The Marriage Season. Linda Miller Lael
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centering himself in the now. It was a beautiful afternoon, Ben and Adam were healthy, balanced kids and they were having fun.
Plus, they had a decent meal to look forward to. Tate’s version of Saturday lunch was usually something along the lines of canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. He had the feeling that they’d get something a little more appealing from Hadleigh Galloway.
Inevitably, since Tate was flesh and blood, reasonably young and completely normal, his gaze strayed back to Bex. Ms. Stuart had looked two notches above terrific in her jogging clothes. Now, in a pair of well-cut jeans and a red sweater that showed off her feminine figure, she was downright distracting.
Just a few yards from the casual gathering on the porch, Tate almost froze again—so much for getting centered—but an amused, all-too-knowing glance from Tripp kept him moving forward.
“Hello again,” he heard himself say, his voice suddenly husky.
Damned if the Galloways and Hogans hadn’t evaporated once more, leaving him and Bex alone on the planet. He gravitated toward her, like a passing asteroid yanked into the orbit of some strange new sun, and then—then he literally collided with the woman, for God’s sake, right there at the top of the porch steps.
What the hell? he thought, but what he said was, “Sorry. I was thinking about the boys.”
Fool.
Flustered, Tate looked back over one shoulder, trying to lend some credence to his fib, and saw no sign of the kids or the dogs.
Bex pointed in the direction of the barn and said, “They went thataway.”
He gave a muffled laugh, realized he’d gripped Bex’s shoulders at some point, and that he was still holding her, as though he’d expected her to fall. He let go. “Thanks.”
After that brief expansion, the universe zoomed in again, with a swiftness that left Tate’s head spinning.
She smiled, which only increased the sensation, and her voice seemed far away. “Good luck catching up with them, though. All parties were moving fast. They could be in Canada by now.”
Tate struggled to regain his equilibrium. “That’s a definite possibility,” he agreed. “They’re both a little hyper.”
This was a routine, even mundane, conversation. So why did everything seem so awkward?
Bex appeared to be at ease, but that could’ve been an act, he supposed. The air around them practically pulsed with electricity, and if Tate knew one thing, it was that the invisible charge was flowing both ways. “Don’t worry about the kids,” she said lightly. “Mel and Hadleigh are both in mama-tiger mode, which means nothing bad would dare happen—not on their watch.”
Mel and Hadleigh? Oh. Yeah. He remembered who they were now. Two of the other people populating the earth, in addition to him and Bex and, somewhere in the immediate vicinity, his children.
Get a grip, Calder.
But a light breeze lifted Bex’s hair just then, and she had beautiful hair. It seemed to curl naturally as it fell past her shoulders, emphasizing her graceful neck.
She was right, of course. The boys were okay. The ranch was as safe as anyplace else, safer than many, and besides, the dogs would raise hell if they sensed danger.
“So, how was the run?” he asked.
He’d meant to sound simply polite, asking a casual question that didn’t reveal too much interest. The truth was, he wanted to know everything there was to know about Bex Stuart—which movies she liked, what kinds of books she read, the shape of her dreams, both waking and sleeping.
As she answered, something along the lines of, “Oh, it was fine,” he found himself wondering about her favorite colors, songs, scents, memories.
Was she a morning person or a night owl?
Did she talk in her sleep?
Despite all that, another part of Tate warned him to keep his distance, circumvent whatever emotional minefield might be lying in wait.
He was not, never had been, the impulsive type.
And yet...
And yet.
He sighed. Shook his head, hoping to break whatever spell he was under.
Trying to act like a grown man instead of a teenager on hormone overload.
How’s that workin’ for ya? he chided himself.
Not worth a damn, that was how.
Okay, yes, he reasoned doggedly, Bex was beyond hot, and it had been a while since—well, it had been a while. Still, the world was full of attractive, available females, and Mustang Creek, small as it was, had more than its share of them. He got lonely sometimes, and he’d planned on remarrying at some point, but he’d been in no particular rush.
After all, he was busy, raising two kids on his own, starting a business, not to mention building a house. In other words, life was already complicated enough without throwing a relationship into the mix. And he knew instinctively that, with Bex, there would be no half measures, no holding back, no taking things slowly.
And then there was the color of her eyes. Hard to describe, even if he’d had his wits about him, which he clearly didn’t.
Before now he would’ve said they were green, but in the slanting sunlight of early afternoon, they looked more gold. He noticed threads of gold in her hair, too, maybe artificial highlights, although he didn’t think so. There was a natural quality about her, a lack of artifice in both her manner and her appearance.
She was one of the only women he’d ever met that he would describe as striking. Hadleigh was very pretty, it went without saying, and Melody Hogan was truly beautiful. But Becca Stuart was more than pretty, more than beautiful.
He’d heard her story, or some of it, anyway. Tripp had told him about his best friend, Hadleigh’s older brother, Will. Bex had loved Will from the time she was young, and when he was killed in Afghanistan, she’d been understandably devastated. As far as Tripp knew, she’d been guarding her heart ever since.
Tate knew the feeling.
The best thing he could do now, he figured, was keep his mouth shut. Trouble was, he couldn’t seem to do that. “Rumor has it we’re going to have real food today,” he said, just to end the silence. “The boys won’t know how to act.”
“Yep. Hadleigh makes the world’s best spinach lasagna.” Bex’s lips turned up at the corners, as if she’d seen through his effort to lighten things up. He resisted the urge to kiss those lips—but just barely. She drew in a breath, blew it out audibly. “However,” she added, “you might be better off if you don’t mention the word spinach. I’m no parent, but kids are kids. If I were in your place, I’d just hand them a plate and stand back. Once they taste the stuff, they’ll dive in.”
Tate relaxed a little. “Good advice.”
His head was beginning to clear, but it wasn’t happening fast enough to suit him.
He was still bewitched, still awkward. If the two of them had been in kindergarten, he’d probably be shoving her off the playground swing or pulling her ponytail.
Moreover, he could see that she hadn’t been fooled by his effort at casual conversation; she knew he was off his game. But maybe she was off her own, just a little. Faint color had come into her face, and it wasn’t just because of the cool fall breeze.
Finally, Tate stepped aside. “I’d better round up the kids,” he said.
“I’m going back to town for more pastries,” she told him, dangling her keys.
That announcement startled him for some reason, and it must have shown in his face.
Bex