Hometown Sweetheart. Victoria Pade
Читать онлайн книгу.
unable to care for herself.
After filling them in and answering their questions in regards to the caseworker they’d be dealing with in Missoula and the one he would now be working with in Northbridge, he was having some trouble getting that Northbridge caseworker out of his head.
And not only because Neily Pratt would be taking her turn at scrutinizing him.
The fact that his grandmother had mistaken the social worker for his late wife, Mikayla, was not a coincidence. There was a resemblance. Not a strong one, but if Mikayla had had a cousin, Neily Pratt could have been it.
The hair color was the biggest similarity—thick, lustrous russet-brown hair so deep and rich a hue it demanded attention. And there was something about the nose—thin and pert. And cute. It was just a first-glance sort of resemblance, but it was still there.
But unlike Mikayla’s sun-kissed skin, Neily Pratt was all peaches-and-cream. And she was shorter than Mikayla—even if Mikayla had ever worn the kind of tennis shoes the caseworker had had on.
Neily Pratt wasn’t as voluptuous as Mikayla had been either, although she did have curves enough for him to take notice of. And there was a big difference in their eyes, too. Mikayla’s had been hazel. Neily Pratt’s were a deep metallic blue that glimmered so beautifully he’d had trouble not staring into them.
Which he didn’t want to still be thinking about this morning.
Yet he couldn’t help himself.
And that shook him up a little.
But then his entire encounter with the social worker had shaken him up a little. And not because he was alarmed to be under the investigation of Human Services—he knew there was no abuse or neglect of his grandmother to be found because there was no abuse or neglect. But something had stirred in him the night before in response to Neily Pratt. Something that had him looking forward to seeing her again, to seeing her all cleaned up, to talking to her.
And that did alarm him. Because those stirrings could be the beginning of things he didn’t want to have anything to do with.
He shook his head and dropped it back to the headboard, disgusted with himself.
Why was this happening? He didn’t even know this woman. And he sure as hell didn’t want it to be happening. Not after what he’d gone through over Mikayla. Not after the last two years since her death.
Those two years had been beyond rough. They’d been so bad he’d worried that he wouldn’t ever see emotional daylight again. So bad that he’d worried that he might end up in the grip of the kind of depression that had a hold of his grandmother.
But somehow—he wasn’t sure exactly how or why—things had begun to smooth out. Slowly he’d realized that he was seeing emotional daylight. Only glimmers of it, yet even that had been such a relief, such a godsend, that he’d come to the conclusion that while life on his own might not be the way he’d thought things would be, the way he’d planned it, he didn’t ever—ever—want to risk falling into that darkness again. The darkness that came with the loss of someone he was devoted to.
The surest way to avoid it, he’d decided, was to stay on his own. Not to let anyone else get so close that losing her—either in death or just through things not working out—could put him anywhere near that darkness again. He’d decided that for the sake of his own mental health, it was better to accept things as they were.
So that was what he’d done—he’d accepted it. Then he’d found some small pleasures, some enjoyment to go with it. Just not with another woman.
Which was his plan for the future. Stay solo—that was it in a nutshell. And he was committed to it. Because a little transient loneliness, having his sister and brother and grandmother be the only family he had, was still better than what he’d been through since Mikayla.
It was still better than taking any risk of ending up like his grandmother.
And staying solo had been working for him. No other woman had so much as caught his eye or his interest, let alone stirred anything in him.
Until last night.
So, yes, he would have preferred it if he wasn’t looking forward to seeing the Northbridge social worker again.
Although he still didn’t understand why he was.
Maybe it was the resemblance to Mikayla. Neily Pratt wasn’t the spitting image of her but, still, maybe the resemblance was enough to trigger something in him.
But regardless of what was causing his eagerness to see her again, he was damn well going to fight it with everything he had.
“So make it quick,” he said aloud, as if he were giving the caseworker an order.
But he honestly hoped her work here would be done fast.
The faster the better.
And that then they wouldn’t have to have anything to do with each other.
Because nothing was worth risking being on the edge of that dark pit again.
“She’s having a sad day. Wyatt is sitting with her on the sunporch.”
Thanks to a hectic schedule, Neily didn’t get to the Hobbs house until late Monday afternoon. Mary Pat answered the door and let her in, informing her of Theresa’s mood and whereabouts once they’d exchanged greetings.
“I’ll go on back,” Neily said. “I know the way.”
The sunporch Mary Pat had referred to had probably been a greenhouse when the Hobbs place was built. It was a small space at the rear of the house, completely enclosed in glass—including overhead. Until the previous day’s fix-up it had had more broken windows than not, but those had been replaced and it was once again sealed off from the elements. So even with only the not-too-intense April sunshine to warm it, it was still a comfortable spot from which to look down over a portion of town.
That was what Theresa and Wyatt seemed to be doing when Neily reached the doorway.
She refrained from announcing herself, wanting to observe any interactions between the two before either of them knew she was there.
They were sitting in old wicker chairs facing away from Neily but angled just enough toward each other that she had profile views of them both. Theresa’s sadness was obvious—she sat with her head slumped, her expression gloomy, staring through the windows while Wyatt Grayson seemed to be trying to lift her spirits with a humorous story about a power-tool salesman.
There was nothing alarming in what Neily was seeing and yet she stayed quiet for a moment longer, her focus on Theresa’s grandson.
She told herself that her interest was only professional, that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the guy was just too handsome to believe even dressed in a pair of plain tan twill slacks and a plaid shirt. It was his attitude toward his grandmother that she was observing, not the broad shoulders or the sun streaked through the dark-blond hair that gilded his starkly chiseled face.
But she couldn’t fault his attitude any more than she could ignore his good looks, and after watching him actually win a small smile from Theresa, Neily could tell that there was no tension between the two.
“Knock-knock,” she said from the doorway as if she’d just gotten there.
Wyatt Grayson immediately glanced in her direction, his gray eyes bright and alert as his grandmother merely continued staring blankly out the windows in front of them.
“Look who’s here, Gram—Neily,” he said, getting to his feet.
Theresa didn’t respond but still Neily went into the sunporch. “This is a nice place to be on a spring day,” she said cheerily.
“It really is,” Wyatt agreed the same way, as if it might inspire some enthusiasm from his grandmother. “It took some convincing but Mary Pat and I finally got Gram to come down and