Considering Kate
Page 25
He'd made her cry.
Great going, O'Connell, he thought in disgust. Maybe you can round on the evening by talking about how your dog died when you were ten. That would really jazz things up.
He imagined she'd want to take off as soon as possible, so began to clear the table to give her a way out.
"Sorry," he began when he heard the light click of her footsteps. "I'm an imbecile, dumping all that on you. I'll take care of this, and you can…"
He trailed off, froze, when her arms slid lightly around him and her head rested on his back.
"O'Connell, I come from strong Slavic blood. Strong and sentimental. We like to cry. Did you know my grandparents escaped from the Soviet Union when my mother was a child? My aunt Rachel is the only one who was born here in America. They went on foot, with three babies, over the mountains into Hungary."
"No, I didn't know that." He turned, cautiously, until he was facing her.
"They were cold and hungry and frightened. And when they came to America, a strange country with a strange language and strange customs, they were poor and they were alone. But they wanted something enough to fight for it, to make it work. I've heard the story dozens of times. It always makes me cry. It always makes me proud."
She turned away to stack dishes.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Courage comes in different forms, Brody. There's strength—that's the muscle. But love's the heart. When you put them together, you can do anything. That's worth a few sentimental tears."
"You know, I figured this was the kind of day you just crossed off your list, but you've changed that."
"Well, thank you. Tell you what. We'll deal with these dishes, then you can dance with me." Time to lighten things up, she decided. "The way a man dances tells me a lot, and I haven't tested you out in that area yet."
He took the dishes out of her hands. "Let's dance now."
"Can't. Call it a character flaw, but if I don't tidy up first, I'll keep seeing unwashed dishes in my head." He set them aside, took her hands to draw her out of the room. "That's anal."
"No, it's organized. Organized people get more done and have less headaches." She looked over her shoulder as he tugged her toward the living room. "Really, it'll only take a few minutes."
"It'll only take a few minutes later, too." Maybe he was rusty in the romance department, but he still remembered a few moves.
"Here's what we'll do. You pick out the music while I clear up the dishes." He laughed and pulled her into the living room. "You really are compulsive." He switched the stereo to CD. "Funny, I was listening to this last night. And thinking about you."
"Oh?" The music flowed out, slow and sultry. A sexy little shuffle that spoke to the blood.
"Must've been fate," he said and slid her into his arms.
Her heart jerked once. "I'm a strong believer in fate." She ordered herself to relax, then realized she already was. Snugged up against him, moving with him, her heels making it easy—almost mandatory—to rest her cheek on his.
"Very smooth, O'Connell," she murmured. "Major points for smooth."
"Like you said, some things come back to you." He spun her out, made her laugh. Spun her back and had her breath catching.
"Nice move." Oh-oh. Oh-oh. It was getting hard to think. She'd come to the conclusion when she'd dealt with her tears that she really needed to do some serious thinking about Brody, and where this was all going.
She couldn't drive this train if she didn't have her wits about her.
She hadn't expected him to dance quite so well. If he'd fumbled a bit, she could have taken charge. Kept her balance. There were entirely too many things that were unexpected about him. And fascinating. And oh, it felt wonderful to glide around the room in his arms.
Her hair smelled fabulous. He'd nearly forgotten all the mysterious and alluring facets there were to a woman. The shape, the softness, the scents. Nearly forgotten the sensation of moving with one, slow and close. The images it had winding through a man's mind.
His lips brushed over her hair, trailed along her cheek, found hers.
She sighed into the kiss, wallowing in the sensation of her bones melting. So when the song ended and the next began, they just stood swaying together.
"That was perfect." Her mind was foggy, her heartbeat thick. And the needs she'd thought she had under control were tumbling in her belly. "I should go."
"Why?"
"Because." She lifted a hand to his cheek, eased away, just a little. "It's bad timing. Tonight you needed a friend."
"You're right." His hands slid down her arms until their fingers lightly linked. "The timing's probably off. The smart thing is to take this slow."
"I believe in doing the smart thing."
"Yeah." He walked her toward the doorway. "I've been careful to try to do the smart thing for quite a while myself."
He paused, turned her back to face him. "I did need a friend tonight. Do need one," he added, drawing her a little closer. "And I need you, Kate. Stay with me."
He lowered his head, kept his eyes on hers when their lips brushed. "Be with me." Chapter Seven
The walls of his room were unfinished. A coil of electrical wire sat on a dry wall compound bucket that stood in the corner. There were no curtains at his windows. He'd removed the closet doors, and they were currently in his shop waiting to be planed and refinished.
The floors were a wonderful random-width oak under years of dull, dark varnish. Sanding them down, sealing them clear, was down on the list of projects—far down.
The bed had been an impulse buy. The old iron headboard with its slim, straight bars had appealed to him. But he'd yet to think about linens, and habitually tossed a mismatched quilt over the sheets and considered the job done.
It wouldn't be what she was used to. Trying to see it through her eyes, Brody winced. "Not exactly the Taj Mahal."
"Another work in progress." She roamed the room, grateful to have a minute to settle the nerves she hadn't expected to feel. "It's a lovely space." She ran her fingers over the low windowsill he'd stripped down to its natural pine. "I know potential when I see it," she said, and turned back to him.
Great going, O'Connell, he thought in disgust. Maybe you can round on the evening by talking about how your dog died when you were ten. That would really jazz things up.
He imagined she'd want to take off as soon as possible, so began to clear the table to give her a way out.
"Sorry," he began when he heard the light click of her footsteps. "I'm an imbecile, dumping all that on you. I'll take care of this, and you can…"
He trailed off, froze, when her arms slid lightly around him and her head rested on his back.
"O'Connell, I come from strong Slavic blood. Strong and sentimental. We like to cry. Did you know my grandparents escaped from the Soviet Union when my mother was a child? My aunt Rachel is the only one who was born here in America. They went on foot, with three babies, over the mountains into Hungary."
"No, I didn't know that." He turned, cautiously, until he was facing her.
"They were cold and hungry and frightened. And when they came to America, a strange country with a strange language and strange customs, they were poor and they were alone. But they wanted something enough to fight for it, to make it work. I've heard the story dozens of times. It always makes me cry. It always makes me proud."
She turned away to stack dishes.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Courage comes in different forms, Brody. There's strength—that's the muscle. But love's the heart. When you put them together, you can do anything. That's worth a few sentimental tears."
"You know, I figured this was the kind of day you just crossed off your list, but you've changed that."
"Well, thank you. Tell you what. We'll deal with these dishes, then you can dance with me." Time to lighten things up, she decided. "The way a man dances tells me a lot, and I haven't tested you out in that area yet."
He took the dishes out of her hands. "Let's dance now."
"Can't. Call it a character flaw, but if I don't tidy up first, I'll keep seeing unwashed dishes in my head." He set them aside, took her hands to draw her out of the room. "That's anal."
"No, it's organized. Organized people get more done and have less headaches." She looked over her shoulder as he tugged her toward the living room. "Really, it'll only take a few minutes."
"It'll only take a few minutes later, too." Maybe he was rusty in the romance department, but he still remembered a few moves.
"Here's what we'll do. You pick out the music while I clear up the dishes." He laughed and pulled her into the living room. "You really are compulsive." He switched the stereo to CD. "Funny, I was listening to this last night. And thinking about you."
"Oh?" The music flowed out, slow and sultry. A sexy little shuffle that spoke to the blood.
"Must've been fate," he said and slid her into his arms.
Her heart jerked once. "I'm a strong believer in fate." She ordered herself to relax, then realized she already was. Snugged up against him, moving with him, her heels making it easy—almost mandatory—to rest her cheek on his.
"Very smooth, O'Connell," she murmured. "Major points for smooth."
"Like you said, some things come back to you." He spun her out, made her laugh. Spun her back and had her breath catching.
"Nice move." Oh-oh. Oh-oh. It was getting hard to think. She'd come to the conclusion when she'd dealt with her tears that she really needed to do some serious thinking about Brody, and where this was all going.
She couldn't drive this train if she didn't have her wits about her.
She hadn't expected him to dance quite so well. If he'd fumbled a bit, she could have taken charge. Kept her balance. There were entirely too many things that were unexpected about him. And fascinating. And oh, it felt wonderful to glide around the room in his arms.
Her hair smelled fabulous. He'd nearly forgotten all the mysterious and alluring facets there were to a woman. The shape, the softness, the scents. Nearly forgotten the sensation of moving with one, slow and close. The images it had winding through a man's mind.
His lips brushed over her hair, trailed along her cheek, found hers.
She sighed into the kiss, wallowing in the sensation of her bones melting. So when the song ended and the next began, they just stood swaying together.
"That was perfect." Her mind was foggy, her heartbeat thick. And the needs she'd thought she had under control were tumbling in her belly. "I should go."
"Why?"
"Because." She lifted a hand to his cheek, eased away, just a little. "It's bad timing. Tonight you needed a friend."
"You're right." His hands slid down her arms until their fingers lightly linked. "The timing's probably off. The smart thing is to take this slow."
"I believe in doing the smart thing."
"Yeah." He walked her toward the doorway. "I've been careful to try to do the smart thing for quite a while myself."
He paused, turned her back to face him. "I did need a friend tonight. Do need one," he added, drawing her a little closer. "And I need you, Kate. Stay with me."
He lowered his head, kept his eyes on hers when their lips brushed. "Be with me." Chapter Seven
The walls of his room were unfinished. A coil of electrical wire sat on a dry wall compound bucket that stood in the corner. There were no curtains at his windows. He'd removed the closet doors, and they were currently in his shop waiting to be planed and refinished.
The floors were a wonderful random-width oak under years of dull, dark varnish. Sanding them down, sealing them clear, was down on the list of projects—far down.
The bed had been an impulse buy. The old iron headboard with its slim, straight bars had appealed to him. But he'd yet to think about linens, and habitually tossed a mismatched quilt over the sheets and considered the job done.
It wouldn't be what she was used to. Trying to see it through her eyes, Brody winced. "Not exactly the Taj Mahal."
"Another work in progress." She roamed the room, grateful to have a minute to settle the nerves she hadn't expected to feel. "It's a lovely space." She ran her fingers over the low windowsill he'd stripped down to its natural pine. "I know potential when I see it," she said, and turned back to him.
