Something Unexpected (20 page)

Wait. Rewind that. She'd been panicking all her life, and with Dean in front of her, as perplexed by relationships as
she was, she hadn't known what to do with her fear. Neil had always told her not to worry. About anything. Prince Charming was supposed to kill the nasty dragons, right?

That is so yesterday,
the Jeffers voice taunted.
Remember—

“I know, I know. Don't romanticize.”

She had believed the right man would provide a lifetime guarantee. But that kind of thinking was as magical as believing she could protect herself from pain by remaining alone.

She shook her head. Real life was about as clean as an oil spill. Last night, when faced with the possibility of accepting Dean and their marriage as the works in progress they were, she had cowered on the sofa and whispered, “I can't. I'm sorry. I just…can't.”

Dean had stayed at his apartment above the pharmacy last night, and Rosemary, confused and conflicted, had slept not a wink.

Okay, big girl, it's time to face facts: if you want a guarantee, go shopping. Relationships do not come with the Good Housekeeping Seal. More's the pity, but there ya go.

Wow. That wasn't the Jeffers or the romantic voice. It was just…her.

Perhaps a person could hedge her bets by falling for someone who was as willing as she to keep the fires burning during the tough times or when love temporarily went MIA. Someone who believed in relationships and fidelity and trust. And by learning to forgive when one—or both—of them messed up.

Someone like Dean.

“I've got to go,” she breathed.

“Wha?” Lucy lifted her head from the container of salad. “Where?” Understanding dawned. “No! Don't you dare. I…I…forbid it!”

Rosemary cocked her head. “Seriously?”

Lucy's customary certainty faltered. “Yes. I'm your sister and…your lawyer.”

Smiling gratefully, Rosemary tucked the bag of cheese puffs between the chicken and the apple pie then rose, slipped her feet into purple flip-flops and headed for the door.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” Lucy, who made feral cats look relaxed by comparison, half rose, sat back down and rose again. “Change your clothes, at least,” she called after her baby sister. “And brush your hair!”

“No time! But thanks.”

Grabbing a set of keys off a hook and her Oregon Ducks cap from the coat tree near the door, Rosemary smashed the hat onto her head, unfortunately making her curls stick out like clown hair, and raced into the spring afternoon with Lucy's conflicted “Good luck” following her out the door.

B
ecause the pharmacy was closed on Sundays, Rosemary took the alley staircase to Dean's apartment, hoping he was there. If not, her plan was to let herself in with the key he'd given her and wait. Regarding what she would say… Uh, yeah, not a clue.

Her heart, which had done more emotional aerobics these past few months than ever before in its life, thumped with nerves and excitement. She was nearly five months along in her pregnancy and had thrown on leggings with an oversize Oregon Shakespeare Festival T-shirt that masked her growing tummy, but did nothing for her fashion sense. Oh, well. If Dean wasn't there, then she'd take the time to freshen up a bit, maybe scrunch some gel, if he had any, into her curls while she waited.

Reaching the landing, glad there was no one else in the alley this afternoon, Rosemary raised her hand to knock on the glass-paned door. Noticing a movement inside, she hesitated,
pressing her nose closer to the glass. Her busy heart skidded to a momentary halt.

Dean was inside the apartment, tall and handsome and tempting as always. But he wasn't alone.

“What?” Rosemary breathed, blinking as if she could make the scene inside disappear.

Seated on the leather couch that faced the alley windows, Dean gazed at an exotically beautiful woman as she leaned toward him, speaking animatedly.

Instantly, Rosemary reverted to the little girl who'd wondered endlessly why her father hadn't stayed. And to the wife who felt betrayed and foolish when her “perfect” life had turned out to be nothing more than an empty shell.

The urge to bolt came on strong. In the past twenty-four hours, she had gathered enough circumstantial evidence against Dean to write him off for good. If Lucy were here with her fork, she'd stab first and ask questions later. But the evidence was only circumstantial.

Fortunately for Dean, she was not one of her sisters. Or her mother. Or her friends. She was, finally, just Rosemary, and she knew exactly what she needed to do.

Her entire girlhood had been steeped in the quiet and desperate fear that she might end up alone. Her adulthood until two years ago—an exhausting exercise in trying to keep that from happening. More recently she'd attempted to tame the anxiety by convincing herself she embraced being alone.

Now she dived straight into the heart of the terror and discovered something amazing: the longer she stood inside it without flinching, the more it dissolved, like clouds. Behind the fear was the far more substantial soul she had never learned to trust.

Rosemary raised the hand holding the apartment key. Her other hand drifted to her abdomen, eyes narrowing speculatively as she patted the baby. “I can't fix the past, but I can
do things differently now. Watch this, kiddo. Mama's going to show you how it's done.”

Slipping the key into the lock, she moved swiftly, claiming the element of surprise as she burst into Dean's living room.

The gorgeous Latina woman with the sexy, straight black hair jumped, as did Dean, although when he saw who the intruder was, his surprise turned to, at first, concern and then bemusement. And finally, hope.

He stood, his attention all on Rosemary. The last thing he'd said to her the night before was,
“I'll be waiting. For as long as it takes you to forgive me, I'll wait.”

This afternoon all he managed was a surprised and questioning, “Rosie?”

She almost felt sorry for him. If he expected a quick and easy reunion this afternoon, he was in for a bit of a shock.
I've got a much better plan than that.

Stomping forward, she halted only when her knees hit the coffee table then stabbed her index finger at Dean's admirable chest.

“Don't you ‘Rosemary' me, bub. I come over here to bring you home, and what do I find?”

The woman, who really was lovely, jumped to her feet. “Oh, no! No, this is not what you're thinking—”

“Save it, sister.” Adopting a growl that had never before emerged from her mouth, Rosemary realized that the poor woman was ready to whip out her iPhone and key in 9-1-1.
Sorry,
she tried to communicate telepathically.
But I have to make a point here.

Gesturing toward her husband, she said, “That is
my
man.
Mine.
And I don't share.”

“Oh, but, really, I'm not—”

Rosemary gave her a talk-to-the-hand. “Please,” she said. “Believe me, I understand
why
you want him.” Dean deserved
some grandstanding after all he'd been through the past couple of days, and, by golly, he was going to get it. “He's gentle, he's kind, he's incredibly patient. Except for a little trust issue regarding his father's will and my ability to love him in spite of it—and I do love him in spite of it—the man is near perfect.”

She turned to Dean, and their gazes locked. “Perfect enough for me, anyway. It took a while for me to figure out that I can't put my faith in anyone else until I've put it in myself, but I think I get that now. And just for the record, I like that you haven't fallen in love easily in your life.” She smiled, her heart in her words and in her eyes. “Because I know this one's for real.”

She paused, wanting to soak in Dean's expression in that moment, the awe and the pleasure, the hope that looked so boyish and dear on his handsome face, and—oh, yeah…lookee there—the lust. They would have to take advantage of that soon. Very, very soon. She had only one more point to make….

“I don't want a fairy tale, anymore, Dean. Really. Well…I wouldn't mind the singing mice…but trying to live in a fairy tale is exhausting. What I need is a man I love and respect, who loves and respects me. I expect our marriage to be the shelter and strength for our family. So I'm not going to run away anymore. This is my life, and I intend to stand and fight for it.”

She put both fists on her hips. “Now. You're coming home with me, Dean Kingsley. And don't get lippy about it. You give me any guff, and you'll see what angry does to a librarian.”

His eyes glowed a deep spring-blue she wouldn't mind looking at every day for the rest of her life. Stepping around the table, Dean stood close enough to swap pheromones and sent his gaze appreciatively up and down his very adamant wife. “I love it when you go gangsta.”

Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her, that honey-pouring, knee-melting, I-know-you-and-love-you kiss that she'd like to bottle for use every day when they were apart for more than, say, ten minutes. This was what she had almost given up.

When he lifted his head, he remembered they had an audience of one. Keeping a hand on Rosemary's back (and making sensuously slow circles that could drive a girl crazy), Dean addressed the woman who, at the moment, looked as if she'd been in a bad episode of
Punked.
“Esmeralda, this is my wife, Rosemary. Rosie, this is Dr. Esmeralda Duran. She'll be working with Dr. Gill until Clinica Adelina is up and running. Then she'll head the health center.”

“Oh, hello! A pleasure to meet you.” Rosemary leaned forward to offer her hand, which Dr. Duran took warily.

“Uh-huh. Why don't I leave you two alone….” Esmeralda edged to the alley-entrance door. “Sounds as if you need some time. Dean, thanks so much for showing me the apartment. I'd like to move in a couple of days from now if that's all right.” Her coal-black eyes shifted to Rosemary, who understood her hesitation immediately.

“Here's the extra key.” She offered it to the other woman. “And no copies have been made. Promise.” She was definitely going to have to make a second first impression on Dr. Duran.

Esmeralda plucked the key gingerly from Rosemary's fingers. “Okay, thanks. Well.” She nodded again, halfway out the door. “Have a really…interesting evening.”

“We will.” Rosemary waved. “'Bye.” When the door shut behind the beautiful physician, Rosemary cocked her head. “Is she an ob-gyn, by any chance? I could use someone local.”

“Hmm,” Dean studied his bride. “We may have to shop around.”

“Okay.” She smiled up at him. “So you're renting your apartment.”

“I thought I would, yes. I had hoped to live with my wife till death we did part and all that. But then she realized what a lame-brained jackass I'd been—”

“You weren't that big a jackass—”

“Yes, I was.”

He looked sincere and contrite, and she realized this was another apology for the will and that he had to get it off his chest, even though she was ready to move on. “Okay, have it your way.”

“Thank you. So I was going to stay away for a couple of days while I figured out how to make a very dramatic statement about how much I love you.”

“Really.” She smiled brightly.
He said it!
“And what did you come up with?”

Dean raised a brow, wry with regret. “Nothing like what you came up with. I'm going to have to go back to the drawing board.”

“Please don't.”

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, a huge disappointment when Rosemary wanted them around her. “You can't get to know someone who's deceiving you. So obviously I have a lot of work ahead, introducing myself to my wife. Becoming the best friend she wants and deserves.”

A thrill shot through Rosemary, from her skin all the way down to her soul.

“That sounds time-consuming,” she said.

“Bound to be.” He nodded solemnly. “Labor-intensive, too. Is your schedule clear?”

“You bet.” She nodded back, just as solemnly, picturing weekends at the coast…staying up all night to make love…a hundred second honeymoons…. Heaven. “Of course, five
months from now your daughter will have something to say about our free time.”

“Daughter.” Dean's solemn expression softened to the boyish, wonder-filled sweetness she knew reflected the best of his heart. “A girl?”

Rosemary feared her face might not be big enough to host the smile that stretched across it. But her throat tightened when she saw the telltale sparkle fill her husband's eyes.

“With her mother's curls,” he said, reaching out—finally!—to gather Rosemary into his arms.

“And your eyes, I hope.” She snuggled against him. “I think I'll teach her to talk gangsta.”

Dean's chest bounced beneath her ear. “Librarian gangsta.”

Rosemary socked him lightly. They kissed until it was time to come up for air then she leaned back and said, “Want to begin getting to know each other
really
well?”

Brushing the curls off her forehead, Dean nodded, a man who knew exactly what he wanted and understood that he already had it. “We've got at least fifty years of intense work ahead of us. May as well get started.”

“May as well.”

Rosemary grinned. Once upon a time, she'd chased a fairy tale. Now she stood squarely in the middle of reality and it was everything she'd ever dreamed. Plus a whole lot more.