size of a shoe-string, that kept her hair out of her face. Her curls fell to her shoulders, an inch or two shorter than he remembered. She’d set her chin at a stubborn angle. Slim nose. Pale pink lips. He wished he could get a look at her eyes, but she’d hidden them behind a pair of sunglasses.
She wore what looked like a pirate shirt as long as a dress, white except for some light blue stitching on the front. A tiny round charm with a C on it dangled from her thin gold necklace.
He didn’t like her brown leggings, and he hoped she hadn’t paid much for her sandals because they were nothing but soles and a couple strips of leather. Even back in high school, she’d dressed sort of hippie. “Did you get the bakery you wanted?” he asked.
She fiddled with the clasp on one of the bracelets she wore. “No, I didn’t.” The bracelet must be magnetic, because after she pulled the two ends apart, they snapped back together.
“Why not?”
“It was impractical.”
“Impractical?”
“It would have required a small-business loan and all my time. It might have failed. I didn’t want to take the risk.”
“Really? You seemed so determined.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “I had to grow up.”
He scowled, remembering that her dream of owning her own bakery had been important to her once. She’d wanted to brew gourmet coffee, serve tea to people in silly little china cups, and bake muffins. Since she’d gotten such a raw deal from him, he’d hoped that she’d gotten what she wanted career-wise. “What are you doing now?”
“I work at the university in cafeteria administration.”
She was a cafeteria lady? Man, how depressing. “Have you lived in Corvallis all this time?”
“Yes.”
Celia had been one of those kids who’d moved every few years during childhood. He understood why she’d chosen a hometown and settled down. And he understood why she’d chosen Oregon. It suited her. It was natural and green and granola.
His food arrived, and he took a bite of his FBLT. He didn’t like sissy health food. Not a bit. He believed in normal food, exercise, and hard work to stay in shape. “Since you asked, I still live in the greatest state in the country.”
“Oh? You live in Oregon also?”
He chuckled, then popped a few baked chips into his mouth. They tasted like stale paper. “Texas. You’ll never convince me that it’s not the greatest state, sweet one.”
She stiffened at his use of the old nickname.
He hadn’t meant to say it. It had just come out. He chewed, watching her. Long before he’d liked Celia romantically, he’d simply liked her. Back in high school she’d been a sweet, spunky, quick-witted girl. In Vegas, she’d been those things plus grown up and sexy as all get-out.
Neither the high school Celia nor the Vegas Celia was sitting across from him now. This Celia hated him and to have any woman hate him went against Ty’s grain. Especially Celia. There was something about her . . . something that got under his skin and made his chest hurt, even after all these years. “How come you use my last name?”
Her face blanked.
“When I found you on the Internet,” he explained, “it listed you as Celia Park Porter.”
He couldn’t see her hands because she held them beneath the table, but he could hear her fussing with her bracelet again. Click. Unclick . Click. Unclick . “I was married, so I used my married name.” She shrugged uncomfortably.
He still remembered every detail of waking up in that hotel room bed with her against him. Her head had rested on his shoulder, her palm on his chest. As he’d looked down at her in the dim light, the realization of what he’d done had settled over him like a thousand-pound weight. He’d slid out of bed, showered, and stood at that blasted hotel window, watching cars crawl along the strip for what seemed like hours, freaking out inside his mind while Celia slept.
He’d never been a saint. Of the Porter brothers,
She wore what looked like a pirate shirt as long as a dress, white except for some light blue stitching on the front. A tiny round charm with a C on it dangled from her thin gold necklace.
He didn’t like her brown leggings, and he hoped she hadn’t paid much for her sandals because they were nothing but soles and a couple strips of leather. Even back in high school, she’d dressed sort of hippie. “Did you get the bakery you wanted?” he asked.
She fiddled with the clasp on one of the bracelets she wore. “No, I didn’t.” The bracelet must be magnetic, because after she pulled the two ends apart, they snapped back together.
“Why not?”
“It was impractical.”
“Impractical?”
“It would have required a small-business loan and all my time. It might have failed. I didn’t want to take the risk.”
“Really? You seemed so determined.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “I had to grow up.”
He scowled, remembering that her dream of owning her own bakery had been important to her once. She’d wanted to brew gourmet coffee, serve tea to people in silly little china cups, and bake muffins. Since she’d gotten such a raw deal from him, he’d hoped that she’d gotten what she wanted career-wise. “What are you doing now?”
“I work at the university in cafeteria administration.”
She was a cafeteria lady? Man, how depressing. “Have you lived in Corvallis all this time?”
“Yes.”
Celia had been one of those kids who’d moved every few years during childhood. He understood why she’d chosen a hometown and settled down. And he understood why she’d chosen Oregon. It suited her. It was natural and green and granola.
His food arrived, and he took a bite of his FBLT. He didn’t like sissy health food. Not a bit. He believed in normal food, exercise, and hard work to stay in shape. “Since you asked, I still live in the greatest state in the country.”
“Oh? You live in Oregon also?”
He chuckled, then popped a few baked chips into his mouth. They tasted like stale paper. “Texas. You’ll never convince me that it’s not the greatest state, sweet one.”
She stiffened at his use of the old nickname.
He hadn’t meant to say it. It had just come out. He chewed, watching her. Long before he’d liked Celia romantically, he’d simply liked her. Back in high school she’d been a sweet, spunky, quick-witted girl. In Vegas, she’d been those things plus grown up and sexy as all get-out.
Neither the high school Celia nor the Vegas Celia was sitting across from him now. This Celia hated him and to have any woman hate him went against Ty’s grain. Especially Celia. There was something about her . . . something that got under his skin and made his chest hurt, even after all these years. “How come you use my last name?”
Her face blanked.
“When I found you on the Internet,” he explained, “it listed you as Celia Park Porter.”
He couldn’t see her hands because she held them beneath the table, but he could hear her fussing with her bracelet again. Click. Unclick . Click. Unclick . “I was married, so I used my married name.” She shrugged uncomfortably.
He still remembered every detail of waking up in that hotel room bed with her against him. Her head had rested on his shoulder, her palm on his chest. As he’d looked down at her in the dim light, the realization of what he’d done had settled over him like a thousand-pound weight. He’d slid out of bed, showered, and stood at that blasted hotel window, watching cars crawl along the strip for what seemed like hours, freaking out inside his mind while Celia slept.
He’d never been a saint. Of the Porter brothers,
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