The Wedding that Wasn't Page 5

  His smile never faltered.

  Finally, she finished, with her truth winning out over her doubt. “I would love to see bluebirds in the gardens again.”

  His exuberant grin was her reward. He was as thrilled about helping her bring the bluebirds back as she would be to have them.

  “Well,” she said, “since you’re going to be staying a while, I guess you’ll be needing your own key to the front door.”

  * * *

  “First order of business,” Tom said the next morning after they’d had a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast at the kitchen table. “We relocate the bluebird houses.”

  They were both dressed for a day of yard work. Tom, in faded jeans and a long-sleeved red T-shirt. Felicity in workout clothes, black and purple Lycra jogging pants with a matching top. The outfit adhered to her youthful figure, showing off her curves. She had her hair pulled back off her face with a purple stretch headband, and her face was scrubbed free of makeup.

  She looked gorgeous in the morning light, healthy and glowing.

  “What’s wrong with where the birdhouses are now?” She shaded her eyes against the sun, studied the birdhouses erected between the flower beds, fountains, and stone walking paths of the gardens.

  “You’re not going to attract anything but house wrens keeping them this near dense vegetation.” He motioned at the lush foliage of flowers and plant life. “Bluebirds prefer semi-open grasslands. For instance, expanses of mowed lawns or meadow grass or orchards or roadsides. They especially like dirt roads. Places where the trees are scattered and the ground cover is short. We also want to avoid ponds or open water so tree swallows don’t take over.”

  “Oh!” Felicity’s eyes—as blue as the birds they were discussing—lit up, and Tom felt a happy stirring in the pit of his stomach. “The dirt road that runs down the back of the peach orchards would be the perfect spot.”

  “Good choice.” He nodded. “I’ll mow the grass around it first, and then we can put up the houses.”

  “What can I do while you’re mowing?” she asked, looking as excited as a kid on the first day of summer camp.

  “Clean any old nests from the bluebird houses and wash them down with a water hose, then put them to dry in the sun.”

  She gave him a cheery salute, clicked heels shod in purple Keds. “On it, Major Tom.”

  A tug of lust pulled the stirring in his stomach down to a lower level, and his throat went dry.

  She pranced off, fanny bouncing provocatively in those butt-enhancing pants.

  “Hey,” he called.

  She spun around to face him again. “What do you want?”

  You.

  The word formed inside his brain clear and bright as a neon sign. “Um,” he said. “Where do you keep the lawn mower?”

  “That’s right, you wouldn’t know, would you? C’mon.” She motioned for him to follow her.

  It was not an invitation he was going to pass up. He took off after her, joining her at the garden shed on the left side of the house. It was hidden away behind trellised vines. She spun the combination lock, clicked it open, and stepped aside so he could have at the mower shed.

  He mowed while she washed the birdhouses and set them out to dry. They took a break for lunch—turkey salad this time—eating in the gardens once more.

  “The birdhouses look great,” he said. “Good job.”

  “I’ve got them in the direct sun. They should be dry soon.”

  “By the way,” Tom said, “I forgot to ask. Do you have paper wasps?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes they’re around, but I haven’t really noticed any this year yet.” She bit her bottom lip, and he couldn’t help staring at her sweet, pink mouth. “Are they a problem?”

  “They could sting the nestlings to death. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to soap the roofs of the bluebird houses to prevent paper wasps from building nests, just in case you do have them.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Do you have any Ivory bar soap? We’ll need a mild soap that will keep away wasps, but not harm the birds.”

  “I do have some. I’ll go get it.” She disappeared into the house, returned a few minutes later with the bar of Ivory soap in her hand, and came over to where he was filling the lawn mower with gas from the can he’d found in the shed.

  “What now?”

  “We melt it in a saucepan.” He put down the gas can. “Let’s go.”

  “You don’t have to help. I can handle it. Just give me the deets.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more fun to do it together?”

  She grinned, a big bear hug of a grin, hearty and enthusiastic. “C’mon then.”

  They walked into the kitchen together, and it felt as natural as if they’d been hanging out all their lives. He liked the feeling. Wanted more of it.

  She unwrapped the soap.

  Tom moved closer, eager to be near her, caught a whiff of her fragrance. She smelled like flowers and fresh baked bread and morning dew. Something in his chest expanded, as if his lungs and his heart were growing, pushing firm against his ribs.

  Felicity shifted, making room for him at the stove.

  “Cut up the soap and put the pieces in a little water to heat. When it cools we’ll apply it to the inside ceiling of the birdhouses with small paintbrushes.”

  “How does that keep away wasps?”

  “The soap makes a coating that prevents the pulpy wasp’s nest from sticking to the wood,” he explained. “We’ll need to be careful to keep the soap on just the ceilings and not the walls because it could prevent the baby birds from climbing the sides of the wood to reach the hole when it’s time for them to leave the nesting box. We don’t want them to get trapped inside.”

  “I’ll be very careful.” Felicity set a saucepan on the stove, added a bit of water. Tom took out his pocketknife to shave off soap slivers into the saucepan.

  Once the soap was melted, she found some old paintbrushes, and they took the mixture outside to paint it on the tops of the bluebird houses. There were twenty houses, and, even with both of them working on the task, it took almost an hour to carefully coat the small ceilings.

  When they finished, Tom stretched out his arms, limbering up his shoulders, which had tightened up from hunching forward over his work. “That was fun. I’ve had a blast.”

  “There’s such joy on your face. Honestly, you should get back into ornithology.”

  He felt it too, the joy she saw in him, but the feeling had as much to do with working beside Felicity as it did with the birds.

  He waved a hand. “I’d have to go back to school and get a master’s degree. Technology has changed things so much since I graduated.”

  “So go back to school.” Her grin enticed him like a bowl of homemade vanilla ice cream. “You’re in your early forties. No reason why not. Plenty of life left in you.”

  Tom found himself hoping that none of the jobs he applied for would pan out so he could stay here and paint soap on birdhouses with her.

  “Do you own a house?” she asked.

  “No. Gave it to Heidi in the divorce. Life is easier when you rent.”

  “Have you considered making Serendipity your home?” she asked, her tone light, as if she didn’t care, but she was leaning in toward him, head cocked at an inquisitive angle. “Fort Worth is only forty miles away. Not a ridiculous distance to commute to school. You could take night classes once or twice a week.”

  “Living in Serendipity never crossed my mind.” Until now.

  “Why not? Joe’s here. . . .” She smoothed down her hair and seemed to be actively avoiding looking him in the eyes.

  “That’s not a big selling point.”

  She met his gaze head-on. This woman didn’t miss a trick. “What is the deal between you two? The way he yelled at you at the wedding, as if he considered it your fault that Savannah ran. He was looking for someone to blame, and you were the lightning rod.”

  “Joe feels like he got the short e
nd of the stick. I remind him of that daddy-done-me-wrong chip he’s been waggling around on his shoulder since I was born.”

  “Given your history,” she asked, “why do you suppose Joe invited you to the wedding?”

  Tom raised his left shoulder and tilted his head to the right. His “zigzag” pose as Heidi had called it. “It’s a tic you have when you’re conflicted,” his ex-wife had pointed out. “But you didn’t do it the day I asked for a divorce. You weren’t conflicted then. Admit it, you want out of the marriage as much as I do.”

  Maybe he had.

  “I figure Joe invited me as proxy for my dad. He didn’t invite him because Joe hates my mother. She always made him follow the house rules, and he didn’t like that. Joe’s mom had a freer parenting style.”

  “Do you think part of it could be that as he’s getting older, Joe is realizing the importance of having strong family ties?”

  “I don’t think that’s it. He’s gnarled up with the Loving family like hundred-year-old tree roots. My dad and I are the ones who’ve kept our distance.”

  “Then perhaps Joe is reaching out because he wants you to know how good it feels to have family you can count on.”

  Ha. Not likely.

  “What about you?” he asked, changing the subject. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “I was an only child,” she said, pressing her lips together, folding her arms over her chest, closing off, shutting down. He could see the rich ore of backstory running through her veins. But it didn’t appear she was willing to share it with him.

  At least not yet.

  Compelled by the sadness shining in her eyes, he moved closer.

  They were standing in the warmth of the afternoon sun, in the middle of the gardens, birds singing and flitting around them. It felt like something out of a Disney flick. He half-expected a cartoon mouse to appear.

  Her sweet pink mouth was a whisper away.

  If he dipped his head just a little bit . . .

  She stared up at him, eyes wide, lips pursed, but she didn’t stop him, didn’t turn away. He could see the pulse at her throat throb with each heartbeat. His pulse was throbbing too.

  Tom cupped the back of her head in his palm, his splayed fingers sliding up into her hair, felt her ponytail trail over his wrist.

  She stiffened under his touch. Was this a mistake? Should he back off?

  Tom stilled.

  Her eyes searched his face. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.

  Lightly, he brushed his lips against her hot cheek.

  When she didn’t resist or protest, he slid his mouth down to capture hers. She closed her eyes. He knew because he kept his open, studying the dreamy softness of her features, savoring the moment of their first kiss.

  He cradled her face in his hands, his calloused thumbs hooking on either side of her jaw, his fingers tilting her head so he could deepen the kiss.

  Kissing her was the best thing he’d done in ages. His mouth claimed her, his tongue asking for entry.

  Felicity parted her teeth, let him in. She softened against him, muscles relaxing. He teased her with his tongue, inviting her to play. Let’s run and frolic.

  She was so damned hot.

  And she made him hot. Inside, he was on fire. Blazing from his mouth straight down to the stiffest part of his body. He could barely breathe, all common sense going up in flames.

  Felicity kissed him back, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders, encircling his neck, pulled his head down farther. She felt so good, so soft and down-to-earth. Warm and welcoming.

  His shoulders sagged, and his hopes soared—he was giddy with desire, dizzy from lack of air, thrilled with relief that she’d kissed him back. It had been so long since he’d felt this way. Too long.

  Had he ever really felt this way?

  He cast his mind back, couldn’t recall a single time a woman had stirred him to such heights with just a simple kiss.

  She pressed closer, flattening her breasts against his chest, making him forget where he was, hell, who he was. All that mattered was her mouth and how she was using it to twist him inside out and upside down.

  His hands went to her waist. When she didn’t draw back, he slipped them underneath the hem of her shirt, caressed her smooth, creamy skin, marveled at the contrast to his rough palms. He was acutely aware of her small fingers kneading the nape of his neck. She clutched him as if she were drowning, rocking her pelvis against his erection.

  Rocking his world.

  He groaned low in his throat, tugged her closer until there wasn’t a millimeter of space between them.

  Yes.

  The word smashed through his brain, a wrecking ball destroying all argument and resistance. He was an old building, getting torn down at the hands of an expert demolition crew. He came completely untethered. Blasted. Blown away by the strength of his desire.

  Her fingers contained lightning. Everywhere she touched he felt tiny jolts of electricity burning up his nerve endings, sending one insistent imperative—yes, yes, yes.

  He’d been hit. Lightning struck. Agog with the mystery of his overwhelming desire for this beautiful creature.

  Then Felicity placed a firm palm against his chest, pushed herself away from him.

  “Stop,” she said helplessly. “Please, stop.”

  Immediately, Tom let go of her, dragged in desperate breath over a ragged tongue. God, it felt so lonely without her in his arms.

  Her face was pale, taut, and she was just as breathless as he was, sucking in air in tight, shallow pants.

  “I . . .” he said. “I . . .” What was there to say? He couldn’t apologize. He wasn’t sorry for kissing her. “You . . . we . . .”

  “Please,” she whimpered again. She was shaking her head, but that word dropping from her lips sounded like an entreaty, not an edict.

  He locked eyes with her, felt a powerful shift inside him, like sidewalks buckling and cracking. An earthquake. “What is it?”

  “I like you, Tom. I truly do.”

  “I like you too,” he murmured. “A lot.”

  “Yes, we’re attracted to each other. But that doesn’t mean anything. We’ve just met. We’re both in a transitional phase. You with the retirement. Me with . . .” She brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “Well, my business is caving in. To start something now . . . It wouldn’t be smart, would it?”

  “Foolish.”

  “You understand.” She looked so relieved, her knees actually sagged, and she grasped the back of a nearby lawn chair.

  “You’re right,” he said, fully meaning it, but unable to stop opposing feelings from rushing through him. He wanted to argue, deny . . . kiss her again.

  What was going on here? He was not an impulsive guy by nature. Why now? Why Felicity? Because she is freaking awesome.

  “If you’re going to stay here and help me bring the bluebirds back, this can’t happen again.” Her voice was soft, but firm. Setting boundaries. He respected her all the more for it. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Otherwise, you have to go.”

  “I understand.”

  Her forgiving smile held a note of wistfulness, or maybe he was projecting. She extended her hand. “Friends?”

  “Friends,” Tom agreed, even though shaking her hand left him feeling that he was nothing but a guest who’d already overstayed his welcome.

  Chapter Six

  The kiss left Felicity completely off balance.

  She was proud of herself for setting up ground rules, but disturbed that she’d ever let Tom kiss her in the first place.

  Why had he kissed her?

  Okay, she had a decent figure and blond hair. For some guys that was attraction enough. But she was selling them both short. What had her wincing—and regretting—was the unbridled way she’d responded to him. She should have set the boundaries immediately, instead of kissing him back.

  Ugh! She had to stop replaying it. The kiss was over
and done with. It wasn’t going to happen again. Tom had promised to keep his mitts off her, and she certainly wasn’t going to initiate another kiss, so problem solved.

  She tackled garden weeds while Tom situated the bluebird houses on the outskirts of the peach orchard, and they kept their distance for the remainder of the day. At five o’clock, Felicity took off her gardening gloves and dusted her hands, preparing to head into the house to start dinner when Tom sauntered over.

  “May I take you out to dinner?” he asked.

  “As friends?” She felt a muscle in her eye twitch.

  “Of course. What else would it be?” He sounded so surprised by her question that she started to wonder if she’d imagined how intense that kiss had been. If he was able to dismiss it so easily, maybe it hadn’t been as world-rocking for him as it had been for her.

  “In that case,” she said, “I accept.”

  They had dinner at Bubba Red’s, a popular barbecue joint on the town square. Heads turned the minute they walked in. Uh oh. This was a bad idea.

  And when Tom put a hand to the small of her back to guide her through the door, Felicity should have pulled the plug on the whole thing, but his powerful hand touching her tenderly felt so good that she sensed her boundaries melting away.

  She’d missed this so much. The gentle touch of a commanding man’s hand.

  Damn her. This wasn’t good. She purposely stepped away from him, and Tom dropped his hand. People in the restaurant exchanged knowing glances, and she could almost hear the buzz of the grapevine.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t think. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t trip over the threshold.”

  “Boundaries,” she murmured lightly, praying she’d be able to keep to her own rules.

  The waitress seated them. Felicity studied her menu, purposely not meeting any of the curious stares coming their way.

  The front door opened. She heard a familiar laugh and cringed. It was Aunt Molly with a group of her friends. Felicity pulled the menu up high, trying to hide her face.

  Did trying to hide make her look guilty? Why was she feeling guilty? She had a right to go out to dinner with a handsome man. No matter what it might look like to the Nosy Rosies in Serendipity, they were not on a date. This was innocent. Two friends out to dinner. No one else knew about the kiss.