And with that acceptance came a kind of peace, one that had barely begun to release him from the guilt and the self-pity, the nightmares he’d thought would choke him for the rest of his life. That first morning he’d awakened and realized he’d slept through the night he’d wept with gratitude. So for damn sure he’d hang on to that peace with everything he had in him. Not only for his sake, but for his daughter’s, who deserved at least one coping parent.
One with both feet firmly planted in what
was,
not what
should have been.
Or might be—
Patrick’s cell rang. He dug it out of his shirt pocket, only to frown at the unfamiliar number before bringing the phone to his ear. “Patrick Shaughnessy—”
“Mr. Shaughnessy, it’s April Ross.”
His stomach jumped; there was more Southern in her voice than he remembered, something sweet and smoky that tried its damnedest to get inside him.
And letting his parents listen in to the conversation was not happening. He pushed away from the table to stalk out of the kitchen and down the hall.
“Ms. Ross. What can I do for you?”
“Would tomorrow morning work for you to come out? It occurred to me, what with it already being the end of October, we should probably get going as soon as possible. Don’t you agree?”
This said as though her bolting like a scared rabbit had never happened. Interesting.
“Tomorrow would be fine. Around nine?”
“Perfect. We’ll see you then.”
We
.
Replacing his phone, Patrick continued into his parents’ jam-packed living room where Lili sat in front of the brick fireplace, holding a one-sided conversation with a bevy of beat-up dolls. At his entrance, she grinned up at him, and, as usual, his heart swelled. God, he loved this kid.
For her sake, he’d forced himself to smile again. To laugh. To appreciate the good in life and not give the bad the time of day. Trying to set a good example, like his parents had done for him. He squatted beside her, cupped her head. “Gotta go, munchkin. Give me a hug?” She scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. “You be good for Grandma, okay?”
He saw the flash of sadness in her dark eyes when she pulled away, but she only nodded and said, “’Kay.”
Patrick called his goodbyes to his folks, then let himself out the front door, where the cold wind wreaked havoc with his face grafts, even for the short sprint to his truck. Sure, the idea of being around April Ross produced a kick to the gut the likes of which Patrick hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. But after the hell he’d been through? A little lust was the least of his worries. Especially since this was a nonstarter. What with her being married and all.
And thank God for that.
Chapter Two
“T
hat’s not what you had on five minutes ago.”
Shooting daggers at her cousin Melanie, April selected a coffee from the carousel on the gleaming, brand-new quartz counter and plopped it into the Keurig maker. The old kitchen, although huge, had been so outdated it nearly qualified for historical preservation status. And not in a good way. Now it was a chef’s dream, with miles of countertops and cabinets, double ovens and a massive, stainless-steel-topped island, and—the
pièce de résistance
—a six-burner commercial-grade stove...in pink. Just for Mel. Who, now that true love had brought her back to St. Mary’s after more than ten years away, had agreed—after much haranguing on April’s part—to bring her mad cooking skills to the inn.
“I was cold,” April said. “So I put on a heavier sweater.”
“And changed your pants. And your headband—”
“Shut. Up.”
“And that’s your fourth cup of coffee this morning.” The brunette grinned, her own mug of coffee nestled against her generous bosom, not so generously covered by a hot pink velour hoodie. Underneath long bangs, her gray-green eyes glittered. “That much caffeine and you’re gonna sound like a chipmunk on speed. Although I do like that shade of purple on you.”
Their other cousin, Blythe, an interior designer in D.C. who was there for a few days to check on the remodel’s progress, wandered into the kitchen, yawning, a study in drapey grays and silvers. Tall, blond and impossibly chic, she frowned at April.
“Weren’t you wearing something different at breakfast?”
Melanie poked Blythe as she bit into one of her own homemade cinnamon rolls. “I remember Patrick Shaughnessy. If vaguely. Dude’s definitely worth the wardrobe crazies.”
Her coffee brewed, April grabbed the porcelain mug, watching the sunlight dance across her rings before she turned and caught sight of the clock, a big, old-fashioned schoolroom thing Blythe had found in some antiques store.
Ten minutes.
Sighing, she leaned against the counter and looked at Mel. Time to reveal a detail or two she’d left out when she’d told them he was coming to give the estimate.
“I take it he was pretty good-looking back then?” she asked her cousin.
“In a craggy, Heathcliffian sort of way, yeah. All the Shaughnessy boys were.”
“So his face...it wasn’t scarred?”
“Scarred? You mean, like...a cut that didn’t heal properly?”
“No. Worse. Like...I don’t know. Burned, maybe?”
“What? Ohmigod, are you serious? Is it...bad?”
April nodded. “Although it’s only one side of his face, so I didn’t notice at first. But when I did...” She grimaced. “I sort of...freaked out.”
Mel frowned. “Freaked out, how?”
“I ran. Like some frightened little twit who thought she’d seen the bogeyman. And yes, he saw the whole thing.”
“Ouch,” Blythe said.
“Exactly.” April’s gaze drifted out the new kitchen window, widened to take advantage of the shoreline view at the back of the property, the private dock jutting out into the glittering water. Her dock now. Her property. For a moment the thought made her feel all sparkly inside, until the guilt blotted it out again. “He has the sweetest little girl....”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blythe and Mel exchange a glance. Deciding to ignore it, April faced them again. “I actually went back to apologize, but he’d already left. So that’s my first order of business when he gets here.”
Blythe’s eyebrows dipped. “To apologize? You sure that’s a good idea?”
“You got a better one?”
“Yeah. Act like it never happened.”
“Oh, right—”
“I’m serious,” the blonde said, her short, spiked hair like frosted glass in the sunshine. “Look, I get you feel like crap, but he’s probably used to it—”
“So that makes what I did okay?”
“No. But the last thing you want to do is make him more uncomfortable, right?”
Conflicted, April looked to Mel. “So what would you do?”
“Me? I would’ve hired another landscaper. Maybe. Hey,” Mel said when April rolled her eyes, “all you can do is trust your gut. Do what feels right.”
The doorbell rang. Straightening, she set her mug on the counter and swiped her suddenly damp palms down the front of her jeans. “If I don’t throw up first,” she muttered, then headed toward the door, which, after a lung-searing breath, she opened.
Only to run smack into that crystalline gaze, boring directly into hers.
* * *
He’d never in his life seen someone blush that hard. April kept swallowing, too, like she was about to be sick. Patrick took pity on her and held up his clipboard, to remind her of his purpose there. Except she shook her head, making her red-gold hair swish softly over her shoulders and Patrick unaccountably irritated. Although about what, he couldn’t have said.
What he could say, though, was that she was even prettier than he remembered. As in, short-out-the-brain pretty. If a trifle too put together for his taste, what with her sweater, shoes and headband all matching. She was also obviously broken up about what she’d done, even before she said, “Before we get started...there is no excuse for how I acted the other day. And I’m sorry.”
Frankly, he was torn, between wanting to let her off the hook and wanting to see her squirm. His face took some getting used to, no two ways around it. So taking offense was pointless. People were just people.
But something about this one especially provoked him. Maybe because he wasn’t entirely buying the whole innocent act she was trying so hard to sell.
Patrick slid his hands into his back pockets, narrowing his eyes even as he realized she’d kept hers steady on his face. Like she was trying to prove something, probably more to herself than to him.
“How you acted?”
She swallowed again. And somehow turned even redder. Had to give her props, though, for not sending out her husband in her stead. Then again, for all he knew this was one of those projects where the wife handled all the design decisions and the man just signed the checks. They got a lot of those. “Yes,” she finally said. “At the garden center.”
“Can’t say as I noticed anything.”
“And now you’re messing with me.”
His brows crashed together. What was left of them, anyway. “I’m not—”
“The heck you aren’t. Because you know darn well what I’m talking about. Although if it makes you feel better, let me spell it out. I acted like a total dimwit when I noticed your scars. I don’t know why, I certainly wasn’t raised like that, and there’s no way I could live with myself without apologizing for my bad behavior. And no, you’re under no obligation to accept my apology, but I am obligated to give it. So. You ready to get started or what?”
For a good five, six seconds, Patrick could only gape at April like, as she put it, a total dimwit. Sure, her wanting to make amends probably stemmed more from ingrained good manners than anything else, but there’d been a fire behind her words that gave him pause. That, and that damned steady gaze, which was rattling him to hell and back.
“Apology accepted,” he heard himself mutter, then cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a coat or something, it’s pretty cold out here.”
She nodded, then vanished into the house, only to return a minute or so later with another woman, a tall blonde who looked vaguely familiar.
“This is my cousin, Blythe Broussard,” April said, wrapped up in an expensive-looking tan coat that fell well below her knees. “She’s overseeing the house remodel, but she’s also got some ideas for the landscaping.”
Still no husband. Interesting.
And maybe the guy simply isn’t here at the moment—
And this was nuts. He’d worked with plenty of female clients before, but this was the first time he could remember giving even half a thought to who they lived with, or were married to, or whatever. Mentally slapping himself, Patrick turned his attention to Blythe, who also met his gaze dead-on. Although, unlike her cousin, she’d probably been forewarned.
“Then let’s get started,” he said, waving the clipboard toward the gouged, muddy front yard—a fitting symbol for his life if ever there was one. “After you, ladies.”
* * *
She’d let Blythe do most of the talking that day. For many reasons, not the least of which was that Blythe had a far better handle on matters horticultural than April did. Or probably ever would. But for another, even though she’d gotten the apology out fine, the way Patrick had looked at her afterward had practically rendered her mute.
Although whether the condition was temporary or not remained to be seen, she thought as she pulled up outside the generic warehouse building on the other side of town, the unpaved parking lot littered with assorted trucks ranging in size from massive to gargantuan, not to mention all manner of digging and hauling equipment.
It’d been a week since the appointment. She’d assumed Patrick would send or drop off the plans and estimate at the inn, but the secretary who’d called had said he’d prefer she come to the office for the presentation. So here she was, clutching closed her Harris Tweed blazer as she trooped through the wind toward the door. At Clay’s urging, she’d gradually ditched her old wardrobe in favor of the classier—and more classic—items he’d kindly suggested would better reflect her new status. Hence the blazer. And the designer riding boots. But since moving back to St. Mary’s, she’d also reacquainted herself with jeans and the loose, comfy sweaters she’d once loved, even if she no longer had to rely on thrift stores or seventy-five-percent-off sales to buy them.
Instead of the middle-aged woman she’d heard on the phone, an older man in black-rimmed glasses sat behind the battered desk, his navy hoodie zipped up underneath a canvas coat as work worn as the desk. But his grin, set in a clefted chin, eased the nervousness she’d refused to fully acknowledge until that moment.
“Ms. Ross, right?” he said, rising and extending a rough hand.
“Yes—”
“I’m Joe, Patrick’s dad. He’s on the horn, but go on back to the conference room. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. You want some coffee?” He pointed to the standard-issue Mr. Coffee on the metal cart in front of the paneled wall. “It’s fresh, Marion made it before she ran to the bank—”
“Oh...no, thanks, I’m good.”
“Okay, then. It’s straight back, you can’t miss it.”
She heard Patrick before she saw him, his rich, deep laughter making her breath catch. That he
could
laugh like that made blood rush to her cheeks all over again. The conference “room” was nothing more than a collection of tables and folding chairs, no interior walls, with a big-screen TV—which probably cost more than the rest of the furniture altogether—mounted on the paneling on the far side of the space.
His cell phone clamped to his ear, Patrick lounged in the far chair with one work-booted foot propped on the table in front of him, his “good” side to her. Focused on his conversation, he didn’t see her at first. It was a nice face, April decided, although Mel was right—you couldn’t call it exactly handsome. Honest, though. Good lines. A man’s face, she decided, one befitting someone older than his late twenties, since she guessed he was about the same age as Mel. Which made him a year or so older than her—
She suddenly realized he’d noticed her, his expression downgrading to neutral as he lowered his foot, then stood, pocketing his phone.