Damned if the college girl wasn’t right; it took the private dick less than a week to find Emily Wakeland and her children. He even got photos of her from a colleague in the area.
“Does that look like her, Mr. McNeal?” The detective asked, handing a stack of photos to the author. Shane frowned at the top picture, studying Emily like a man dying of thirst looks at an oasis. It was definitely her, only dressed in a period costume of long skirt, apron, bonnet, and she carried a broom while smiling up into the face of some bulky dude. The guy wore a bottle-green jacket with white tights (tights!), black buckle shoes, and a white wig. A horse and carriage filled the background; he was probably the driver, Shane correctly surmised.
But the way Emily smiled up into his face; that worried Shane. She looked, dare he say it? Happy! Irritated, Shane flipped through the other few photos, seeing her home, her ancient car with her exiting it, and one picturing the kids. God, the kids! Dana seemed to have grown a foot, Darcy’s pony-tail hung farther down her back, Danielle and the twins looked taller and calmer.
Suddenly misty-eyed, Shane tossed the stack of memories onto the patio table and moved clumsily to the rail, staring at the ocean and blinking rapidly. The detective remained quiet.
After getting himself under control once more, Shane asked lowly, “So she’s in Williamsburg, Virginia, you say?”
At the detective’s quiet affirmative, Shane shook his head, saying, more to himself, “Could she have moved any farther east? Hell, it seems like she picked the furthest point from Southern California! Who’s the piece of shit that’s with her in that photo?” Shane asked the detective as he turned from the banister.
It was a cool November day, with a choppy ocean and deserted beach below. Just the way Shane liked it; no mobs of out-of-school children, or moms with preschoolers; only the occasional schmuck with the Geiger counter, or perhaps a few joggers.
The detective took the photo from Shane’s hand, held it closer to his face and replied, “My colleague didn’t indicate. After all, you asked about her, not him.”
Shane rolled his eyes, taking the picture back and squinting at it as if an answer would magically appear. Not gleaning anything more from it, Shane tossed it back on the table and pulled out an envelope from his pants pocket, handing it to the private detective.
“Here’s your fee. Thanks for the prompt work.”
The man rose from the table, shook hands with Shane, and they walked through the beach house and out the front door, saying good-bye. Watching the detective leave, Shane pondered his next move; from the looks of Emily with her male companion, was Shane already too late?
***
“Did you pack a jacket? I think it rains more there than here.” Angie Donovan stood in front of Shane as they waited in the Jet Blue boarding area of the Long Beach Airport a week after Shane’s meeting with his private detective. She absently patted his chest, feeling like a nervous mom on her child’s first day of school. Why, she had no idea, except that her friend was hurting, and she wished she could ease that pain somehow.
“Yes, Mom. I packed like every man does. Anything clean is in there, and anything I didn’t pack, I’ll buy when I get there. Satisfied?” Shane cocked his head in amusement while Angie self-consciously stepped away from him, gazes meeting.
“I’m sorry, Shane. It’s just—I hope it works out the way you want it to, that’s all.”
“No more than I do, Ang, believe me. But whatever happens, I have this brat to thank,” and Shane pulled Kimberly against him, kissing the top of her head as it lay against his chest.
Squeezing him in return, Kimberly looked up at the author she had rescued from his downward spiral by tough talk and real solutions; he was a far cry from the man of a few weeks ago. Gone was the unkempt hair and unshaven face. In their places were a chin-length, hip haircut, smooth chin and upper lip, and clear eyes. He also didn’t look like he’d slept in his clothes, the fashion sense he’d been sporting up to this point. She was his twenty-one-year-old fairy godmother, and Shane hoped he could be as good a friend to Kimberly as she had been to him.
“Don’t I know it, buster!—“ Angie began, but his flight was called over the loudspeaker. She ceased her talk to reach up and kiss Shane on the cheek, an unheard of move on her part, yet accepted readily by the author.
Returning the embrace, Shane gave Kimberly another quick hug, picked up his duffel and gave them a sharp salute. He commented before turning to the gangway, “I’ll call in a coupla days, guys! Thanks for all the help!” and disappeared from sight.
Looking at each other, mother and daughter turned to leave, Kimberly saying, “I hope she isn’t stupid and pushes him away, Mom. They’re perfect for each other, and, besides, I don’t think he can take anymore rejection, do you?”
“He might, but I know I can’t. I have to get you through college and married. I can’t be mothering him as well!” Laughing and wrapping arms around each other’s waists, mother and daughter exited the airport, hoping they’d arranged the best damned hook-up in their lifetimes.
***
Colonial Williamsburg. Revolutionary City. The writer part of Shane McNeal salivated for a chance to explore the life-like replica of America’s first capitol city. An espionage tale set right here in the starting place of America’s government began looping itself around Shane’s brain, even as he stood on the main drag of the historic town. Having arrived rather late last night, Shane had gone straight to his hotel and researched the area on his laptop until the wee hours of the morning.
Now he was paying for that with jet-lag, but the welcome significance of the new novel plotline, plus the thought of actually seeing Emily again after four months, sent the adrenaline pumping through him. Taking a deep breath and armed with the picture of that particular store front behind her, Shane began walking down the dusty Duke of Gloucester Street, eyeballing every building and every period-dressed pedestrian.
Being a weekday during school hours, the town seemed a bit sleepy, although he had seen school buses arriving in the surrounding parking areas, so Shane was pretty sure the place would be hopping later. That meant he’d better get his ass in gear and confront Emily before there was a pint-sized audience.
Stomach clenching, the procrastinating side of Shane told him to come back near closing, since Emily wouldn’t be able to talk during work anyway. The new and improved Shane McNeal, however, urged him to quit the bullshit and find the woman NOW. He quit the bullshit and kept on moving down the street. Shane passed a horse-drawn carriage along the way, but of course he couldn’t tell if the driver was the jackass making the moves on Emily or not in the photo from the PI, so Shane glowered at the man just in case.
And then the decision was taken out of his hands, for the very woman he’d travelled nearly three thousand miles to see exited a store just ahead of Shane, laughingly talking to someone still within. Shane halted abruptly, breath caught in his throat as he stared hungrily at Emily Wakeland while she then nearly skipped down the boardwalk and around the corner of the store she’d left. It was definitely her; he’d recognize her anywhere, even in the period get-up she was sporting now. A cold sweat breaking out all over him, Shane nevertheless forced his feet to follow in her path, a million ways of starting a four month conversation in-the-making churning through his mind.
Shane rounded that very same corner and spied her in the small orchard behind the main street buildings. Pausing once more, the author studied Emily as she meandered under the nearly leafless fruit trees, pausing and looking up at them every once-in-a-while. Whatever the hell she was doing, Shane really didn’t care; he assumed she was on break, and this was how Emily chose to spend her break. Hadn’t he always caught her out on his deck, staring at the ocean whenever she took a break at home? Home...with Emily...
Shaking his head to remove the overly romantic thoughts coursing through it, Shane paced forward slowly, quietly, until he was only maybe twenty feet away from her. Then he purposely crunched some fallen leaves with his feet, and Emily Wakeland spun around. They stared at each other across the sun-dappled distance, her face blanching white, her fingers clutching together before her, twisting in her apron.
Opening her mouth, no sound erupted. It closed, but not before Emily licked suddenly parched lips, staring, still staring at the apparition before her. An apparition in a three-piece, double-breasted dark suit, snowy white shirt open at the neck, wind-ruffled, short, dark hair, clean-shaven face with its etched cheekbones, and the deepest, darkest brown eyes glued on hers.
Eyes she remembered clearly, achingly familiar, even as the vision from her not-so-distant past opened his sinfully beautiful mouth and said flippantly, “Lucy, you’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do.”
***
Oh My God. That Voice. That heavenly, heartrending Voice. That Voice she still heard in her dreams at night, That Voice that even only in her head could still make her writhe with desire in the wee hours of the dark, lonely mornings, waking sweaty, unsatisfied and heartbroken. Only now it wasn’t a dream. He stood before her, the owner of That Voice, the keeper of her heart...
Reality crashed over her like a rogue wave. Yes, the owner of That Voice stood before her in flesh and blood, no longer a dream lover; however, he was not the keeper of her heart. Hadn’t he refused it in so many ways last July? In the way they had casually slept together, the way he brushed off her upset over the hateful tabloid photo, the way he had never tried to vindicate her publicly. No, That Voice would no longer have the power to hypnotize her. She would make sure of that today.
“Hello, Shane,” Emily said coolly, even as she caught herself twisting her hands in her apron. Oh, how handsome he looked, though, with his shorter haircut, and dapper suit, and...No facial hair? He’d never been clean shaven in all the time she’d known him, not even on any of his book jackets—pay attention, you silly fool! Emily mentally screamed at herself, shaking off the thoughts of how delicious Shane McNeal appeared.
“What are you doing here?” she continued, forcing her hands down to her sides, attempting nonchalance. His hands were in his front pants pockets, his dark, dark eyes boring into hers, searching for a certain response she was just as strongly attempting to squelch.
“I came for you, Emily.”
His husky voice sent ripples of indecent pleasure down her spine, indecent because he was so wrong for her, yet her traitorous body wanted to run and melt into his, even after four months of abstinence.
“Really? Why now?”
A slow building anger was developing within Emily at his latest comment; after all, if he really wanted her, why wait four months? Why such a long interval?
Shane cocked his head. Ah, he seemed to be catching on. He hesitated; unsure of how to respond. Good. She needed to hear this next answer.
“I, um, need you in my life, Em. I’m nothing without you.”
Chocolate eyes beseeching, he seemed to beg absolution. But...’um’? Even now he hesitates? And still no mention of love?
Need is not the same as love, Emily told herself, even as righteous indignation finally flooded through her, straightening her back and sending sparks flaring through her eyes as she replied coldly, “But you weren’t ‘nothing without me’ in July? Or August? What about in September? How about in October? No? Just now, in November, you finally realized ‘you’re nothing without me’? That’s odd, Shane McNeal, because in those past four months I cried myself to sleep over you. My body ached for you. There didn’t a day go by that I wanted to call you and hear your voice. But that’s in the past now.
“During those four months, while you were just realizing you were ‘nothing without me,’ I was finding out I am still ‘somebody without you.’ Isn’t that ironic? I knew how I felt about you back in July; you just didn’t return the feeling. Now, after all this time, I’ve moved on and ...what did you do during those four months? Hmm?”
Emily cupped her ear much like Shane had done so many months ago on the beach in more carefree times. Her body nearly vibrated with controlled anger and disdain, for she knew exactly what he had done those last four months. She wanted him to admit it aloud.
Shane shifted his stance, shuffling his feet, disconnecting their gaze to glance down at the ground, a faint tinge of color rising up his neck and into his downcast face. Emily spied that response, and waited tensely, willing him to answer. Finally he spoke, lowly, and to the ground.
“I’ve been making my way back to you, Em.”
Her jaw literally dropped, disbelief coursing through her. She stared at his downturned head, waiting to erupt until he raised it at last and met her gaze sheepishly. Then she attacked, her voice rising at every breath.
“’You were making your way back to me’? How? By way of every woman in Southern California? Or did it continue across all the states?” At his shocked look, Emily shook her head, bonnet strings bouncing, and stamped her foot, continuing.
“What, did you think people here in Williamsburg don’t read newspapers and magazines? Or that I wouldn’t look for mention of you like a starving woman looks for crumbs? Believe me, ‘Mr. Sexiest Author of the Year,’ I looked for news of you daily those first few months! And guess what I found?—“
“Em, stop—“Shane tried to interrupt, raising his hand, but Emily was gathering momentum, steamrolling over him in her four-month--old anger, ticking headlines off on her fingers.
“’Noted Author Parties till dawn at the Brown Derby.’ ‘Author Shane McNeal spotted at Club M with his Latest Bodacious Blonde.’ ‘Who will be Shane McNeal’s Next Sexpot Spy?’ Is that how you were ‘making your way back to me,’ Shane?”
Without realizing it, Emily had advanced on Shane with every quoted headline until she stood in his face looking up at him, shaking like a plucked violin string. Another voice interrupted her tirade, coming from the rear door of the store she had exited.
“Mrs. Wakeland, are you okay?”
Both Shane and Emily turned toward the voice belonging to Lou Tarpley. The author glanced back down into Emily’s anger-flushed countenance, belatedly realizing he had seriously miscalculated her reception to his return, if her expression was any kind of example.
“I’m alright, Lou. Sorry for yelling,” and she darted a glance to the older man, who was sizing up the author with narrowed gaze and beetled brows.
“Really, Lou. It’s okay,” she continued, stepping back from Shane and taking a deep breath. As Shane watched him, the old codger finally shook his head, a dead cigar clenched in his mouth as he turned back to reenter the store. Shane returned his gaze to his beloved, whose suspicious demeanor signaled she was not done with him. Trying to forestall her tirade, Shane grabbed her forearms and spoke quickly.
“Emily, please listen to me—“
“Unhand her, this instant, Sir!” Another male voice interrupted, and Shane rolled his eyes at Emily before turning to the next would-be rescuer, who seemed to have a flair for the melodramatic.
This was the jackass from the private dick’s photo.
He was a tree. The man topped Shane by four or five inches, was muscular where Shane was wiry, and was advancing on them with strides designed to eat up the ground in seconds. He was also wearing the same velvet, bottle green, coachman’s jacket over white breeches and tights, with shiny, black, buckled shoes and a snowy wig. Christ, Shane felt like he’d fallen down the rabbit hole!
Pissed at the interruptions, Shane snarled over his shoulder at the approaching suitor, “Get lost, Franklin! Don’t you have a kite to chase?”
He made the mistake of turning his back on the man, dismissing him from his thoughts as he returned his attention to Emily. Behind him, Jason Whitaker drew back his arm in preparation of striking Shane down, but Emily forced him to pull his punch by scooting around Shane and standing between the two men.
Belatedly realizing he was in danger, Shane pivoted quickly to find Emily square in the middle of the two antagonists, one hand on Jason’s chest, the other at her side. Shit, she wouldn’t even touch him, Shane thought wildly, feeling his grasp on the immediate situation slipping away rapidly.
“Has he hurt you, Emily? I swear I’ll kill him if he’s left as much as a bruise on your arms, Emily,” Jason breathed heavily, even as Emily turned fully to him, putting both hands on his chest and looking beseechingly up into his face. The scene was so nauseating Shane was forced to swing away, looking anywhere but at the couple under the trees, feeling a pain in the vicinity of his heart as he realized what he had just witnessed. Love.
“No. No, he wouldn’t hurt me, Jason. I’m okay. Really. In fact, I was kinda attacking him. Please, go back to work, and tell Lou I’ll be right there. Please, for me?” And she stood on tiptoe, even as he reluctantly bent his head, and kissed him on the lips, once, twice, before stepping back and patting him on the chest. Jason shot another venomous look at Shane’s back before departing, much more slowly than his approach had been.
Silence.
Shane swung back around to face Emily, who was just turning back from watching the giant man depart. Their eyes met again, Shane’s just as cool as Emily’s.
“Hmm. Looks like the pot’s calling the kettle black, to me,” Shane drawled, even as his heart thumped agonizingly inside his chest. Had he lost her? He would not, could not, give up without a fight. After the downward spiral he’d already endured, he was sure his very life depended on fighting for Emily’s love, even though his comment was meant to antagonize.
“What? You think this—this thing I have with Jason is the same as you and your bimbo parade? How dare you? Get a grip, McNeal! After you stomped all over my heart last summer, it took me four months to even go out with a man! Don’t compare my life to your soap opera! Now, I have to go back to work—“
That galvanized him into action, forcing Shane to step toward her, anxiously swallowing his pride and asking, “But I’m not done talking, Em! Shit, I just flew a frickin’ three thousand miles to see you kiss another guy! I need to talk to you after work. I’m staying at—“
“No hotels!” He heartened at the alacrity with which she vetoed meeting him anywhere near a bed. Encouraging, that. “I mean, I really can’t see any more we’d have to talk about. I guess I can call you when I get off work...”
“Ha! Like you called from San Diego last July?”
She had the grace to blush, even as she raised her chin and continued over him.
“...If you have the same phone number?”
Visions of his last cell phone sailing into the Pacific shot through his brain, even as he replied evenly, “Yeah, same number. I’ll be waiting for your call with baited breath,” and Shane managed to stroll away without looking back once, though where he headed he had no idea.
Finding himself leaving the Revolutionary City, Shane continued on, flashbacks of his school days and merciless jocks such as the carriage driver fueled his footsteps. Having been more of a nerd than he cared to admit, Shane remembered too many times how his smart mouth had earned him a well-placed punch. Perhaps he might be tougher and faster now, but Shane really didn’t want to put himself to the test. Retreat seemed the better part of valor today.
Once out of historic Williamsburg, Shane made his way to the little brick shopping area where, unbeknownst to him, Emily and Jason had eaten pizza with the kids. Seeing a bookstore in the area, Shane stepped inside, feeling at home in here. Immediately a young female clerk approached wearing a green William and Mary College sweatshirt. Her generic smile froze as she recognized Shane, pointing her finger and stuttering.
“You’re, you’re that—that—“and she turned, grabbing his latest spy novel off a well-displayed rack, turning it to show him his own photo from the back cover and continuing, “You’re him! Oh my God! You’re Shane McNeal! Are you here researching? Is our town going to be in your next book? Or is the college? Oh, you’re even cuter in person! Can you sign an autograph for me?...”
Feeling loved and appreciated once more, Shane was more than happy to spend a couple hours meeting students and teachers while conducting an impromptu book signing, but finally the afternoon began waning, so Shane bid his good-byes, deciding to return to his hotel and clean up a little before his possible meeting with Emily. He didn’t have high hopes that she would call, not after witnessing her behavior with Ben Franklin, but hell, he knew where she worked and where she lived, thanks to the private detective’s thorough job. He’d just nip home and—
And his cell phone began ringing.
***
Returning to the shop after the altercation with her suitors and finding it bustling with school children, Emily immersed herself in candle-dipping demonstrations as well as souvenir sales right up to her quitting time. Finally the shop emptied, as teachers and their charges headed back to their school busses. Emily sat down on the barrel behind the counter, set there for just that purpose, and peeled her bonnet off her curly head. Sighing, she looked up at Lou, who was staring at her while he straightened money in the antique brass register.
As his gaze never wavered, Emily was forced to ask belligerently, “What? Do I have egg on my face?” she grumbled.
He shrugged and replied, “You tell me, Mrs. Wakeland. When I can hear you arguing all the way into my store, I have a right to question you and your conduct. For crying out loud, I haven’t seen this much excitement in the last five years here as I am now, what with all your kids, and then your beaux...”
Emily dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her forehead and contemplating said beaux.
Lifting her head, she gazed at a kindly Mr. Tarpley, saying forlornly, “Oh, Lou! I don’t know what to do! I really, really care for Jason, but...I think I still have feelings for Shane, but he’s not good for me and…Oh, what a mess!”
Mr. Tarpley put his money aside for a moment and looked at the widow for whom he had come to admire and care.
“It’s only a mess if you let it be. Listen, Emily. You have a fairly simple decision to make. When looking for a mate, there are only a few criteria you need concern yourself with: find one that brings out the best in you, who makes you a better person...someone who completes you. Why do you think I’m such a grouch? When my wife died, well, this is what was left.” He indicated himself with a flourish.
Emily, in the process of toeing her shoes off, stopped and stared at her short, barrel-shaped boss. Mr. Tarpley had been married?
Catching her surprise and correctly interpreting it, Lou Tarpley blustered, “What? You didn’t think I could catch a woman? Girl, I was quite the dog in my day, I’ll have you know! And Lorna was quite the catch herself.”
His gaze turned inward, as if he were remembering good times. Emily studied Lou, feeling bad about his lonely existence, and making the connection between his solitude, and someone else’s she knew...
“So, missy, those are the principles I base a good relationship on. Of course, you have to have the fireworks, too; that goes without saying. No fireworks, the relationship is gonna be a dud.”
Glancing at Emily from under his bushy brows, Lou saw her color prettily; which fella she was thinking about only she knew, but apparently she got the fireworks from one of them.
Harrumphing loudly, Lou handed her the money pouch, saying, “Well, that’s enough ‘Dear Abby’ for me. Would you put that in the floor safe before you go home? I’ll finish locking up.”
Her blush under control once more, Emily glanced quickly up at her boss, standing in her stocking feet and moving to block his exit from behind the counter.
Once she got his disgruntled attention, she said gently, “Thank you, Lou, for putting it all in perspective. Your wife was a very lucky woman to have known you, and so am I,” and Emily sneaked a quick peck on Lou’s cheek before he could growl and rear back.
Smiling to herself, Emily slipped her shoes back on, grabbed the money pouch, and went to do as she was bid. Her boss remained behind the counter, fussing about, until she hollered an unrepentant “Goodnight!” from the doorway, leaving in much better spirits than when she’d started.
Once outside, Emily called her sister, asking if she could be an hour late in picking up her kids. Wisely, she didn’t mention Shane yet. Analise would react like a rabid dog if she mentioned Shane’s name. It was all a haze now, but apparently Emily had been quite a basket-case over him when she’d first turned up on her sister’s doorstep; Analise didn’t forget, and she blamed everything on that no-good, hound dog named Shane McNeal. So, Emily kept the reason vague, and hung up quickly. And then she made the phone call she half dreaded, and half anticipated anxiously.
***
Since he couldn’t go home and clean up because of his imminent meeting with Emily, Shane reentered the bookstore and used the restroom to wash his hands, splash water on his face, and run his fingers through his hair nervously.
Glancing at himself in the mirror, he made a face at his reflection, then exited, making his way out to the brick courtyard around which all the specialty shops were arranged. First he leaned against a light pole, but the decorative knobs dug into his back; next he stood, but he felt so ill-at-ease he finally opted for a bench, snug between a grandma and fussy baby girl, and a teenager yacking on her cell phone.
That’s where Emily found him.
Emily’s breath caught in her throat as soon as she spied Shane McNeal on the bench. He looked so serious, at first he didn’t seem like the same person she had gotten to know last summer. He was looking down at his hands clasped between spread knees, with the shorter haircut unable to hide his thoughtful expression. Emily paused, studying him, and wondering exactly what she felt for him, and for Jason.
If she went by Lou’s checklist, Jason would be the right person for her; after all, he made her happy, calm, and collected. Shane agitated her, angered her, upset her; end of subject. Since she had never slept with Jason, she had no idea about fireworks with him. She refused to think about Shane and fireworks in the same sentence. That was telling in and of itself.
Pushing those thoughts from her mind and schooling her face into a pleasant, unreadable mask, Emily walked up to Shane and stood before him.
Her feet now in his downward periphery, Shane spied them and immediately jumped to his feet, saying, “Hey. Thanks for actually calling.” Visibly wincing at the dig he’d just delivered, Shane earned a frown for his sarcasm.
“Well, you wanted to talk, didn’t you? So, let’s talk.”
She stood ramrod straight, letting him make all the moves. Shit, how do you go about telling a woman you love her when all your previous actions say otherwise? Shane ran a hand through his hair again, holding the longer pieces off his face a moment.
He glanced at the pizza parlor and suggested, “We could go in there, get pizza and talk.” He held the other hand out, gesturing toward the door.
Emily hesitated, then shook her head, saying, “I can’t stay and eat, though, Shane. My sister has my kids. Just...get what you have to say off your chest and we’ll go from there.”
She stiffly entered the pizza parlor, found a booth amongst the college crowd and sat on the green vinyl seat across the table from Shane, whose crestfallen countenance spoke volumes. A young waitress made her way over, but Emily shook her head at Shane while peering down at the wood table, so he waved the girl away impatiently. Then he sat back, resting his head against the seat back, eyes studying Emily until she looked up and met his gaze.
Cocking her head, Emily, said, a bit impatiently, “Well? Talk.”
A half-smile tilted Shane’s lips, even as he spoke.
“Ah, Emily. I know you don’t believe me, but I really have missed you and all your kids. I can’t believe how tall Dana is, or how long Darcy’s hair is...What’s wrong?”
Emily’s gaze was becoming colder and colder by the second, even as she gritted out, “How do you know what they look like? How?”
Shane held up both hands in supplication, back-pedaling once again.
“Wait, before you jump down my throat! Christ! How do you think I found you, Em? Of course I used a private di—detective! And, yes, he took pictures, but only enough for me to verify it was really you. When you run away and play hide-n-seek, well, you have to accept the consequences of your actions, Emily. Geez, you act like I’m a stalker!”
Emily glared at Shane during his mini tirade, and as soon as he wound down she sprang.
“Why would you go to all that trouble, Shane? Why? When I lived with you, when that whole tabloid mess erupted, all you did was think about how it concerned you. So, why are you here now? You got your moment in the limelight. Thank me for my part in it and go home. Let me get on with my life, and you get on with yours.” She took a deep breath, eyes meeting his clearly, tightly fisted hands in her lap.
Shane blinked a moment, also took a deep breath, and blurted, “I’m here, Em, because I love you and want you back in my life." Another blink, his hands clasping and unclasping on the table.
Nervous energy radiated about him like a force field. Emily stared at Shane, unable to believe he had finally said the words she’d wept for so many months ago. Only now there was a third player in their little melodrama: Jason Whitaker. She really enjoyed being with him, could see him as a dad with her kids. So, how should she deal with this triangle?
Emily glanced down at her lap as the silence between them spun out. Shane figured silence was a good omen. She could have slapped him, burst into tears, or stormed away. Yes, silence was good. And in that moment a possible solution to his predicament presented itself to his mind, and to his groin. Get her in the sack. Oh yeah, that part of his anatomy agreed enthusiastically.
But there was a method to this madness. Once he had her on her back, he’d play her like a fine guitar—corny saying, but true. Her body had always sung for him. After they rediscovered that magic, she’d remember what they had outside of the bedroom. He didn’t have time to woo her conventionally. After all, he was playing for keeps, and by any means possible. So, forcing himself to relax against the booth seat, he made a daring proposal that could very well turn around and bite him in the ass.
“Now, I know you and Franklin have gotten pretty close—“
“His name is Jason. And, yes, we are close.”
That was it. No more info. Just, close. Deep breath.
“I’m proposing you partake in a little dating game wager with the two of us. Give me one more chance with you. We go on a date, where I prepare to knock your socks off, and then if he still rings your bell, well, I’ll go home with my tail between my legs, but at least I’ll know I made a good plea for my case.
“However, if we happen to rekindle what we had before, well, I’ll spend the rest of my life showing how much love I actually have for you and he’ll continue sitting behind a horse’s ass.”
As propositions went it wasn’t the most romantic, but Shane could see he had her on the hook just by the way her eyes narrowed. Oh, yeah, there’s my girl, he thought gleefully, even as he schooled his expression into mild interest.
Smiling slightly, he said, “I can see I’ve piqued your interest.”
She blinked, shaking her head.
“You’re the only person I know who can use such an archaic word and use it correctly.”
“I can use not so archaic things correctly, too,” he quipped, receiving a squelching look for his innuendo.
“So, basically we go out once more, and then you leave and don’t cause me anymore upheaval. Am I right?” Emily squinted, looking for loopholes in his request, but it seemed above board.
Oh, sweetheart, you are so wrong!
But aloud Shane said, “Of course. You have the final say.”
Their gazes held, hers searching for a trap, his wide-eyed and innocent. She nodded once.
In like Flynn!