Remember My Touch. Gayle Wilson
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heard wrong,” Chase said. He turned at that comment, his gaze focused again on the man beside him. His anger was apparent in the set line of his mouth. “I would have told you if that had been the case.”
“You tried to tell me. I wasn’t listening.”
“But you are now?”
“I am now,” the stranger agreed calmly.
Chase took the breath he had missed while he’d waited for that reply. “It’s about time,” he said softly. “What the hell changed your mind?”
“That,” the man said. His gaze was now following one of the couples moving on the crowded floor. A handsome man, tall and blond, his features remarkably well put-together by anyone’s standards, was guiding a small brunette in a slow waltz. They moved together flawlessly, despite the difference in their sizes. Her fingers were on his shoulder, the soft rose of her nail polish distinct against his jacket.
Chase nodded, knowing that there was probably nothing else in the world that would have brought this man here today. Nothing but the feelings that were revealed now in his face as he watched the attractive couple circling the small floor.
“Well, it’s about time,” Chase said again, speaking almost to himself. “It’s about damn time.”
“DID SOMEONE GIVE YOU birdseed?” Jenny McCullar asked. It was a question she had asked, it seemed, a thousand times. The decorated wicker basket over her right arm, which had once been full of packets of seed enclosed in small squares of tulle and tied tightly at their tops with narrow satin ribbon, was almost empty.
The cake had been cut and eaten, the reception line dismissed, and the bride had gone to change clothes for the honeymoon journey. It was almost time to shower the departing newlyweds with the traditional onslaught of rice. Nowadays, of course, the more ecologically correct birdseed had taken the place of grain.
The man she addressed had been standing in the narrow doorway that led from the reception-room hallway to the front of the country club. He was almost isolated from the excitement of the waiting guests who had gathered on the steps below. He hadn’t joined them; instead he stood alone, simply watching the commotion.
From the back, Jenny had been aware of nothing but his height and the width of his shoulders, which almost filled the narrow opening. And when he turned in response to her question, Jenny hoped her shock wasn’t too apparent. Mac used to warn her that she should never play poker because every emotion she ever felt was revealed in her features—as she was afraid they had been this time, revealed at least for an instant before she regained control.
She couldn’t say now why she had found his face so disconcerting. It was…unusual, she thought. There was a hint of gray in the brown hair and weathered skin stretched over strong bones, with a small fan of white lines around his eyes. Eye, she amended.
Maybe that was what she had found shocking. Jenny realized she had never known anyone who wore an eye patch. Those were for cover models on pirate romances, she thought, almost smiling at that sudden image, superimposed over the six-foot-four hunk of male reality standing before her. He probably would have made a damn fine pirate, she thought.
But of course, the patch hadn’t been all she’d reacted to, she realized, her eyes still fastened—fascinated, somehow—on his face. The texture of his skin was different, too. Slightly rough and maybe even…scarred? The light in the hallway was so poor that she couldn’t really be sure about that. She found a smile for him, trying to soften her rudeness if he had noticed the effect he had just had.
For some reason it wasn’t the forced, automatic smile she had been giving to strangers all afternoon as she tried to help Trent see to it that Anne and Rio’s wedding went smoothly. That wasn’t her responsibility, or really any of her business, she admitted; but at some time during the hurried preparations for this wedding, she had begun to feel like the mother of the bride. Or maybe the mother of the groom, she thought, her lips tilting upward a little more when she remembered that Rio still called her “ma’am.”
“Birdseed?” the man questioned, his gaze reacting to the upward tilt of her mouth. The brown eye was suddenly touched with amusement. As was his voice.
Even that was unusual. Deep, but…strained? Jenny wasn’t accustomed to having to search for words, but she was finding it hard to think right now, and she suspected it might have something to do with the intensity of the look this man was directing downward at her. He was taller than Trent. Taller even than Chase, she thought.
“Instead of rice,” she offered.
The left corner of his mouth moved, slowly lifting, and Jenny’s stomach reacted, tilting just as slowly. She couldn’t even decide whether that sensation was pleasant or not.
“No cleanup,” she explained. The words were a little breathless, and she broke contact with that disconcerting dark gaze by looking down into her basket.
She picked up one of the ribbon-tied bundles with her left hand and realized that her fingers were trembling. Recognizing that she didn’t have another option, she held the packet of seeds out to him, willing her normally competent and cooperative hands to stillness.
“The birds eat the seed, and then no one has to worry about sweeping up.”
“Cheap labor,” he said.
“Exactly,” Jenny agreed, smiling at him again, relieved that he’d grasped the idea from her muddled explanation.
He hadn’t reached out to take the little bundle from her fingers, and she realized belatedly that they were still vibrating. Obviously vibrating. She took a breath, striving for control.
What in the world was the matter with her? He wasn’t even handsome—not in Trent’s league by any stretch of the imagination. Her reaction was childish and ridiculous, she chided herself.
“Of course, throwing rice at the newlyweds is considered to bring good luck.” She offered the conversational gambit with the best intentions, just to keep talking until she grew up.
However, her voice was barely above a whisper and she thought he was bound to notice. Despite the crowd, they were almost alone here. Most of the guests had moved down the steps and onto the sidewalk where the car was awaiting Rio and Anne.
“I thought it had something to do with fertility,” he said.
“I…” She hesitated. Fertility? She didn’t think she had ever heard that before, but then she wasn’t thinking too straight right now, and she still couldn’t imagine why.
“Did they throw rice at your wedding, Mrs….?” His voice rose slightly at the end of the question, waiting for her to fill in the blank he’d deliberately left.
“McCullar,” she supplied obediently.
His left hand caught hers, which was still holding out the tulle-covered packet of seed. The smallness of hers was almost lost in the grasp of his long, tanned fingers. He turned her hand over, and they both looked down on the plain gold wedding band she still wore.
She had worn it for almost ten years, since the day Mac had slipped it on her finger. She had never thought about taking it off, not even when she had begun to give serious consideration to accepting Trent’s proposal.
“Mrs. McCullar?” he said.
Her eyes moved slowly up to his face. Its features were less strange now. Less off-putting. As a matter of fact, she found herself wondering what she had found so disconcerting before.
His lips moved, only the left corner inching up. “Did they throw rice at your wedding?” he asked again.
Suddenly there was a thickness in her throat, and her eyes stung. Ridiculous, she thought again. She was about to say yes to planning her second wedding, and an offhand question from a stranger had made her want to cry about her first.
“I don’t remember,” she lied. “That was a very long time ago.”