Carolina Heart (7 page)

Until he turned his lips into her throat, his fingers gripping her butt, and followed her.

*   *   *

THEY
sprawled, tangled, skin to skin, glued together by sweat and satisfaction, until their breathing calmed and their heartbeats matched and slowed.

Cynthie released a long, shuddery sigh. “Wow.”

He stroked her hair back from her face, a faint tremor in his hand, the aftershocks of desire. “That good? Or that bad?”

“Good. But . . .” His shoulder tensed under her cheek. She pushed herself up to meet his gaze, dark and steady in the uneven moonlight. “It’s like chocolate ice cream.” Or a bottle of wine that cost more than six dollars. Like something she’d done only for herself, a selfish indulgence she couldn’t afford every day.

“Let’s say you’re on a diet. You want chocolate ice cream,” she explained earnestly. “So you tell yourself,
It’s just this once, you’ll only have a little
. You know, to treat yourself after a lousy day. But then you start eating, and, ohmigod, it’s like the best ice cream ever, and you can’t stop eating.”

He grinned up at her, his lean face suddenly relaxing. “You can have as much as you want, sweetheart. Though I might need a couple minutes here. We’re not in high school anymore.”

She struggled to sit, to find her balance against the tide of temptation. “That’s the point. I have the girls to think about now. I have responsibilities. I can’t go around—”

He raised his brows. “Eating ice cream?”

“—whenever I want.”

He rearranged her weight on top of him, coaxing her head down onto his shoulder. “That’s okay. I get it. Your kids have to be your first priority.”

He held her a long, wordless time, his breath at her temple, the steady thud of his heartbeat under her palms. Gradually, she relaxed, melting into his lap. He felt so good, so solid against her, his body supporting her weight, his arms holding her secure. Maybe it was only temporary, but it was very sweet.

“Still friends?” she asked finally in a small voice.

His arms tightened around her. “If that’s what you want.”

“I want you,” she confessed. “I want this. But I’ve got to put my kids first. I haven’t been able to give them everything they need. But I can show them every day that they matter more than anything to me. They’ll have that.”

“Then that’s everything.”

“You must have really good parents.”

He was silent.

Uh-oh
. She raised her head, seeking his expression in the dark. “Or really bad ones,” she guessed.

His throat moved as he swallowed. “This isn’t about me. I’ll take whatever is right for the kids. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She snuggled closer, grateful for his understanding. But the pinch at her heart would not go away. Max was such a good guy. He deserved more. Better.
Who put him first?
she wondered.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his chest.

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m not sorry. About anything. As long as I get to see you sometimes, that’s enough for me.”

CYNTHIE HELD ON
to the refrigerator door for support.
Get a grip,
she ordered herself. This morning, she’d had some dream of impressing Max with a real family dinner, a home-cooked meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes and Mama’s biscuits. It made her happy to feed him something besides takeout. The man didn’t eat properly. But now . . .

She stared sightlessly at the refrigerator’s contents. All she could see was the image of Dr. Rick Rice’s hand on her breast. A light touch, over her blouse, as Cynthie sat beside him this afternoon observing a procedure on a sedated patient. Hardly a grope at all.

But the memory of his splayed fingers crawled like a spider across her mind.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Hannah asked.

Her pulse hammered. She felt sick. Powerless. If some guy had tried anything at the bar, she would have known what to expect. How to react. Her turf, her terms. But she hadn’t been braced to defend herself against her mentor. Dr. Rice had said, with a white, perfect smile that did not mask his lack of real apology, that he’d only been reaching for the instrument tray. It was possible, Cynthie supposed, that her boob got in his way. Anything was possible.

Including that she could jeopardize her job-shadowing experience by calling the oral surgeon a lying sack of shit.

“Mom?”

Cynthie shut the fridge without taking anything out. “I’m fine, honey.”

Madison wandered into the kitchen. “What’s that smell?”

Crap.
The biscuits were burning. Cynthie whirled back to the oven and yanked open the door, reaching for a pot holder with her other hand.

“What time is Max coming over?” Hannah asked.

Cynthie threw a distracted glance at the clock, dumping the biscuits onto the counter. “Soon.”

The bottoms were only a little charred. Maybe she could salvage dinner after all. She turned to the chicken sizzling in the skillet. She really wanted to make this work. Not just the meal. Everything. When she was with Max, she could almost believe they could be more than friends. When he touched her, her hair or her arm, or smiled at her a certain way, her insides tingled. Her world glowed. She felt . . . not confident. But hopeful.

“I thought he was supposed to be here at six,” Madison said.

So she had noticed he was late. Was that a good sign? Was her daughter actually looking forward to seeing him again?

“He must have gotten held up,” Cynthie said.

Madison shrugged. “That’s okay. I just wondered what he thought of the picture I sent him.”

Cynthie blinked, tongs suspended. “You sent Max a picture?”

“Of Taylor’s dog. I sent it from Taylor’s phone.”

“How did you get his number?”

“Your contacts list. Max says I have a good eye for photography.”

Cynthie focused on turning a thigh, her mind seething like the fat in the pan. She was glad Maddie was taking an interest in something other than hair clips and boy bands. She wanted Max and her children to get along. But . . .

“Honey, I don’t think you should be using your friend’s phone to message Max.”

“I could get my own phone. I’m old enough,” Madison said.

“Too expensive,” Cynthie answered automatically.

“How about a dog?” Madison asked.

“Yeah! A dog!” Hannah said.

Cynthie closed her eyes, her head pounding. She so did not have the energy for this now. Not after the craptastic Dr. Rice.

The doorbell clunked its broken two-note chime.

“Max!” Hannah skipped to the door.

But it was Wanda, come to pick up some of Hannah’s hand-me-downs to give to a neighbor’s child.

“I’ll get them!” Hannah ran to her room and back, carrying a trash bag full of outgrown clothes. “Max is coming over for dinner,” she told her grandmother.

Wanda made the Universal Mom sound, shooting an interested glance at Cynthie. “Hm. Isn’t that nice. He came last week, too, didn’t he?”

“He’s late,” Madison said.

Cynthie flushed. She transferred the chicken to a plate, hoping Mama would attribute her heightened color to the heat of the stove. “He must have gotten hung up at school.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel before reaching for her phone. “I’ll just call him.”

But he didn’t pick up. Not the first time. Or the second.

Cynthie supervised the setting of the table, trying to ignore the unsettled feeling in her stomach, the tightness in her chest. Trying not to catch her mother’s sympathetic eyes.

She and Max hadn’t made plans to meet up at school today. Knowing she would see him tonight, Cynthie hadn’t given the change from their usual routine a second thought. But now, as she waited, she wondered.

And worried.

She thought about him all the time, his steady eyes and careful, sure touch and fantastic body. But in the three weeks since he’d had her half-naked and gasping in the backseat of his Volvo, he’d never once behaved inappropriately in front of her kids, never pushed to spend the night, never complained about their lack of sex life. Only the occasional measuring look in his eyes, the tension in his muscles when he kissed her good night, suggested he wasn’t satisfied.

The minutes ticked by.

Cynthie took a deep breath. She was better than this. She was stronger than this. She wasn’t teaching her girls to live their lives waiting on a man who didn’t call.

She removed the foil from the chicken. “Time to eat,” she announced brightly.

“Where’s Max?” Hannah asked.

“He isn’t coming,” Madison said.

“You want me to stay?” Wanda asked.

Cynthie looked at the table set for four, at Hannah’s confused face, at Madison’s scowl, and smiled gratefully at her mother. “I’d love for you to stay.” She gave a broken half laugh. “There’s plenty of chicken.”

Wanda didn’t say anything. But after the meal, as Cynthie stood to clear the dirty plates, Wanda reached over and squeezed her hand.

Her eyes stung at her mama’s unspoken support. Nobody understood disappointment like Mama. She’d been let down all her life and still kept going.

Cynthie cleared the lump from her throat. “Who wants ice cream?”

“Me!” Hannah said.

“You want chocolate ice cream.”
The words played in a dismal loop in Cynthie’s head as she scooped dessert into bowls.
“So you tell yourself,
‘It’s just this once, you’ll only have a little.’
You know, to treat yourself after a lousy day. But then you start eating, and, ohmigod, it’s like the best ice cream ever, and you can’t stop eating.”

Cynthie bowed her head over the bowls, her eyes and nose stinging, her heart aching. She’d thought she was being so smart, protecting her girls, guarding her heart, taking her time to be sure.

She didn’t trust herself.

But she had believed in Max.
“As long as I get to see you sometimes, that’s enough for me.”

And now their time was up. He was fed up with her, frustrated with the limits she’d set on their relationship.

She couldn’t even blame him.

“He’s still not answering his phone,” Madison said, hanging up the landline as Cynthie returned to the table.

“Maddie . . . You can’t call him again.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “Why not?”

“Because . . .”
I screwed up. I couldn’t give him what he wanted, and now he’s gone.
“He’s very busy.”

Madison’s chin stuck out at a familiar angle. “Or maybe he’s sick. He lives all alone. Maybe he hurt himself. He could have been in an accident, even.”

Cynthie’s chest squeezed as she regarded Madison’s stubborn, concerned face. Her precious daughter, who—despite all Cynthie’s mistakes—still believed there were nice guys in the world who didn’t walk away.

He could have been in an accident, even.

She owed it to Madison to call.

She owed it to Max.

He’d never been late before, never willingly disappointed the girls or failed to keep his word. When Cynthie was late, he had waited. When her car battery died, he had been there.

She pulled out her cell phone. No messages. No voice mail. Her heart quailed. She might not have a degree from Harvard, but she knew what it meant when a man stopped calling, when he didn’t bother to return a text.

She looked at her daughters’ expectant faces. Held her mother’s resigned gaze. Three generations of women on their own. They didn’t need anybody else. But if Max needed them . . .

Cynthie swallowed and pressed Call. One ring, two, three . . .

“Cynthie?” He sounded terrible.

“Hi.”

“What time is it?” His voice was raspy, slurred, like a man coming off a three-day bender.

“Um.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. I must have dropped off.”

Dropped off what? The face of the planet?
she thought, and was instantly ashamed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m . . . I was throwing up most of the night. And today. But that’s no excuse.”

She clutched the phone, giddy with relief and concern. “You’re sick.”

“Food poisoning. Grad student potluck last night.” He groaned. “I thought I’d be better by tonight. God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cynthie said. “Is there anybody with you?”

“What?” He sounded dazed. “No. Cynthie, about dinner . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” He was sick and alone. Poor guy.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I should have called. I would have called, but—”

“You fell asleep,” she finished for him. “You probably didn’t hear the phone.”

“The phone?” A pause, while she imagined him checking his messages, and then a clunk.
Max, beating his head against the wall?
“Shit.”

“It’s okay,” she said again. “Try to get some rest. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Wait. Cynthie—”

“Rest,” she ordered.

She ended the call to find Mama and the girls watching her with varying degrees of fascination.

Cynthie took a breath. Straightened her shoulders. “Mama, I need a favor.”

*   *   *

NOT
okay. Max dropped his head in his hands with a groan. Not okay at all, no matter how reassuring Cynthie tried to sound. He was trying to prove to her that he wasn’t like all the other guys in her life, that she could trust him enough to take their relationship to the next level, and then he blew off dinner with her daughters.

At least he’d stopped heaving.

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyeballs, as if he could push his brain back into his skull. He needed to think. To move. He could fix this. All he had to do was . . . All he had to do . . .

A shudder shook him. His muscles, already stiff from spending the night on the cold tile floor, seized.

Hot shower, he thought when the spasm had passed. He stank like a corpse dragged from a swamp.

The doorbell rang while he was getting dressed. He yanked his gray T-shirt over his head and padded barefoot to the door.

Cynthie.

His heart leaped.

He blinked, half-afraid she would vanish, a vision concocted of too little sleep and the lingering effects of the graduate student potluck dinner.

But, nope, she was still there, on his doorstep, carrying one of those reusable grocery bags.

“Hi.” She smiled and stepped over his threshold. “You should shut the door. It’s cold outside.”

He complied automatically. “What are you doing here?”

“Somebody has to take care of you.”

He couldn’t remember anybody saying that to him before. Julie? Never. Maybe his mother, years ago. “I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Her soft green eyes widened as she took him in, from his bare feet to his wet hair. “You look . . .”

He smiled wryly. “Like the walking dead?”

Her mouth quirked. “Like you just got out of the shower,” she said tactfully. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Much better, now that she was here. He couldn’t believe she was here.

She stepped in close, smelling like cloves and Cynthie, and laid a quick, cool hand on his forehead before cupping his jaw. He turned his face into her hand, pressing his dry lips to her palm in gratitude.

Her cheeks were pink as she moved away. “No fever,” she announced. “Is your kitchen this way?”

“I’m not sick. It’s just food poisoning. I really am better now.”

She tipped her head. “When did you last eat?”

He winced.

She made another of those soft, judicious noises. “All right, what have you had to drink?”

“I can’t keep anything down.”

“Not even water?”

“I haven’t tried.” Not since the last disastrous attempt. “I brushed my teeth,” he added defensively.

“That’s not going to stop you from getting dehydrated.” She carried the grocery bag to the kitchen. “That’s okay. I brought you something.”

“I really don’t want anything.”
Except for you to stay.
To make her stay, he was even willing to force food on his protesting stomach.

She set the groceries on his immaculate granite counter. “Sit down before you fall down. I’m making you ramen. You don’t have to eat the noodles, but the broth will replace salt and fluids.”

It was a relief to fold himself into a chair. “Yes, ma’am.”

She looked around as she removed things from the bag—soup, ginger ale, crackers. “This is a nice big kitchen.”