wants to find someone who will love them—someone they can love in return. And for a while, I thought Winslow did love me, and I did love him, but—”
“About today,” Dan said in a blatant bid to change the direction of the conversation.
“If you’ll just give me a ride into town, maybe up by the mall, I can do some car shopping on Peach Street, then go get some clothes.”
“I took the day off,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.”
He didn’t want to say the wrong thing again, so he simply shrugged. “It’s done.”
“You know, Dan, despite the tough, silent-guy routine, I’m beginning to suspect you’re just a softy at heart.”
“Don’t believe it. There’s nothing in my heart. The sooner I get you situated, the sooner my life will get back on track.”
And on track—that singular, independent track he’d been on since his mother had died, leaving her sons in the care of various and ever-changing extended family—was right where he wanted to be.
He liked his life just the way it was. There was no room in it for Charlie Eaton—no room for anyone. Besides that, she deserved someone better than he was. She deserved a man who could laugh, who would treasure her. She deserved someone better than Daniel Ferguson Martin would ever be.
And he was going to see to it she got it.
“So let’s go shopping,” he said.
“That’s a phrase every woman dreams about having a man say to her.” Charlie chuckled. “And who am I to spit in every woman’s fantasy? Let’s go shopping.”
Charlie slid the aging Chevy Blazer into the garage. Dan assured her it still had some life left in it, and it was a car her bank account could live with.
Dan had been invaluable. He’d spent the day shopping with her, his quiet presence always at the fringe of her perception. No words of complaint . . . heck, no words at all. But despite his lack of exuberance, Charlie felt comfortable with him. He’d hauled bags, checked over her Blazer with care, and had treated her to lunch again, despite the fact she was almost solvent.
Though after today’s shopping, solvent was a relative term.
Twice Dan had touched her, both times by accident—both times he’d jumped as if he were burned.
Burned.
That’s was the closest analogy Charlie could come up with. Every time her skin came into contact with Dan’s, there was a burst of heat that threatened to consume her. Just being with him warmed her.
And that kiss . . .
Winslow’s kisses hadn’t managed to produce half the heat that Dan’s one gentle kiss had.
She pulled a group of plastic bags from the backseat. It was going to take her more than one trip to get all this stuff upstairs.
Charlie heard the sound of wheels on the long gravel drive. Her white knight was once again riding to her rescue. She was sure he would feel the chivalrous need to help her carry her bags upstairs, and who was she to deny Dan his knightly pleasures?
But it wasn’t Dan’s black Ford coming up the drive. It was a Porsche. A fire engine red Porsche 911.
Winslow.
Darn, darn, darn , Charlie silently cursed even as she let her shopping bags fall to the ground. The garage door was still open, so she had no hope of hiding.
Hiding? She was at fault because she’d been willing to marry him to keep the peace, but he had a share of the blame also.
He didn’t love her. She’d been convenient. Winslow had thought she was malleable. Heck, Charlie had thought she was.
They were both wrong.
She walked out of the garage as his car pulled to a halt. “Winslow.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Charlie almost didn’t recognize it as belonging to her. “What can I do for you?”
Standing there in his Armani suit, arms folded stiffly behind his back, Winslow gave the impression that he was a nineteenth-century nobleman talking to a recalcitrant peasant. A sudden flash of insight made Charlie realize that was always how he’d treated her, like someone beneath him.
“Do you
“About today,” Dan said in a blatant bid to change the direction of the conversation.
“If you’ll just give me a ride into town, maybe up by the mall, I can do some car shopping on Peach Street, then go get some clothes.”
“I took the day off,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.”
He didn’t want to say the wrong thing again, so he simply shrugged. “It’s done.”
“You know, Dan, despite the tough, silent-guy routine, I’m beginning to suspect you’re just a softy at heart.”
“Don’t believe it. There’s nothing in my heart. The sooner I get you situated, the sooner my life will get back on track.”
And on track—that singular, independent track he’d been on since his mother had died, leaving her sons in the care of various and ever-changing extended family—was right where he wanted to be.
He liked his life just the way it was. There was no room in it for Charlie Eaton—no room for anyone. Besides that, she deserved someone better than he was. She deserved a man who could laugh, who would treasure her. She deserved someone better than Daniel Ferguson Martin would ever be.
And he was going to see to it she got it.
“So let’s go shopping,” he said.
“That’s a phrase every woman dreams about having a man say to her.” Charlie chuckled. “And who am I to spit in every woman’s fantasy? Let’s go shopping.”
Charlie slid the aging Chevy Blazer into the garage. Dan assured her it still had some life left in it, and it was a car her bank account could live with.
Dan had been invaluable. He’d spent the day shopping with her, his quiet presence always at the fringe of her perception. No words of complaint . . . heck, no words at all. But despite his lack of exuberance, Charlie felt comfortable with him. He’d hauled bags, checked over her Blazer with care, and had treated her to lunch again, despite the fact she was almost solvent.
Though after today’s shopping, solvent was a relative term.
Twice Dan had touched her, both times by accident—both times he’d jumped as if he were burned.
Burned.
That’s was the closest analogy Charlie could come up with. Every time her skin came into contact with Dan’s, there was a burst of heat that threatened to consume her. Just being with him warmed her.
And that kiss . . .
Winslow’s kisses hadn’t managed to produce half the heat that Dan’s one gentle kiss had.
She pulled a group of plastic bags from the backseat. It was going to take her more than one trip to get all this stuff upstairs.
Charlie heard the sound of wheels on the long gravel drive. Her white knight was once again riding to her rescue. She was sure he would feel the chivalrous need to help her carry her bags upstairs, and who was she to deny Dan his knightly pleasures?
But it wasn’t Dan’s black Ford coming up the drive. It was a Porsche. A fire engine red Porsche 911.
Winslow.
Darn, darn, darn , Charlie silently cursed even as she let her shopping bags fall to the ground. The garage door was still open, so she had no hope of hiding.
Hiding? She was at fault because she’d been willing to marry him to keep the peace, but he had a share of the blame also.
He didn’t love her. She’d been convenient. Winslow had thought she was malleable. Heck, Charlie had thought she was.
They were both wrong.
She walked out of the garage as his car pulled to a halt. “Winslow.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Charlie almost didn’t recognize it as belonging to her. “What can I do for you?”
Standing there in his Armani suit, arms folded stiffly behind his back, Winslow gave the impression that he was a nineteenth-century nobleman talking to a recalcitrant peasant. A sudden flash of insight made Charlie realize that was always how he’d treated her, like someone beneath him.
“Do you
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