to baby-sit her little brother, who made only the obligatory objection to the words “little” and “baby-sit.” Joe knocked on the door promptly at seven, Teresa called goodbye to her kids and whisked out onto the porch.
Joe’s smile was the deliciously slow lazy one that muddled her insides. “Cabin fever?” he asked.
“Kid fever.” She smiled back. “Actually, they’re being good. Amazingly good. I figure if I make a quick escape, it might stay that way.”
Belatedly it occurred to her that, if she was imagining Joe as husband material, she ought to quit complaining about her children. After all, husband also meant stepfather. The way she’d been talking, he must think her kids were hell on wheels.
She made a point over dinner of bragging about them. Which, she realized in amusement, must mean she was thinking about him as a potential husband.
“Mark never seems to lift a finger, but he gets perfect grades. He’ll be starting in the gifted program, which I’m excited about. I know he gets bored sometimes.”
Joe only nodded. His face was annoyingly expressionless. She couldn’t decide whether she was boring him or whether he was only waiting for her to go on. Well, if he was bored—tough. She came as a package with her kids.
“Nicole’s a good student, too, but what she loves—besides boys, of course—is to dance. Ballet and jazz both.”
“There’s a dance school in White Horse, you know.”
“Is there?” She set down her fork. They were eating at a waterfront restaurant on Marine View Drive in Everett. Boats at a marina just below the big windows bobbed gently on quiet shimmering swells. “I hadn’t checked into it yet. I ought to get her started.”
“Two of my nieces dance.” Joe grinned ruefully. “I get to see the recital every year. Thank God they’ve progressed from the junior recital to the senior one. The first year, I thought the three-year-olds in their pink tutus were cute. By the second year, I was wondering why the hell their parents were paying for dance lessons when they were obviously too young even to learn how to stay in line, never mind how to pirouette.”
“I remember those days.” Oh, boy, did she. “Ragged rows of little girls—and an occasional boy whose friends hadn’t yet persuaded him it was unmanly to dance. Usually there’d be a couple who had some vague idea what to do, and one or two sucking their thumbs, frozen in terror. The rest would just kind of wander around.”
“One of my nieces was a thumb sucker. We have it captured for all time on videotape.”
“You sound like a fond uncle.”
His big shoulders moved uneasily, as though he didn’t know how to take compliments. “Yeah, I guess so. Tell you the truth, I’ve tried to stand in for Rebecca’s first husband and Jess’s ex. Neither of them was any great shakes as a parent. Alan especially—Rebecca’s boy—needed a man around sometimes. Before Rebecca remarried of course. I, uh, didn’t mind.”
Okay, so he hadn’t been bored; he liked kids. Definitely husband material. Except that he couldn’t be as good as he looked. Otherwise, why wasn’t he married? Teresa didn’t believe in that “waiting for the right woman” stuff. Just like animals, humans reached an age when they were ready to mate. Occasionally that urge got sidetracked—it often happened to vet students, because they were too busy and too tired for the dating rounds. But Joe must be in his mid-thirties at least. So what had he been doing, instead of marrying?
“How old are you?” she asked.
He looked startled, but answered willingly enough. “Thirty-six. You?”
“Thirty-five. And yes, before you count back, I had Nicole before I started veterinary school. I must have been nuts. Fortunately, while Tom may have had his flaws, he was a great father. We did wait to have Mark until I was done with my schooling, though.”
“Does Mark even remember his father?”
“Yes, but his memories are fading,” she said with sharp regret. “He was in his second day of kindergarten when I had to meet him at the bus with the news that his dad was dead. It’s natural that he’ll forget him. I mean, all you have to do is think back. If you’re like me, you can hardly remember your kindergarten days.”
“I remember them.” Before she could begin to speculate about what his flat tone meant, he added, “That must mean you just passed the anniversary of your husband’s death. Does it still hit you hard?”
“It has before, but not so much this year.” She made a face. “I was so damned mad at a farmer who decided he didn’t really need a vet when he saw me get out of the car, it carried me through the day.”
His mouth had an odd twist. “Anger is a useful emotion.”
“Mmm.” All she had to do was remember the days after Tom’s death. “Very.”
Joe glanced at his watch. “Still in the mood for a movie?”
“You bet. I even looked at the listings in the paper. I don’t suppose you like sword and sorcery?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Swordplay usually leads to some blood and gore. Don’t I remember that being forbidden?”
“It’s different from a contemporary shoot ’em up,” she tried to explain. “Less realistic. In a fantasy, the blood doesn’t count.”
He loomed above her as he helped her out of her chair. More of that sense of being fragile and feminine that she usually hated. “I think you’re splitting hairs,” he said in amusement.
“Swirling capes and galloping horses are romantic.”
“The truth comes out! All women want is romance.”
She had to ask. “Is there something wrong with romance?”
Their eyes met, held. Her skin tingled. “No,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with romance.”
The other patrons and the hovering waitress blurred; for a heartbeat, only the two of them existed. Then she blinked, or he did, and the moment passed. He was laying some bills on the table, thanking the waitress, holding out Teresa’s sweater for her. Slipping her arms into it, Teresa gave her head a small shake. Had she imagined the intensity of that look?
Then Joe’s eyes met hers again, and she thought, No. I didn’t imagine it. Why else was he so wary now?
Her dates in recent years had taken her to French restaurants and the symphony and the opera. When half an hour later she settled into the plush seat at the movie theater, her upper arm just brushing Joe’s, Teresa decided this was more romantic, no matter what movie was projected onto the big screen.
The lights were already dimming; she was very conscious of the man so close beside her. She felt his every breath, knew when he glanced at her, even though she pretended to watch the previews. Would he put his arm around her? She would have liked to lay her hand on his thigh. Her eyes and the nearly forgotten recesses of her memory told her it would be solid, bulky. The muscles might ripple under her touch.
She swallowed hard, disconcerted by the strength of her longing. What was wrong with her?
Joe
