That Wintry Feeling (Debbie Macomber Classics) (8 page)

Grady broke the contact, dragging his mouth from hers. He seemed to know what she
was thinking. Cathy could sense it, could feel his hesitation, or was that disappointment? She couldn’t tell. Slowly he took control of himself.

His hands cupped her shoulders as he lifted his face, his eyes dark, unreadable.

“Grady,” she whispered, feeling confused, wanting to explain, knowing she couldn’t. Lowering her eyes, she released a long sigh. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, and raked a vicious hand through his curly hair. “Don’t apologize, understand?”

“Okay.”

Without a backward glance, without another word, he left the kitchen. Cathy winced when she heard the front door close.

Now she was upset, not with Grady but with herself. She couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take for her broken heart to heal. Another question was exactly how long Steve would continue to dominate her life. Would she ever be able to love, truly love, anyone else?

Sometime later she fixed Angela a sandwich and poured the little girl a glass of milk. Nothing sounded appetizing, and she chose not to eat. Skipping meals was becoming a repeated pattern, and one that must stop.

Grady returned a couple hours later, carrying a brown paper sack and two wine goblets turned upside down between two fingers.

Smiling to herself, Cathy hung up his coat. “Wine and marshmallows. Sounds wonderful,” she teased.

His lips brushed her cheek. “The wine is for later,” he murmured, for her ears only.

Immediately, Peterkins growled, again taking exception to having another man kiss her.

Cathy cast the spaniel a warning glance. “Where were you when I needed you?” she questioned him. After Grady had left the house, Cathy had discovered Angela playing house with the dog, placing him in the bed and pulling the covers over his head. If he’d been free, the scene in the kitchen would have never been allowed to go as far as it did.

A look of impatience flickered over Grady’s expression. “I refuse to be deterred by a mutt,” he declared, taking out a huge bone from the bottom of the sack. “If you want to play protector, do it with this.” He held up the bone, and Peterkins leaped into the air in a futile attempt to reach the goodie. Grady stooped down to pet the dog. “Later, buddy, later.”

Flickering flames leaped out between pieces of wood as Grady, Angela, and Cathy sat on
the carpet, their backs supported by the front of the sofa. Shadows danced across the room, forming mime figures on the opposite wall. An empty bag of marshmallows was carelessly tossed onto the coffee table while the last song softly faded.

Angela yawned and crawled onto the couch, tucking her hands and knees into a tight ball. “I’m sleepy, Daddy and Cathy,” she said, on another long, drawn-out yawn. “This is almost like being a real family, isn’t it?”

Grady’s arm rested across Cathy’s shoulder. “Yes, it is,” he whispered.

Together they sat before the fire. There didn’t seem to be a need for words. Her neck rested against his arm, and for the first time in recent memory, Cathy felt utterly content.

In a series of agile movements, Grady placed another log on the fire, moved into the kitchen, and returned with an open bottle of wine and the wineglasses. Peterkins was nowhere to be seen. “Maybe Angela would rest better in a bed. Mind if I put her in your room?” he asked softly, as if afraid he would wake the sleeping child.

“Sure, go ahead,” she agreed lazily.

He left her momentarily and smiled when he returned. He lowered himself onto the carpeting beside her. Filling the wineglass, he handed it to Cathy. When his own glass was ready, he paused, holding it up. “To what shall we drink?”

Laying her head against the sofa cushion, Cathy closed her eyes. “To the personals?”

Grady chuckled and gently tapped her glass with his. “To the personals.”

They both sipped the wine. “To the Red Baron,” she offered next.

“And Snoopy.” Grady touched the rim of the glasses again before taking a sip.

The sauvignon blanc was marvelous, light, and refreshing.

“This is good,” Cathy murmured, after her second glass. “Very good.”

“So is this.” He took the stemmed glass out of her hand and placed it on the coffee table.

I should stop him,
Cathy thought, lifting a strand of hair away from her face.
It’s going to happen all over again. Grady’s going to kiss me and I won’t be able to respond.
The reasoning was there, but the desire to put a halt to his intentions wasn’t.

Grady stared at her for a long minute, his eyes darkening to an intense blue as his hands framed her face. Slowly, as if waiting for her to stop him, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Cathy parted her lips, but whether in protest or welcome she didn’t know. Her arms circled his neck as the pressure of his mouth hardened over hers. Where once there had been a
feeling of dread, a warmth, an acceptance, began to flow, spreading throughout her until she moaned softly.

Grady broke the contact, his mouth hovering inches above hers until their breaths merged. Gently, lovingly, his hands caressed the sides of her neck, slowly descending over her shoulders while he spread tender kisses on her temples and face.

The gentle quality of his touch brought the first trace of tears to her eyes.
It’s the wine,
she told herself. Crying was a ridiculous response to being kissed. This was beautiful, lovely. She should never have drunk the wine.

One tear slid down her flushed cheek. When Grady’s lips encountered the wetness, he paused and kissed it away. His mouth met each tear as it escaped, and soon his lips were investigating every inch of her face. Her cheek, her forehead, her chin. When he moved to explore her parted lips, Cathy could taste the saltiness of her own tears in the kiss.

Grady lifted his head and pulled her into his arms. “Are you okay?” The question was breathed against her hair.

For a moment, answering him was impossible. “Just hold me, okay?”

She was pressed so close against his chest that her breasts were flattened, but she didn’t care. For the first time in months, she was beginning to feel. A healing balm, a warmth, began to spread its way through her. Cathy didn’t know how long Grady held her. Time had lost importance. The only sensation that registered was the soothing, gentle stroke of his hand.

The pressure of his body edged her backward. The carpet felt smooth and comforting against her back. Positioned above her, Grady again studied her, lowering his mouth to kiss her nose and smiling gently into her wary, unsure eyes. The tender touch of his lips produced a languor, a state of dreaminess.

Her fingers spread over his back, but the desire to feel the rippling hard muscles of his shoulders was so very tempting. Her hands slid under his sweater, reveling in the feel of his bare skin.

Grady’s kiss devoured her lips until she was breathless and panting. His touch felt right and good. Putting an end to the delicious feeling was what would be wrong, not the intimate caress.

When he moaned and dragged his mouth from hers, burying it in the curve of her neck, Cathy rolled her head to the side to encourage the exploration.

His tongue found the sensitive lobe of her ear, and dancing shivers skidded over her skin. A soft, muted moan trembled from her. Cathy could feel his mouth form a smile against her hair. Gradually his hold loosened, and he eased himself into a sitting position, helping her up.

“More wine?” His voice was slightly husky and disturbed.

Disoriented, Cathy resumed her former position and nodded.
Don’t stop!
she wanted to scream.
The pain is almost gone when you hold me.
Her heart had been more than bruised, it’d been shattered. For so long she’d believed it would take more than one miracle to repair the damage, if at all.

When she didn’t answer, Grady handed her a replenished glass. Her fingers were shaking as she accepted the wine. Gently, he kissed her temple and placed an arm across her shoulders, pulling her close to his side.

“Who did this to you?” He whispered the question. “Who hurt you so badly?”

A chill ran down her spine. Cathy began to quiver, faint tremors shaking her shoulders. Heat invaded her body, creeping up from her neck, spreading its crimson color to her ears and face.

“No one.” She straightened, crossing her legs. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it. Should I turn down the heat?”

Grady didn’t comment, but he leaned forward and brushed his mouth over her temple. “You’re running away again.”

“I’m not running from anything.” She bounded to her feet. “Have you had dinner? I didn’t, and suddenly I’m starved. Do you want anything?” A quick step carried her into the kitchen. Peterkins was scratching at the bedroom door, where he’d cuddled up with Angela. A gnawed bone was in front of the door, his interest having waned.

“Come in, boy,” she said, welcoming him inside.

“Do you feel the need for your protector?” Grady moved behind her, placing one hand on her shoulder.

“Will you stop?” she said, shrugging off his touch and forcing herself to sound carefree. “I don’t need a protector. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” She raised her hands in karate fashion. “I’ll have you know these hands are registered weapons with the FBI.” Afraid her eyes would tell him more than she was willing to reveal, she opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of eggs.

Leaning lazily against the counter, Grady’s hands gripped the edge of the tile. His look was deceptively aloof, but he couldn’t disguise his interest. “If that’s the case, do you always cry when a man kisses you?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “It was all that wine you forced me to drink. Now, do you want an omelet or not?”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.” A smile crinkled the lines about his eyes, and for a moment Cathy could almost hate him. She couldn’t help being curious about what he found so amusing.

Hands positioned challengingly on her hips, she spun around. “All right, I don’t want to talk about it. Are you happy?”

“Pleased. I appreciate the honesty.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured. Taking a mixing bowl from the cupboard, she cracked the eggs against the edge with brutal force, emptying them into the bowl. She didn’t know how she was going to force herself to eat. The thought of food was enough to make her sick. “I don’t ask you personal questions. I … I wouldn’t dream of inquiring about your marriage or your relationship with your wife.” She waved her hands in the air dramatically, then gripped the fork and furiously whipped the eggs.

Grady watched her movements for a minute. “Those eggs are going to turn into cream if you don’t stop whipping them to death.”

“It’s clear you don’t know a thing about cooking, otherwise you’d realize you’re supposed to whip the eggs.” She took a deep breath. “Besides, how would you feel if I started prying into your life?”

Grady shrugged and then gestured with the open palm of his hand. “My life’s an open book.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “How’s your love life? How many times a week did you and your wife make love?” She threw the questions at him in rapid succession, not pausing to breathe between.

“Rotten,” he shot right back at her. “And in the end Pam and I didn’t.”

“Aha!” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “The truth comes out. And just why weren’t you and Pam acting like husband and wife?” There was a sense of satisfaction seeing the way his mouth tensed and the way his jaw worked. His eyes narrowed into deep, dark sapphires
that were as cold as Arctic ice.

Wiping her fingers with a hand towel, she smiled at him sweetly. “As the saying goes, if it’s too hot in the kitchen …”

“Pam and I didn’t make love because she was no longer interested in lovemaking—or me, for that matter.”

Cathy flinched. She hadn’t expected him to reveal so much of his life. In all actuality, she and Grady were two of a kind. “Is that when you began running?” The minute the words were out, Cathy knew she had made another mistake.

“Listen, Cathy.” Grady rammed his fists into his pockets. “I don’t know where you come off. I’ve never run from anything or anyone.”

“Then why do you work twenty-hour days and spend so little time at home that your daughter hardly knows you?” Now that she’d started, Cathy couldn’t make herself stop. Why wouldn’t she quit? She couldn’t imagine what made her delve into the intimate details of his life as if it was her right to know. She found herself digging at him unmercifully. She had no right to throw stones at him when she was just as vulnerable.

“All right. You want answers, I’ll give you answers.” His breath came out roughly.

“Grady, no.” The words were ripped from her throat. “I’m sorry, I have no right. Can’t we agree to leave the past buried? It’s obvious we’ve both been hurt. It won’t do either of us any good to dredge up all that pain.”

He sighed heavily.

Cathy walked across the kitchen, slipped her arms around his middle, and softly laid her head on his chest. His arms circled her and held her close and tight, pressing her to him while he buried his face in her hair. They stood with their arms around each other in the middle of the kitchen floor until Cathy felt a faint shudder rake through him.

“Did you say something about dinner?” he asked, then firmly kissed the top of her head, breaking the embrace.

Cathy smiled gently to herself. “I did,” she said. Not that she really was interested in cooking—or eating, for that matter. But she put her culinary efforts into creating one of her specialties, a cheese-and-mushroom omelet.

When everything was ready, she carried the two plates to the table. Grady had surprised her by getting the silverware and folding paper napkins.

Cathy was still eating when he pushed the empty plate aside. “You’re a good cook.”

“Thank you.”

“Pam was a good cook.”

Cathy lowered her fork to her plate. She wanted to tell him to stop, she didn’t want to be compared to another woman.

“In some ways, the two of you are alike.”

Cathy shifted uneasily. “Don’t.”

Grady looked up, surprised. “Don’t? Don’t what?”

“Compare me with someone else.”