As we eat, we talk about his childhood and touch on his life with Millie. His words rush out as if he hasn’t spoken in years, in a lifetime. His words tumble like a waterfall and then it’s my turn, and the sky is dark and the bottle empty.
“I can’t thank you enough, Lucy.”
“It’s mutual. It’s good to talk.”
“I can’t talk to Jamison or Dee like this. They loved their mother, of course. I’d never take her memory away from them.”
His face is all angles in the firelight.
“You’re a good man, Doc O’Connell.”
He shrugs.
“Not good enough to make a plan. I’ve drunk too much to drive. I’ve kidnapped you, Lucy, for totally selfish reasons. There’s no heating, but there are quilts. You could pick a bed, any bed. And it’s bread and water for breakfast.”
“Luxury,” I say. “I love this simplicity.” I break into a song fromMy Fair Lady– All I want is a room somewhere.
We sing it together, arm in arm up the hallway and then he tucks me into one of the single beds and my eyes close.
Later in the night, I wake, shivering. I pile all the quilts I can find onto the single bed but still can’t get warm. Is it midnight? Moonlight flows in through the dining room window as I tiptoe down the corridor to the main bedroom and creep in beside Dirk. We’re both fully clothed.
This is nothing but a way to prevent myself from freezing to death, I tell myself as I push my back against his slumbering warmth, but when his arm comes around me and he nestles me closer, I know it’s a lie.
Doctor Dirk O’Connor is more than a helpful neighbor, a friend with roses, or a dance partner. He is more than a generous and thoughtful; more than clever and kind. Doctor Dirk O’Connell is a total catch.
Chapter 31
Dirk
Iwake in the freezingold bedroom, the only warmth the slumbering form beside me. Millie never let me cuddle this close, not for long, and never all night. Lucy sleeps heavily. Her breath makes soft mist in the semidarkness.
Around me, the old house creaks as wind whistles and roars outside. I go to leap up, to rush to the clinic to sort out the never-ending paperwork, but my heart slows and I realize I’m free of it. That was the past.
Lucy wakes slowly, gives a languorous smile, then yawns hugely, turns to me, closes her eyes and snuggles back down for more sleep. I am so tempted to surround her form with my own, to nestle her more closely and discover her, to run my hands across her curves, and wake her gently, with caresses, with kisses. It would be so easy. Too easy.
Suddenly, I’m wary. Drifts of our conversation beside the fire last night come back to haunt me.
