From the First Kiss. Jessica Bird

strayed.

      She’d suspected he might, eventually. Reese had been a great admirer of beautiful things, and his aggressive nature had driven him to acquire whatever caught his eye. Companies. Art. Jewels. Boats. Houses.

      Women.

      She’d known what she was getting into when she’d walked down the aisle with him, so what had happened later hadn’t been a big surprise. He’d been discreet about the affairs and it had taken her a while to learn the truth. And when she’d known for sure? She hadn’t confronted him, she’d just kept on going like nothing was wrong.

      The reasons she’d had then for staying quiet were ones she didn’t understand now.

      Maybe it had just been because…she hadn’t cared as much as she should have.

      She missed Reese. She mourned him. She wished she’d conceived the child they had tried for.

      But she had never loved him down to her soul.

      She thought of Alex again.

      What would it be like to have a man who cared that much? she wondered. Who wanted you and only you. Who could see no other woman in a room, who could not imagine holding another female in his arms.

      That must be something, she thought, rinsing her mouth out.

      That must really be something.

      Alex woke up late in the morning with an uneasy feeling.

      That dream. That sensual, shattering dream.

      He looked down. His shirt was open and pushed off his chest. The book was buried in the comforter at his side. And he needed a quick shower.

      His heart started pounding. Had it been real? Had she come to him?

      What the hell had come out of his mouth?

      Dread pooled in his gut, but then he looked over and saw the plate. Maybe she hadn’t been in his room after all.

      Calm down, he told himself. She wasn’t here except in your mind. You’ve wanted that woman for a long time, and she’s in the bedroom down the hall. Of course your subconscious is going to kick something to the surface.

      Levering himself up and off the bed, he went carefully to the bathroom where he showered with a plastic bag tied around his leg and then shaved. He was surprised that it felt good to be up and moving around for once, so he decided to head to the kitchen for some breakfast. Fortunately, it sounded as if the coast was clear. The house was quiet and he figured he’d somehow managed to sleep through all the early-morning departures of the guests.

      Which meant Cassandra would be gone, as well.

      This was good, he told himself.

      He pulled on a different set of split pajama bottoms, a worn T-shirt from a Boston Marathon he’d run in years ago and a black fleece. As he went out into the hall, he looked both ways as if it were a busy street. The last thing he needed was to step into someone’s path. He was about as stable as a two-legged table.

      Come to think of it, where was the dog? He loved Ernest, but that golden retriever could knock him on his ass in a heartbeat, and muzzle-to-mouth resuscitation was not a treatment option he was looking to explore.

      Alex started for the back stairs but changed his mind. The front ones were slightly deeper and could accommodate his feet better. It took him a good ten minutes to actually make it to the first floor, but he felt stupidly pleased with the effort.

      Then he thought about his T-shirt. Running 26.2 miles in two and a half hours used to be something he took pride in. Now getting to the kitchen was a big, fat, hairy deal.

      Damn, he was pathetic.

      He went into the dining room and braced the swinging door in place so it couldn’t open.

      “Libby? You in there?” he called out.

      “Alex! Are you okay?” The housekeeper sounded worried.

      “Grab hold of your boy, will you? I’m coming in.”

      “Done.”

      Alex pushed open the door and was greeted by whines of affection and a mad, impotent scampering of dog feet. While Libby held Ernest in place, Alex came over and stroked the dog into a relative calm.

      “Would you like some breakfast?” the older woman asked. “I can make you some of the dry toast you like.”

      He looked up. Her lovely, worn face was so hopeful, he was tempted to put in a special request.

      “Actually, I—” He cleared his throat. He didn’t like being waited on, but he had a feeling this flash of energy he was sporting wasn’t going to last long. “I’d like some pancakes. With butter and syrup. And bacon. I want bacon. Coffee, too.”

      God, he was hungry. For the first time in so long, he was dying for some food.

      Libby’s eyes flared. “Go sit down at the table. I’ll make it right away.”

      As he settled into a chair, Ernest snuggled up close, leaning against his good leg.

      “Do you take sugar?” Libby asked.

      The question made him realize he hadn’t asked for any coffee since he’d come to the mansion.

      Hell, how long had it been since he’d had a normal breakfast? Sitting up at a table. Like a real person.

      “I like it black, thanks.”

      “It’ll be ready in a second. This pot’s almost finished brewing.”

      While he watched the woman bustle around, he wished he could help and felt badly that all the activity was just about him.

      “Hey, Libby, maybe I’ll scratch that big order,” he said. “A little cereal would be great. I don’t want you going to—”

      “Alex Moorehouse, you shut your mouth. And I don’t want it open again until you’re putting a fork in it.”

      He had to smile. There weren’t a lot of people who put him in his place on or off the water. Wouldn’t his crew get a kick out of the fact that one of the short-listers was a white-haired grandmother.

      Libby brought the coffee over first, and Alex closed his eyes as he took the first sip. The stuff was steaming hot and strong enough to wake the dead.

      In a word, divine.

      When he started to sweat, he realized he was sitting in a shaft of sunlight. He peeled off the fleece and went back to work on the mug.

      As he sipped and stroked Ernest’s ear, the moment sank into him with the pleasurable flush of an unexpected kind word. The dog’s head was a warm weight on his good leg. Libby’s friendly chatter about Saranac Lake’s characters was like the crackle of a cheery fire. The rhythmic hiss of a wire whisk cutting through batter reminded him of happy mornings from his childhood.

      He settled back against the chair and closed his eyes again. His leg was throbbing, but it was a dull pump, not the kind of pain that made his skin ache. He took a deep breath and felt his shoulders loosen on the exhale.

      “More coffee?” Libby asked gently.

      He opened his lids and smiled. “Please.”

      She brought over the coffeepot, refilled his mug to the brim and then hurried back to the griddle to flip over the pancakes. When the bacon slices hit the pan, he shut his eyes once more.

      Hunger cut through him and he welcomed it.

      Minutes later Libby set a heavy plate in front of him along with a stick of butter and a gravy boat full of syrup. He put a slice of bacon in his mouth while he lathered up the pancakes and doused them in maple heaven. Then he tore through the food.

      When he put his fork down, he and Libby were both a little surprised at the clean plate. Ernest looked disappointed.

      “You