of her dreams, both waking and sleeping.
As she answered, something along the lines of, “Oh, it was fine,” he found himself wondering about her favorite colors, songs, scents, memories.
Was she a morning person or a night owl?
Did she talk in her sleep?
Despite all that, another part of Tate warned him to keep his distance, circumvent whatever emotional minefield might be lying in wait.
He was not, never had been, the impulsive type.
And yet...
And yet.
He sighed. Shook his head, hoping to break whatever spell he was under.
Trying to act like a grown man instead of a teenager on hormone overload.
How’s that
