What He Didn't Say (6 page)

E
ARLY-MORNING STILLNESS
filled the house as Emma-Lee stole down the hallway to the guest bathroom. Inside she turned on the shower. Once undressed, she stepped under the spray and heaved a sigh of relief as pelting drops of hot water eased muscles stiff from spending a night in the chair.

She lifted her face to the spray. Last night's heart-to-heart talk with Sandy had scrubbed her emotionally clean, but she still was a little raw around the edges. Before leaving Sandy, she had given her friend a hug and then held on longer than she should have, willing her health into her friend's fragile body.

Stop it.
Emma-Lee gave the tap a sharp twist, grabbed a towel and dried off. For now she had to be strong for Sandy. What they all needed was a good breakfast. Even her pathetic culinary skills ought to be able to conjure something up in the kitchen.

She pulled on a pair of yoga pants and then a T-shirt she'd borrowed from Sandy. As her friend had dropped a couple sizes due to her latest round of chemotherapy, the shirt fit way too snug. Emma-Lee ran her hands under the white fabric to stretch it. The outfit would have to do until she got home.

However she got home, since Holt had probably left last night.

Not that she could blame him. After all, he had ridden to her rescue, only to land smack-dab in another family's crisis. Given the mess of her own emotions in dealing with cancer striking someone close to her, how had he as a boy handled
the death of his mother? Had the loss driven him to fear any emotional connections to others?

She couldn't fathom a life without family and friends. Family loved you for yourself, no matter how much you screwed up, and provided a frame. Friends were trickier, but she loved discovering how the person's life experiences molded the individual. She could thread their perspectives with hers.

But a soul mate would bring…

The pang of longing that welled deep inside shocked her. She braced her hands on the edge of the sink, stared into the misted mirror and examined the stunned expression on her image's face.

“Emma-Lee Dalton, are you out of your ever-loving mind?” she whispered. “When did you add settling down with Mr. Perfect to the list of things you need to change about your life? Don't you think you have enough on your plate just figuring out who you are and a career you can stick to for more than five minutes?”

The woman in the mirror had no response other than to shake her head. Figured.

Emma-Lee turned in exasperation, bent and scooped up her clothes. Finding a good man like her father, her brothers-in-law or Jeff was a huge order. Huge.

Who was she kidding? If she didn't know herself, how could she add a man to the mix?

She went out into the hall. Sandy and Jeff's bedroom door was closed. As she paused by it, she heard the low sound of Jeff's laughter and Sandy's responding giggle. Looking upward, she whispered a quick prayer of thanks.

She'd better check on Emily Rose and see if she was awake. She could at least manage the toddler's breakfast and watch her. Emma-Lee stepped inside the child's room, but the crib was empty. Concerned, she hurried on to the living room and
dumped her clothes on the sofa beside a neatly folded blanket and pillow. Where was the baby?

She heard the gurgle of young laughter at the same time the rich aroma of coffee reached her nose. Of course. Emily Rose was in the playpen set up in the kitchen. Jeff must have put a pot on before going in to see Sandy. Her system could use a caffeine boost.

Emma-Lee wandered into the kitchen and halted, transfixed by the scene before her. In a high-top chair by the builtin banquet, Emily Rose scooped up a dripping spoonful of colorful cereal loops, crammed them into her mouth and then munched contentedly. Holt, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, stood barefoot by the stainless-steel range. With competent movements, he cracked several eggs into a skillet.

Yearning raced through her and ran right over her heart.

Oh, no. Since her legs suddenly had all the consistency of jelly, she leaned against the doorjamb. How could she switch gears so quickly from arguing against finding the perfect man to this?

Her heart held up the simple answer: she wanted—no, needed—this man with all his sharp edges and complications.

She exhaled deeply, releasing the breath she had not been aware she was holding.

Holt glanced up and as he gave her a slow survey, his eyes heated. “Nice outfit. I hope you like eggs and bacon.”

“Love them.” Make nothing of the fact he's here. Act as if a gorgeous man cooking for you in the morning is a regular thing.

She crossed the room and kissed Emily Rose's cereal-crusted cheek. “That's a Dalton traditional weekend breakfast along with Dad's homemade pancakes and maple syrup.”

Holt peeled off thick strips of bacon and dropped them in another large skillet. His brows knitted together as he checked
the eggs. “The only pancakes I can make are the prepared-batter kind.”

Emma-Lee grabbed silverware from a drawer and set the table with them along with napkins. “You're ahead of the game on me. I merely pop the frozen ones in the toaster oven.”

After checking Emily Rose's cuppie, she grabbed a container of apple juice from the fridge and placed it on the table. She next opened a cupboard, removed plates and placed them on the counter next to Holt. She then leaned against the counter. “Do you like to cook?”

He shot her a startled glance before grabbing tongs from the utensil holder. “Like?” He mulled over the word as he turned the strips of bacon.

“Cooking was more a matter of survival when I was a kid. My only other option was to eat in the cafeteria on the college campus where my father taught. The moment I could afford to eat in restaurants I abandoned any culinary skills I might have had.”

No time like the present to cross Holt's invisible No Trespassing sign she'd sensed about his personal life. “Your father didn't cook?”

The kitchen's cozy environment must have lowered his usual reserve, for Holt hesitated only a fraction of a second before answering.

“Dad didn't do much of anything after Mom died other than retreat into his lessons and the never-ending book he was writing about his mathematical theories.”

The neutral tone of his voice didn't quite conceal the note of bitterness. Emma-Lee thought of her family and how they were always there for her. Instead of the man before her, she suddenly saw a lonely boy making his own meal. Sadness mixed with compassion welled up in her.

“That must have been rough.”

He shrugged off the comment. “I survived.”

He removed the crisp bacon and laid the strips on a paper towel. “Plates, please.”

She handed him one and he piled on a generous serving of eggs and bacon. “Hey, leave some for Jeff and Sandy!”

Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “Jeff told me I was on my own for breakfast and entrusted me with Emily Rose under penalty of death. I had to prove I knew how to pick up and hold her before he went to check on Sandy. He looked like a man on a mission.”

“Oh.” Remembering the laughter from the bedroom, Emma-Lee smiled and handed him the second plate.

After he heaped on the rest of the eggs, he followed her to the banquet and sat across the table. They dug into the food. Beside them the toddler sipped from her cuppie. After a few minutes of companionable silence, she dared to continue the topic of his family.

“Is your father still teaching?”

“Yes.” Holt drank some of his coffee.

She forked a bite of egg. When Emily Rose opened her mouth expectantly, she smiled. “Here you go, sugar.” She fed the toddler several more bites before asking, “Did your father ever finish his book?”

“Yes.” Holt's mouth twisted. “And before you ask, the small press at the university where he works did publish it. In the sterile world of his contemporaries the book did well. But you won't find it at any commercial bookstore.”

Her face heated and she laid down her fork. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“Sure you did. You're inquisitive about people. It's what makes you who you are.”

The rough edge to his voice suggested that he didn't necessarily think curiosity was such a good trait. More than a table separated them. Their view of how to relate to others gaped before her.

The toddler banged her cuppie and raised her plump fist. “Em-a-lee. More juice.” Emma-Lee grabbed the cup before it went flying, twisted off the top and poured in more juice. After securing the top, she handed the cup to the toddler. All the while she puzzled over her growing feelings for Holt.

How could you care about another if you didn't know them beyond the surface presented to the world? Still, the image of the young Holt abandoned in his time of emotional need disturbed her.

She reached across the table to touch his hand. “For what it's worth, I'm sure your father is very proud of you and what you've done in honor of your mother's memory.”

Holt caught her fingers before she could withdraw. The link sent a jolt through her with tension coiling in her stomach. Could he not feel the connection?

He squeezed gently, just enough to convey a warning. “Emma-Lee, I'm not one of those people you can collect and fix. Dad chose his path a long time ago, and I made do with mine.”

He turned her hand over and studied the lines as if he was trying to read her future. “Forget about my parents, my past. I want to know if you think there's something happening between us?”

She stood on the precarious edge of the chasm of vulnerability. To declare one's sentiments without a safety net of knowing if the other person felt the same way. The leap of faith.

Emma-Lee took a deep breath and dived off that tenuous span.

She curled her fingers around his. “Yes, Holt.”

Briefly, he closed his eyes, but when he reopened them, a volatile mix of relief and desire burned in them. Tension radiated from him as he leaned across the table. She met him halfway.

His mouth settled on hers, soft and warm. The unexpected gentleness of the kiss tied her system into knots. He rose, bringing her up with him. He moved around the table and circled his arm around her waist, drawing her close against the hard lines of his body, even as he took his mouth on a leisurely journey over her face. Her eyes drifted half-closed. When he rained kisses across her temple, her heart took a slow spin.

Something trembled inside her, fragile as a rosebud about to bloom. Overwhelmed, she clung to his broad shoulders. He raised his head for a second, his smile slow and all too knowing. He ran a questing hand along the curve of her spine until he found the exposed flesh between the shirt and pants. She shuddered as the contact branded her.

When he returned to her lips, the hunger in his kiss sent her sinking deep, deeper still into a stormy haze where raw needs sparked and threatened to flare.

The dim banging sound of plastic striking plastic penetrated the sensual fog that enveloped Emma-Lee. She opened her eyes and saw as if from a distance sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. The Coltons' kitchen window.

She tensed. What was she doing? Free-falling into a firestorm of passion? She wasn't prepared for that particular jump, at least not yet.

Holt stilled and raised his head. His eyes were serious and veiled as if he had already withdrawn behind his protective wall. “What's wrong?”

She licked her swollen lips, tasting him. She would never forget his flavor as long as she lived.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice came out as a half croak. She swallowed and tried again. “This is the wrong time, the wrong—”

“Wrong man?” Although his voice was flat, she heard the edge of vulnerability behind the question.

“No.” She shook her head. “The wrong place.”

As if on cue, the toddler stopping hitting the cuppie on the tray and raised her arms. “Em-a-lee. Down. I want down.”

Holt released her and she stepped away. She picked up the girl, carried her over to the playpen in the corner by the refrigerator, and placed her inside. From a nearby hamper overflowing with toys, she selected a few favorites and placed in the playpen a battered teddy bear, a set of stacking plastic rings and pop beads. The reprieve of the routine gave her a few moments to steady herself.

She turned and caught Holt studying her with a stunned expression. Within the blink of an eye, though, his face resumed its usual enigmatic mask. Definitely, she wasn't the only one thrown off balance by the kiss. Still, what did one say following a mind-blowing kiss? Shrug it off, she decided.

“I know you need to get back to Atlanta, if you want to leave. Mooresville is only a short drive from here. I can get a lift from Jeff.”

He paced toward her like a stalking panther. She backed up until she bumped into the fridge. Its gentle humming matched that of the pulsing of her blood. He halted and gently cupped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Emma-Lee?”

She swallowed—hard. “Yes, Holt?”

“That wasn't a kiss caused by situational hormones.” He lightly brushed his lips against hers.

She almost sagged against him, but she managed to whisper, “It wasn't?”

“No.” He sighed and pressed his forehead against hers. “I can't promise you anything, but I only know that I have to see you again. I have meetings all week in Atlanta, but I can free up time next weekend.”

She shook her head. “I'll be in Darlington for the race.”

“Can you dig up another pass for me?”

“Sure.” Disappointment mixed with relief. A whole week before she saw him again. Time enough to get her head straight without the dizzying influence of his presence.

He lifted his head and stared out the window. “It's a nice day.” Light gleamed in his eyes. “Why don't we say our goodbyes to the Coltons and I'll drive you home.”

 

H
OLDING TWO HELMETS
, Holt stood waiting in the driveway as Emma-Lee kissed and hugged Sandy at the door. She hadn't spotted his surprise yet. Anticipation unfurled inside him. She turned, took one step down from the portico and halted. Her eyes widened and then her smile bloomed.