November 14, 2011 by admin
Filed under Contemporary Romance, Looking for Home, Nan Donahue
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He didn’t halt before he reached her, but moved right into her space and encircled her in a hug. After a moment of silence, he took a deep breath, squeezed her, and asked, “Is she okay? Do we need to take her to emergency?”
After a moment of frozen immobility, M’s muscles thawed. She wished she had both hands free, but settled for wrapping one arm around his shoulder.
She could get used to this. Not just the physical expressions of companionship, but the feeling that she was part of something. Part of a caring family.
“I think she’s okay. She’s demanding ice cream, so it can’t be that bad. I managed to tempt her with this instead.” She held up the hand still holding the now sweating glass. “Her stomach is upset, and she threw up at school. Maybe this will help calm it a bit.”
His arms tightened around her again. “This is kind of scary, isn’t it? Having this responsibility? She’s been sick a few times, but I was just big brother Jonny. The guy that visited and did cool things with her. My father dealt with stuff like this. Do you think it will get easier? That we won’t be so afraid every time she gets sick?”
The wet glass nearly slipped through M’s suddenly nerveless fingers, but she tightened her grip just in time.
Did he realize what he was saying? The implication that the two of them would be Alicia’s caregivers going forward? Did he mean that she’d be here in her pseudo-nanny role for a lot longer—and that was so not happening for a variety of reasons—or did he mean something else?
Gulping down all the questions that demanded asking, she said instead, “I think it’s like anything else. It gets easier when you know what you’re doing. Although, I imagine there’ll always be a certain level of fear. The what ifs hopping around in your brain and making you want to puke.”
He pulled away and grinned down at her. “No puking. We’ve got an epidemic here as it is. Two down in this household already. No more.”
Taking the glass from her hand—he probably noticed that it was in eminent danger of smashing on the marble floor and splashing sticky pop up his leg—he said, ‘I’ll take this up to her.”
At the bottom stair he stopped and turned back to her. “M? Thanks. Thanks for caring about her. She’s missed out on a lot. This is all new to her. And to some extent—to us.”
M’s feet remained glued to where she stood until he walked out of view. Then it was an effort to walk to the kitchen and sit down when her legs wanted to give out on the spot.
What made him say these things to her? As if it were understood they had some kind of relationship other than boss and employee?
She knew she loved him. Wanted him. But she also understood that she wasn’t his type. Oh, not that he’d ever said such a thing to her, but she wasn’t stupid. He’d said enough about her sister and the other women his father had married for her to able to two and two together. He’d want someone like his mother. And all M had to do was look at the portrait in the dining room—that Jonathan had told her he’d returned to its rightful place—to know that she’d fall miles short of that standard.
Serena Davenport had been a beautiful woman, and if the painting was a true rendering, she’d had an air of refined elegance, of dignity, that M could never aspire to.
When M pictured the kind of woman that would attract Jonathan, she imagined someone with her sister’s beauty, but elegant. Perhaps a lawyer or a doctor. Someone professional. Someone who could hold her own in the kind of social settings he would find himself in.
Certainly not someone like her. Someone who only knew what cutlery to use because of her restaurant background. Someone whose worldly goods could be packed into an Austin Mini at short notice. Someone who hadn’t even finished her last year of high school.
She shook her head, aggravated. This all made him sound like the worst kind of snob. And while she might have thought that about him at the beginning, she didn’t any longer.
Worse, she made herself sound like some kind of loser and she knew wasn’t.
But some people just went together naturally. She couldn’t hold that against him.
And yet—the stuff he’d said to her today. What was that all about? Was he starting to see past who and what she was to the real woman underneath?
Maybe. Please, God. Make it so.
Rousing herself, she headed up the stairs.
She stood in the doorway of Alicia’s room and watched the two of them. Jonathan had kicked off his shoes and got up on the bed with Alicia. He had his head and shoulders propped against the headboard while she lay across his chest, her forehead tucked under his chin. One of his hands held a storybook on his stomach, and as he read to her, his other hand stroked her hair off her sweaty brow, and behind her ear.
M wished she could run across the room and jump onto the bed with them.
Instead, when he looked up and caught her eye, she just smiled.
“Jonny’s reading me a story, Emmie.”
“I see that. Are you feeling a bit better?”
“Uh huh. Can I have more ginger a-oh?”
M raised a brow to Jonathan, who shook his head in answer to her silent question. “No, sweetie. I think that’s enough for now. How about some Jell-O? What do you think about that?”
Alicia moved off her brother’s chest and faced M, her big brown eyes wide. “Any kind?”
“Sure. I’m going to go the store and get some food and medicine for little girls with upset tummies and fevers. What flavour of Jell-O is your favourite?”
Alicia pursed her lips, deep in thought.
M chuckled. “While you decide, I’m going to ask Jonny what he wants, okay? It’s just us guys tonight, since Mrs. Brickman is sick too.”
Alicia nodded. Obviously this wasn’t an easy choice for her.
Turning to her gaze to Jonathan again, M caught the totally unguarded expression on his face, and gulped.
Resisted the urge to fan herself—because she suddenly felt as if she were the one with a fever.
He looked at her as if he wanted her too! As if he wanted to leap off that bed, grab her, and haul her back onto it.
Which, considering the third person in the room, was ludicrous.
Collecting her scattered wits, she asked, “What about you? What do you want?”
As a brow winged up and one corner of his mouth curled, M realized what she’d said. Oh, no, no, no.
“Ah… I meant…” She closed her eyes and cleared throat. Remembered all the times as a child when she’d wished that if she just closed her eyes and prayed hard enough she’d be somewhere else when she opened them.
It hadn’t worked then, and she didn’t believe in wishes and fairy tales anymore.
Finally opening her eyes—and yep, she still right here—she tried to form her question a little better.
“I meant, what would you like for dinner? What would you like me to cook you for dinner? Since I’m going to the store anyway, I can pick up whatever you like.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just seemed to take immense pleasure in watching her squirm. Then, “I’m fairly sure I have everything I need right here. I’ll leave it up to you. You can give me whatever you want.”
Locking her knees to keep from tumbling to the floor, M wiped her sweaty palms down her hips. What? Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Was that some double entendre, or was he really talking about his dinner?
Whatever, she couldn’t deal with it right now. All of a sudden he was saying things to her that made her reel. She’d been fairly resigned to her feelings being one sided, but now he seemed to be moving at light speed. He’d shot past her and she needed to catch her breath. Decide if she’s lost her grip on reality or if this was really happening.
And if it was happening, she had an overpowering need to slow it down. Get her bearings. Because she wasn’t going to set herself up for another fall.
For now, focusing on Alicia was the safest course. “Have you decided on a flavour?”
Her first answer was a negative shake of Alicia’s head, followed quickly by, “Can I pick two?”
Oh, how she loved these two. How they had wrapped themselves around her heart without even trying.
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Thanks to Nan Donahue for sharing one of her manuscripts.
