Iknewwhat Dylan was thanking me for. When my uncle had swallowed a bottle of pills, Natalie and I had felt helpless as to how to help our mother and grandparents deal with their grief. In our need to do something, to learn the right things to say, we’d devoured books on the stages of grief and how to cope. We’d learned that all you could do for someone was to be there for them, to listen without offering all the clichés such as time heals, blah, blah, blah.
In one book, something about laughter had caught our attention. A woman the author had interviewed said that she started to come out of her depression from losing her husband when her best friend had managed to get her to laugh again. I’d remembered reading that and wondered if it would work with Dylan.
While he was showering, I’d come up with the idea of milk and cookies and stupid jokes. Fortunately he’d had the bag of chocolate chip cookies, so I went with it, and now he was thanking me. He’d scared me there for a while, and he’d also left me with more questions than he’d answered.
As I listened to his breathing relax into that of sleep, I placed my hand over the one he had against my stomach. It was a big hand. A strong one. I was getting to know him, and I had no doubt that his mind was strong enough to get him through what had happened.
He cared—too much, maybe—about those under his protection. I couldn’t guess what had brought his wife to believe she couldn’t face another day, and hoped someday he’d tell me. But I did know one thing. Dylan was a good man, not one who would drive a woman to take her life. I just knew that in my heart. Maybe she had a chemical imbalance or maybe suffered from chronic depression.
Or I could be totally fooling myself, seeing only what I wanted to see where Dylan Conrad was concerned. Men were good at hiding their dark side. Take Chad. Who knew those puppy-dog brown eyes hid a total jerkface? With Dylan, his eyes saidthis is me, take me with all my faults or don’t. I decided I’d take him.
His big body was curled around mine, and as he held me in his arms, I whispered, “I’m ready, Dylan.” He was asleep and didn’t hear me, but I’d said the words for me. Everything about this man called to me, and I suddenly wondered what I was waiting for. He wanted me, and I wanted him, and I couldn’t think of a single reason to wait any longer.
My being with him wouldn’t change my plans. He wasn’t that important to me. I wouldn’t let him be. But as long as he wanted to be with me, I was his. Until I left. I drifted off, wishing he’d stayed awake long enough to make love to me.
The aroma of coffee and bacon drifted into my nose, and I rolled over, yawning widely. When I opened my eyes, my gaze settled on the window and a view of the mountains that I didn’t have from my bedroom. It took a few seconds before I remembered I was in Dylan’s bed. I stretched, wishing he were still next to me so I could tell him I was ready. We’d have morning sex, which I loved because joining my body with a man’s when sleep still held us both in its thrall was dreamy good, like a scene seen through a hazy camera lens. Soft and magical.
The sheet where he’d lain was cool when I put my hand on it, so he’d left some time ago. The bed was so snuggly, though, that instead of getting up like I should have, I curled my body into a ball and drifted back to sleep.
“Wake up, Red.”
“Mm?” I stretched like a lazy cat. Not a morning person, the one thing that could get me out of bed was the smell of bacon. I opened my eyes to see a piece held under my nose.
“Oh no you don’t,” Dylan said when I snapped at it, trying to get it in my mouth. He pulled it away. “Up with you. Breakfast is ready.”
“Meanie,” I grumbled when he pulled off the covers. But bacon. Yeah, I’d get up for that. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, slipped on the jeans and T-shirt I’d brought, and then headed for the kitchen.
“Morning, Jenny.”
Dylan put an omelet, bacon, and toast in front of me. I might marry this man, after all. Never had any guy I’d dated made me breakfast, even after we’d had sex. What kind of creature was this man?
“Got one for you,” he said.
“One what?”
“A dumb joke that will beat yours. What happens when a frog’s car breaks down?”
“It gets toad away.”
“No fair.” He grinned, and I saw a wholly different man from the one who’d broken down last night.
“All’s fair in a bad joke war.” I wanted to tell him I loved the light in his eyes I was seeing, but that would only remind him of last night.
“So no rules? I like it.”
“Uh-oh, I think I’ve created a bad joke monster.”
“Entirely possible. Listen, about our waterfall plans for Saturday. I’ve been issued an invitation with the implication that I couldn’t refuse to attend that barbeque the mayor’s daughter mentioned Monday morning.”
Did I say that I didn’t like Stephanie? She was making a play for Dylan, just like she’d gone after my high school boyfriend, he of the cheating heart. “The mayor speaks, people listen.” I hated how snarky that came out, especially when Dylan raised a brow.
“Of course you have to go.” I smiled to show him I meant it.
“It’s at four. Are you ever able to get a weekend night off? I’d like you to come with me.”
“I wasn’t invited.” That would really get Stephanie’s goat if I showed up on Dylan’s arm.
“I’m inviting you.”
