Cathryn. Shannon Waverly

she protested, obviously embarrassed.

      “That’s all. You can do the rest.” He stepped to the tub and slid open the glass shower door, moved some towels closer and spread a mat on the floor.

      “Tucker,” she said on an exasperated chuckle. “I’m just tired and a bit tipsy. I haven’t been lobotomized.” She rose and pushed him out of the bathroom with surprising vigor. “Go home!” she ordered, shutting the door.

      “Okay, see ya,” he called back, dropping into a comfy-looking reading chair. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and crack her head and be lying in there all night, alone and helpless.

      His gaze roamed the room. It looked like something out of a J.C. Penney catalogue. Thick flowered comforter, matching curtains and table skirt and wall border. About thirty-two pillows on the bed…

      Tucker’s gaze drifted to the wedding portrait again. Dylan was a handsome guy, he couldn’t deny that. But Tucker had gotten his number when they were still just kids. Although Dylan was a year younger than him, they’d shared a few mixed-grade classes, and Tucker had seen him cheating on tests. Later, he’d caught him cheating at cards. And there, standing beside the double-dealing bastard, was the straightest arrow Tuck had ever come across. Sincere, ingenuous Cathryn. Blind, gullible Cathryn.

      Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened revealing pink, naked Cathryn.

      Cathryn screamed and ducked back into the steam. Wincing, Tucker eased to his feet with thoughts of tiptoeing out of the room. As if that would erase what had just happened.

      “Tucker!” she wailed from behind the closed door. “You said you were leaving.”

      “I lied.”

      “No kidding.”

      The door opened again. She was bundled in flannel from chin to toe. Her wet hair, combed straight and sleek, framed a face that blazed.

      “I’m sorry,” Tucker sputtered, embarrassed too. “I didn’t think.”

      “Oh…” She flapped an arm as if to finish her statement. “It’s all right. With the beating my pride took today…” The sentence trailed off to another arm flap.

      “Would you like some hot milk?”

      She grimaced. “No. Please. Just my bed, although I doubt I’ll sleep. My mind keeps racing.”

      “Well, at least give it a try. Remember, you have to be strong for the kids.”

      Tucker regretted taking that approach. Her expression filled with sadness. Still, she nodded and said, “You’re right.”

      “I’m always right. Now, hit the sack, lady.”

      Cathryn climbed onto the bed on all fours, batting away pillows until only two remained. Real pillows. Then she flopped face forward into one of them. “Good night,” she said, her words severely muffled.

      Tucker tugged the comforter down, pulling it under her, until it cleared her slippered feet, then covered her with it and sat on the edge of the bed.

      She turned her head and said, “Go home.”

      He smiled and placed his hand on her head. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he said, lightly stroking her wet hair. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

      Cathryn swallowed, pressed a bunched hand to her mouth, and tears glistened along the lashes of her closed eyes. “Thank you.”

      “No problem.” He could get up now, he realized. He could go downstairs and have another beer and watch TV. But he sat awhile longer, stroking her hair and wishing he could say everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. All he could say was, “I’ll be here,” because his instincts were telling him that nothing was going to be right in Cathryn’s world for a very long time.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CATHRYN WOKE to the familiar sound of a cupboard door slamming. She sat up in alarm and glanced at the bedside clock. Oh, God, she’d overslept. Only fifteen minutes until the school bus came. Had the kids gotten up on their own? Made their own breakfast? Was Dylan up with them?

      Her gaze shot to his pillow, his perfectly plumped pillow, and suddenly, painfully, reality came flooding back. No, her husband was not downstairs. He was gone. He’d left her for another woman. Cathryn toppled sideways onto his cool forsaken pillow, choking back a cry.

      But there it was again, the thump of a cupboard door, and as suddenly as she’d remembered Dylan’s betrayal, she remembered Tucker Lang. Tucker was here. He’d been here all night.

      In a flash of agitation, Cathryn threw back the comforter and swung her feet to the floor. Ow! Her ribs ached from vomiting, and her head throbbed. Slowing her movements, she scanned the room for her bathrobe. Oh. Right. She was wearing it. Her slippers, too. She’d put them on last night after her shower.

      No, not after her shower, she remembered, wincing. After she’d waltzed out of the bathroom wearing nothing but her certainty that Tucker had gone. Cathryn buried her face in her hands and moaned, suffering every bit of the embarrassment that had eluded her last night.

      But then, another recollection hit her: today she and Dylan had to tell the children he’d moved out. And suddenly her embarrassment seemed trite and disappeared under an onslaught of dread and anxiety. How would the kids cope with the news? How would she cope with telling them? And why should they have to cope with any of this, anyway? That was the question. She still didn’t understand why this was happening to them. Separations happened to other people, not to her and Dylan.

      Forcing herself past her desire to crawl back under the covers and hide forever, she got to her feet and headed into the bathroom—and then wished she hadn’t. Under the bright vanity lights, her eyes looked like puffballs, her cheeks held all the color of oatmeal, and her hair, wet when she’d gone to sleep, had dried crazily, flat here, bent there, a veritable 3-D Rorschach inkblot test.

      Feeling defeated before she even began, she picked up her hairbrush, pulled it through the mess a few times and fastened it with an elastic. That done, she stared at the faucet awhile but lacked the energy to wash her face. She walked back to the bedroom, tugged on jeans and a sweatshirt and went downstairs.

      “Good morning,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. Despite her smile and determinedly straight posture, she felt fragile, like a glass mercury ball filled with sorrow just waiting to be spilled.

      Tucker spun around from his perusal of the refrigerator’s contents. “Oh, hey! I hope I didn’t wake you?” His dark gaze swept over her warily, as if trying to assess yesterday’s damage and today’s mood.

      “No, actually I overslept.” This was just too weird, having big, bad Tucker Lang in her kitchen first thing in the morning. He’d apparently showered. His hair was damp and, like hers, caught back at his nape. Sadly, she noticed, the style looked better on him.

      “Coffee! Oh, bless you.” Cathryn hurried toward the coffeemaker.

      “Do you feel up to eating something?” he asked, carrying a carton of eggs to the counter.

      Grimacing and shivering, she shook her head. That earned her a growl of reprimand. “Maybe I’ll have a piece of toast,” she said. Somewhat mollified, Tucker continued preparing his own breakfast.

      Their conversation was subdued as they ate, and focused mainly on chores Tucker needed to tackle that day. She hadn’t realized there was so much to do. Had he mentioned any of it last night? Locked inside her own misery, she’d paid so little attention to him.

      He probably thought he was doing her a favor by steering the conversation clear of her problems, but his thoughtfulness only ended up burdening her with one more: guilt for having cut so deeply into his valuable time.

      With the last bite of his three-egg omelet consumed, Cathryn insisted