The Street Where She Lives. Jill Shalvis
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“I really hate that. How can I yell at you if I can’t keep a thought in my head?”
“Practice,” Emily assured her, looking cocky. Probably because she was in charge here and knew it. Role reversal was a powerful tool in the hands of a preteen. Terrifying.
The doorbell rang, and suddenly Emily’s grin dissolved. Her healthy glow faded as she stared at the door.
“It’s the nurse.” Rachel looked at the door with what she imagined was a twin expression to her daughter’s.
“Early.” Emily chewed on an already gnawed fingernail. “Go figure.”
Definitely that good cry would have to wait, because Emily looked more nervous than she did. “Oh, honey. It’ll be okay.” It had to be. “Besides, it’s temporary, remember?”
“Yeah. Um…you might want to remember that.”
It was instinctive, wanting to hug her daughter. So was the move to do just that, which had her body shooting sharp little bites of pain as a reminder that she couldn’t do anything on the spur of the moment. As she sagged back in her chair, she took a deep, careful breath.
“Mom?”
“I’m okay.” Okay being relative of course. Careful to not move a muscle, all of which were quivering, she said, “Let’s get this over with. I’m sure you and Mel did a great job picking her out.”
“Uh…now’s probably a good time to mention Aunt Mel had nothing to do with this.” Emily continued to chew on her fingernail, staring at the door with a curious mixture of dread and joy. “She doesn’t know, no one has any idea….”
The bell rang again, following by three raps on the wooden door.
An impatient nurse. Great. She really was getting Attila the Hun.
Emily tossed her chin high and headed for the door. Then, ruining the confident stance, she hesitated. Quick as a bullet, she shot back to Rachel and dropped a sweet kiss on her cheek, and gave her a very wobbly smile. “I’m really sorry, okay? You know, like, in advance.” Then she strode to the door and opened it.
Standing there, one shoulder braced, his other hand flat on the opposite jamb, head bowed as he waited with a barely contained edginess, was the one man Rachel had thought to never see again.
Ben Asher lifted his head, and his dark, melting brown eyes unerringly found her across the foyer. “Hello, Rachel.”
He’d come. He’d come back. And unbelievably, all she could think about was her hair, or lack of. Though it screamed in protest, she lifted her weak, shaking arm, checking the position of the soft cap she’d used to cover her bald head. “You.”
“Yeah. Me.” He straightened to his full height, which was considerably over six feet. Without being asked, he moved inside, dropping a duffel bag and backpack to the ground with a heavy thunk. Then he hauled Emily close for a big hug. “Hey, sweetness.”
“Hi, Daddy.” She squeezed him back, then untangled herself and grinned at him.
Bigger than life, he stood in the foyer, set his hands on his hips, and with frank curiosity, looked around him, taking in the large open airy room with the bricked wall, the hardwood floors, the fire pole in the center.
“Mom.” Emily licked her lips, dividing a look between her parents. “I sort of asked Dad to come.”
Ben shot his daughter a wry glance, complete with arched brow, and Rachel had to wonder…had Emily really asked…or begged?
Did it matter? He hadn’t come for her, he’d come for Emily. Of course he’d come for Emily, to take her on one of their trips. How she’d ever thought otherwise, even for that brief, humiliating flash, was beyond her. She closed her eyes against the sight of him, but it didn’t matter; his image was indelibly printed on her brain. He was so much the same yet so different, her breath was gone, simply gone.
He’d always done that to her, way back when they’d been seventeen and he’d been her entire world. God, had she really ever been that young? She’d thought her pain couldn’t possibly get any worse, but just looking at him made her want to double over with the agony from the inside out, making her feel like she was nothing but an emotional powder keg ready to blow. “I don’t want you here,” she said with remarkable calm. Not even for a few minutes. She wanted him gone so she could concentrate on her Attila-the-Hun nurse still to arrive.
Ben’s lips curved, forcibly reminding her of Emily. Oh yes, her daughter was indeed a true gorgeous chip off the old gorgeous block. She’d just forgotten how much.
“I understand the sentiment, believe me.” Gaze still on Rachel, he extended an arm, bringing Emily back into the crook of it, hugging her again. “How are you holding up, Emmie?”
The voice. The face, the same rugged, tanned, open face, framed by the same sun-kissed, light-brown hair Rachel had loved to run her fingers through. It was still long to his collar, with the same tousled look that assured her he used his fingers far more often than his comb. His clothes were clean but nondescript, allowing him to be the chameleon he was, fitting in wherever he felt the need. Even so, an aura of strength and confidence exuded from him, and Rachel could only return his stare.
It’d been thirteen years since she’d last seen him. Why did it suddenly feel like yesterday?
His movements, as he held his daughter and came farther into the room, were fluid and lithe…everything hers weren’t. Muscles rippled beneath his T-shirt and faded jeans, reminding her of her own weaknesses. But his eyes, still holding hers, reflected her same discomfort.
Finally, Ben broke the unsettling eye contact to look at Emily. “Tell me you asked your mom before you called me.”
“Asked me what?” Rachel’s heart started to beat heavy in her chest, threatening to burst not yet healed ribs right open.
Ben shook his head at Emily, love and irritation swimming in his gaze. “Chicken,” he chided softly.
Emily lifted a shoulder and gave him her saddest, most pathetic look.
With a soft sound of annoyance and love all mixed in, Ben let go of Emily and came toward Rachel in long, easy strides, hunkering down before her wheelchair with such casual strength she wanted to kick him.
If only she could have lifted her casted leg.
He sported a day’s worth of dark stubble, but it didn’t hide the fact he had beautiful cheekbones and a strong, wide jaw. His mouth was full and, she had to admit, still sexy as hell. How in God’s name she could look at him and notice such a thing, after all this time, was beyond her.
But those eyes, those dark, haunting eyes. Such a deceptively soft color, and yet there was nothing soft about him. Try sharp. Probing. Blunt.
“You look like hell,” he said, proving the point.
“Yes, well, I’ve been in hell.”
Nodding slowly, he reached out and touched her pale fingers with his sun-kissed, callused ones. She felt the jolt all the way to her toes. So did he if his quick inhale meant anything, which proved one thing—as much as it shocked her, for she was not a sensual, sexual creature by nature—they were still explosive in each other’s presence.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” he said.
He spoke the truth; it was his nature. Stifling an emotion wasn’t in his genetic makeup. Which made his pity more than she could take. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
Amusement flickered briefly across his face. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Trussed up as she was, her senses were on overload, especially her sense of smell. His scent came to her—warm, clean, earthy male—and it was so achingly familiar, her traitorous nose flared, trying to catch more of it. He always had been a disturbing combination of untamed outdoors and infectious sensuality, full of passion, of fire, zest for life.