Tall, Dark And Temporary. Susan Connell

what are you saying? Is there someone special?”

      “Very special.” The sooner Nick knew, the sooner he’d take the next predictable step...like every other man she’d met since Andy died. He’d leave. And she could start to forget that the gap between fantasy and reality had been bridged tonight. “Nick, I was pregnant when Andy died. I have a little girl.”

      “A little girl?” He blinked as he pushed up from the table. “And you’re raising her all by yourself?”

      “Aunt Sandra, my mother’s sister, watches her during the day, and for that matter, most anytime I need her to.”

      Megan walked over to the framed corkboard next to the refrigerator. “Her photo’s over here,” she said, pushing aside several colorful crayon drawings to reveal a department-store photo. The plastic puppy barrettes and infectious grin only added to the charm of her child’s button-nosed beauty.

      Nick walked up behind her, curved his hand over her shoulder and leaned to get a good look at the photo.

      My God, she thought, I wasn’t imagining it before. He’s wearing the same aftershave he used ten years ago. A peppery lime scent that smelled like citrus punch on other men and a private party waiting to happen on him.

      Megan held her breath as he reached past her. “What’s her name?” he asked as he worked out the plastic pushpin and lifted the photo.

      “Paige. She’ll be starting kindergarten soon.”

      “I have to get a better look,” he said, taking the photo from the shadowed corner of the kitchen to the bright light over the worktable.

      Megan watched him study the picture for a few strangely heart-thumping seconds.

      “She’s got your hair and that one dimple of yours,” he said, nodding as he touched his own cheek. “And she tilts her head like you do.”

      “Does she? Let me see.” She joined him by the table. “You’re right,” she said, looking up to find him staring at her and not the photo. “I never noticed that before.”

      His soft laughter made her ears tickle and her breath catch. “She’s beautiful, Megan. Are those boys in kindergarten ready for her?”

      “Well, I don’t know about them,” she said, halfway disarmed by the genuine tone of his comments, “but she’s ready. She’s had her clothes picked out for the first day for over a month. The shoes, she tells me, are another matter completely.”

      Resting his hands comfortably on his hips, he shifted his weight to lean against the table. “So what’s that about?” he asked, pretending mild confusion over the child’s whimsical concern.

      He appeared in no hurry to rush out the door. If anything, he looked as if he was enjoying their conversation and wanting more of it.

      Taking the photo from him, she tapped it lightly against her palm. A ripple of misgiving moved through her. Was she crazy? Nick couldn’t possibly be interested in the domestic details of her ordinary life. Turning away, she headed back to the corkboard.

      “She can’t make up her mind between her tap shoes and her new red ones. But enough about that,” she said, firmly securing the photo to the board with the pushpin before turning to face him again. “You’ve been away so long, Nick. What brings you back to Follett River now?”

      “Work,” he said, replacing his inquisitive expression with that impossible-to-read smile.

      Every time he looked at her or spoke, pangs of pleasure erupted low in her belly, then spiraled out slowly to her breasts and thighs. She attempted to ignore the last and most powerful sensations as she walked back to him, but the closer she got the more intense they became. By the time she reached him, it was all she could do to grab hold of the table and not him.

      “I was talking to your cousin at my class reunion last winter,” she said as she concentrated on her white-knuckle grip. “Rory said something about you being on the road a tot. What kind of work do you do?”

      “I’m in construction.” He placed his hand on the table next to hers. “I’m here with the Murano Group for the River Walk project. Have you heard about it?”

      “Everyone has. It’s the main topic of conversation with us local business owners,” she said, trying not to stare at his well-tanned, hair-roughened hand resting on a layer of powdered sugar beside her fair-skinned one. She closed her eyes. Instantly, images of him stripped to the waist and standing in a layer of sawdust slipped unbidden into her mind’s eye. With one hand firmly gripped around a piece of lumber, he was hammering nails with strong, even strokes. The scene was taking place out at the old warehouse, the sun blazing across his perfectly tanned shoulders. Rivulets of sweat were trickling down his spine and into the waistband of his jeans. She licked nervously at her lips as she opened her eyes. Her gaze darted from his hands to his face and back again. “I always thought of you doing it, I mean, doing something outdoors.”

      “I’m indoors a lot, too.” A frown that did nothing to diminish his good looks fell across his face as he snapped his fingers. “The business owners’ association. That reminds me,” he said, checking his watch. “I have a few more things to take care of tonight. Will I see you at the hotel tomorrow night for the meeting the Murano Group is hosting?”

      “I’ll be there.”

      “Good. I’ll look for you,” he said, turning to go. One step toward the door and he slowed to a stop. “Oh.” Turning around, he raised his index finger and smiled. “Didn’t you forget something?”

      He was coming toward her again. Just like before. Ten years hadn’t tarnished his appeal. If anything, she was even more attracted to him now. Dangerously attracted.

      “What?” she managed to ask.

      As he closed the space between them, she reached back with her other hand to brace herself.

      “I guess it slipped your mind once we started talking,” he said, his deep voice vibrating nerve endings she thought long dead. “That’s okay. I’ll just help myself.”

      He kept on coming closer until she was bending backward and he was reaching past her, his arm gently brushing hers. Her lips parted in a soft gasp as his chest grazed the tips of her breasts. A second later he was pulling back with a cream puff in his hand.

      “Got it.”

      “Nick Buchanan,” she said with a breathless laugh meant to hide her disappointment. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

      “Don’t be so sure,” he said, winking at her as he headed for the back door.

      The bang of the screen door punctuated his exit as smartly as the flourish of a magician’s wand. Megan stood alone in the kitchen, aware of a sudden and immense silence. For one delusional moment, she wondered if she’d conjured up his surprise visit. Then she glanced down at the tray of cream puffs. Nick Buchanan had been there. One was missing. And so was another piece of her heart.

      Two

      “Come on, Rebecca,” Megan murmured. “You never used to be late to anything. Don’t start now.”

      Pacing inside the Hotel Maxwell lobby the next evening, Megan alternately glanced at her watch, then rimmed its band with her fingertip. Ten minutes and counting until representatives from the Murano Group were scheduled to start their meeting for business owners, private investors and the local media about the River Walk project. Everyone expected to attend the well-publicized meeting had arrived except Rebecca.

      And Nick Buchanan.

      Megan stopped to look toward the glass-and-brass revolving doors. The last thing she wanted was to run into Nick. It had been almost twenty-four hours since she’d seen him. Plenty of time to sort through and make sense of her reaction to his surprise visit, but not quite enough time to feel altogether comfortable with the decision she’d come to.