Nodding now, she sighed. “A year after Timmy died—almost to the day—my mom killed herself. She knew Dad would take it hard, said so in her note.” She closed her eyes. Okay to shut up now, Lord? Or is this my penance…telling a total stranger about what happened to my mother and that I’m responsible for my father’s paralysis?
“You were a kid,” he repeated. “Just a kid, for cryin’ out loud. Give yourself a break!”
She was about to say “My dad didn’t get a break, why should I?” when Enrique returned, a serving of flan resting on one palm, two spoons wrapped in the other. He placed each on the table.
“More coffee?” he asked.
“Make it decaf, okay?”
“Sure thing. And the lady?”
“Same,” Patrice said, her voice still trembling slightly. “Thanks.”
Wade seemed in no hurry to eat the dessert. Instead, he changed the mood from confessional to conversational. He talked about the weather, the last movie he’d seen, an article he’d read in the newspaper about certain brands of bottled water that came straight from kitchen taps. She had to admit, he had a real knack for making people feel relaxed, comfortable. At least, he had that talent with her.
Suddenly, Wade picked up one of the spoons and carefully cut off a piece of the custard. Holding it in front of Patrice’s face he said, “You first.”
Calmer now, she laughed at the suggestion. She’d seen this in the movies, and now hesitated, afraid she might open too wide, or not wide enough, and the dessert would end up all over her face—or worse, in her lap. “This is silly,” she admitted.
Yet she went along with the suggestion. Wade skillfully slid the bite past her teeth, his own lips parting slightly as he watched her accept his offering. “Thwnkym,” she said around it.
He’d already popped a sizable chunk into his mouth. “Ywr wrlcm.”
Their laughter brought inquisitive stares from nearby diners. They seemed to share one thought: All dressed up like respectable adults, but talking with their mouths full, like a couple of kids.
“I do believe,” he said between snickers, “we’re making public spectacles of ourselves.”
He chose that exact moment to reach out and remove a tiny drop of caramel syrup from her lower lip. The pressure of his thumb lingering there, seemed natural and normal. Their eyes fused on a sizzling current.
She began searching for things to dislike about this man, because having some negative character traits sure would make it easier not to fall for him! But try as she might, so far Patrice couldn’t come up with a single thing. In fact, she felt as though she’d known him for years.
“I can’t believe how much I talked tonight,” he said as they crossed the darkened parking lot to his car. “I don’t think I’ve bumped my gums this much, all at one time, ever in my life.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “I hope you won’t think I’m a total boor for dominating the conversation all evening.”
She remembered her confession. He’d hardly controlled the discussion. Would’ve been a lot better for her if he had!
Teasing and flirting had never been part of Patrice’s personality. Yet with Wade, the two seemed to go hand in hand as naturally as the stars went with the inky sky. “Well, you’re not a complete oaf, anyway,” she said, blinking up at him.
“Keep looking at me that way,” he said, one hand on either side of her face, “and you’re gonna find out real fast what a barbarian I can be.”
Immediately, Patrice tensed, for his left palm was touching her scar. She tried to wriggle free of his embrace, but he held tight.
“No need to pretend it isn’t there, Patrice. I saw it in your office and again in your foyer. I’m a cardiologist, remember? I’ve seen thousands of scars. I’ve made thousands of scars.”
She bit her lower lip, closed her eyes. Please, Lord, she prayed, make him—
He wove his fingers into her hair, combing it back and exposing the scar, then pressed his lips to the gnarled, angry flesh on her cheek, her temple, the corner of her eye. Slowly, he made his way to her forehead, her chin, the tip of her nose.
This wasn’t what she’d meant when, seconds ago, she’d asked for Divine intervention…
…but when Wade’s lips found hers, she realized it was exactly what she’d been wanting.
The familiar flutter of fear rolled in her gut. Too much too soon had brought her nothing but pain in the past.
Well, a girl can hope, she quickly tacked on.
The pleasant chatter they’d enjoyed during those last minutes in the restaurant continued during the drive home. Wade chose a collection of old country and western tunes to entertain them this time, and now and again, sang a line or two with Willie Nelson or Patsy Kline. Patrice enjoyed every note, even though his singing voice reminded her more of a rusty hinge than any melody she’d ever heard.
When he parked in front of her house, he turned in his seat and placed a big hand on her shoulder. “Since you already know what a clod I am, I guess it won’t do any harm to invite myself in for a cup of coffee….”
Her heart fluttered. She could barely make out his features in the darkness, yet somehow she knew those bright hazel eyes were boring into her, hoping for an affirmative answer. As she’d dressed for dinner, she’d determined to be pleasant and polite, nothing more, no matter what he said. But things had taken an odd turn somewhere along the way. There didn’t seem to be much point in pretending she wasn’t…interested.
“High-test or decaf?” she asked.
His quiet chuckle warmed her, right down to her toes.
“Decaf, if you have it.”
As they walked up the flagstone path, he casually draped an arm across her shoulders. Patrice liked the way it felt, and resisted the urge to lace her fingers with his.
“Let me just check on Dad,” she whispered, locking the door. “Meanwhile, make yourself at home in the kitchen. I baked chocolate chip cookies this morning. Do me a favor and have a few.”
Wade nodded as she headed for the back of the house. She knocked softly and called, “Dad?”
“Come on in, Treecie.”
She opened the door a bit, poked her head through the opening. “So who won the boxing match?”
He chuckled. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Fell asleep before the first round ended.”
“Hungry?” she asked, stepping into the room.
“Not in the slightest.” He indicated the half-empty plate of cookies on his bedside table. “If you don’t stop doin’ stuff like that, I’m gonna be big as a house.”
She fluffed his pillows, smoothed the line-dried sheet over his blanket. “How about a nice cup of chamomile tea?”
“Thanks, but I’m about ready to turn out the light.” He winked. “You get back to your doctor. Just be careful, y’hear?”
The accident hadn’t dulled his paternal senses one whit. “Don’t worry. Things are going to be different this time.”
“Oh, really?” He inclined his head. “How so?”
Truthfully, she didn’t know, exactly. “Well, I’m taking my time, for starters.”
“Good girl.” He gave in to an enormous yawn. “Now give your old man a good-night kiss.”
One hand on either side of his whiskered face, she pressed her lips to his forehead.