Karen Templeton – Falling For The Rebound Bride (страница 8)

“Sounds like quite an honor. That offer, I mean.”

“I don’t... That’s not how it feels to me. It’s more that—”

“It’s your calling.”

“I guess. A calling that came to me, though. I didn’t go looking for it.”

A smile barely curved his father’s mouth. “That’s how callings work, boy. They tend to clobber a person over the head. But your own place wouldn’t work?”

“College kids in the next unit,” Colin said, hoping his face didn’t give him away. Although he wasn’t lying. Exactly. “One thing they’re not, is quiet.”

His father’s eyes narrowed, as though not quite buying the story. Hardly a surprise, considering he’d survived four teenage boys. Then his lips tilted again.

“And you know what? I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or question its motives. I’m just glad you’re here. For however long that turns out to be. And I cannot tell you how proud I am of you.”

Holy hell—he couldn’t remember his father ever saying that to him. About anything. Oh, Dad would occasionally nod appreciatively over something one or the other of them had done when they were kids, but actually giving voice to whatever he’d been thinking? Nope.

Old man hadn’t been kidding about the blood flow thing.

“Thank you,” Colin said.

And there was the nod. Because clearly Sam Talbot was as surprised as his son. Then he took another sip of his coffee, his brows drawn. “Josh also said Deanna’s cousin Emily showed up with you.”

Colin smiled. “I think it’s more that I showed up with her. We were on the same flight coming in from Dallas.”

“Pretty little thing.”

“She is.” Although not so little, actually. And of course now that Dad had brought her up, those mad, sad, conflicted eyes flashed in his mind’s eye. No wonder, now that he knew the reason behind the ambivalence. In some ways it was probably worse for her, since she was younger. Fewer life experiences and all that—

“Well. Just wanted to touch base,” Colin said, pushing away from the counter. For a moment disappointment flickered in his father’s eyes—a previously unseen glimpse of a soft spot that rattled Colin more than he’d expected. Or was about to let on. “I need to get in some supplies before I can start work,” he said gently. “But I’ll be back for dinner, remember? Or we can go out, if you’d rather. My treat.”

The right thing to say, apparently, judging from the way Dad perked right up. “That’d be real nice, either way. Depends on what your mother wants to do, of course.”

“Of course. I’ll call around five, see what’s up.”

They were back outside by now, where that chilly spring breeze grabbed at Colin’s hair, slapped at his clean-shaven face. Patches of old snow littered the parts of the yard that didn’t get direct sunlight, reminders that up this far, winter wasn’t over until it said so...images that at one time would’ve been nothing more than benign reminders of his childhood. Now, not even the bright sunlight could mitigate other reminders, other images, of how cruel—for too many people—winter could be when home had been ripped out from under you.

“Sounds good,” Dad said, palming the spot between Colin’s shoulder blades. “When you planning on seeing your other brothers? Zach, especially—you two were so close as kids.”

Colin supposed they had been, although age and isolation—and being roommates—had probably had more to do with that than temperament. Zach had been the quiet one, the steady one...the obedient one. The one Colin could count on to not judge when he’d go off about not being able to wait to get out of Whispering Pines.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “After I get settled.” Although he supposed the sooner he got the reunion stuff out of the way, the sooner he could retreat into his work.

In theory, anyway.

Back in the rental car, Colin waved to his father as he pulled out of the driveway, then headed toward the only decent grocery store in town. He wished he could say he was looking forward to dinner that night. Except the problem with being around people who knew you—or thought they did, anyway—was the way things you didn’t want leaked tended to leak out. He’d put his parents though enough as it was, even if he honestly couldn’t say what he could’ve done differently while still being true to who he was. But for sure he wasn’t about to dump on them now, or give them any reason to doubt he’d made the right choices. If nothing else, he owed them at least a little peace of mind, assurances that he was okay.

And if he wasn’t...well, he’d figure it out. You know, like a grown man.

The store—all three aisles of it, more like some dinky Manhattan bodega than one of those mega suburban monstrosities—was mercifully empty on this weekday morning. And surprisingly well stocked with a bunch of chichi crap Colin had little use for. He could cook, after a fashion—at least, he’d moved beyond opening cans of soup and microwaving frozen burritos—but he was definitely about whatever took twenty minutes or less from package to stomach. Give him a cast-iron pan, a couple of pots, he was good.

He was about to toss a couple of decent-looking steaks into his cart when he heard, from the next aisle over, the women’s laughter...the same laughter he’d heard at the dinner table the night before. Same as then, it wasn’t so much the pitch of the laughs that set Deanna and her cousin apart as it was...the genuineness of them, he supposed. As in, one was actually happy, and the other was pretty much faking it. Although whether for her own sake or her cousin’s, Colin had no idea.

Nor was it any of his concern.

They were talking about nothing of any real importance that he could tell. Not that he should be listening, but if they’d wanted privacy, yakking in a small store wasn’t the best way to go about that. He plunked the steaks in the cart, worked his way over to the pork chops. Yep, he could still hear the two of them. Because again, small store. What he found interesting, though—from a purely analytic standpoint—was how different the cousins’ voices were. Deanna’s voice was lighter, sparklier, whereas Emily’s was...

With a package of chicken legs suspended in his hand over the case, Colin paused, frowning as he caught another whiff of Emily’s voice, and every nerve cell, from the top of his head to places that really needed to shut the hell up already, whispered, Oh, yeah...

Then he blinked, the fog dispersed and there she was.

“Oh. Hi.”

One thing about grocery store lights, they weren’t known for being flattering. Meaning he probably looked like a neglected cadaver right now. And yet even without makeup—none that he could see, anyway—in a plain old black sweater and pair of jeans, her hair pulled back in a don’t-give-a-damn ponytail, Emily was...okay, not beautiful. But definitely appealing.

Especially to a guy who hadn’t had any in a while. And who, up to this very moment, had been perfectly fine with that. Or at least reconciled to it. Not liking at all where his thoughts—let alone his blood—were headed, Colin looked back at the chicken in his hand. “Hey,” he said, realizing he looked about as dumb as a person could look. He finally tossed the chicken in the cart, then looked back at Emily. Because what else was he supposed to do? Unfortunately, she still looked good. Especially with that amused smile.

“I’m, uh...” He waved at the half-filled cart. “Stocking up.”

“Us, too. I promised I’d cook while I was here. In exchange for...” She flushed slightly. “It just seemed fair, that’s all. Especially since Josh has his hands full with ranch stuff this time of year, and Dee’s getting her gallery set up in town.”

“Her gallery?”

“That’s what she did, before she moved back. Worked at a gallery. Doing acquisitions and such. But this one will be all hers, showcasing local artists, she said. I figured I could at least help out while I was here. Instead of playing the guest.”

Colin nodded. “You know how long you’re gonna be here?”

“I’m...playing it by ear.”

“You don’t have a job or something to get back to?”

“No, actually. Not at the moment. I mean, I did, until...” Looking away, she rubbed her nose, then poked through the packages of ribs. “These are really good done in the Crock-Pot.”

“That so?”

“You should look online, there are tons of recipes.” By now not even the sucky florescent lighting could wipe out her blush, which started at her neckline and spread to her eyes, making him think of other kinds of flushes, which in turn made him seriously consider sticking his head in the nearest freezer case. “Well. I’ll leave you to it. See you around?”

“Sure.” Oh, hell, no.

Clutching her package of ribs, she walked away, her very pretty butt twitching underneath a layer of clingy denim, her hair all shiny and bouncy underneath the lights. Colin would’ve groaned, but that would’ve been pathetic and juvenile.

But far worse than the kick to the groin was the tug at something a bit farther north, where empathy had staked a claim all those years ago. Because he could—and would—ignore the butt and the hair and, okay, the breasts pushing against the sweater. But those eyes...

Damn it. A blessing and a curse, both, being able to sense another’s pain.