I Still Do (5 page)

“You should, you know. Izzy says…Izzy says you have a great body.”

“What?”

Her eyes popped open. She blinked. “I'm not dreaming. You really
are
here.”

“Yep.”

She stared another moment. Then she closed her eyes again, as if her lashes were too heavy to hold up. “Go away.”

“I can't—”

“I'm
sick.
”

“And I've been around a dozen or so sufferers of the Firefighters' Flu—what I'd venture a guess you have—in the past couple of days and am so far unscathed. As a matter of fact, it was probably me who exposed you to the virus in the first place.”

She looked at him again. “Then I hate you. Go away.”

“You know,” he said, propping his shoulder against the cushion of the loveseat. “They say men are lousy patients, but in my experience, it was the girls who were the worst. When she didn't feel well, Jamie could make the whole house miserable with her bad temper. Betsy wasn't a complainer, but she'd insist I hold her hand the whole time she was in bed.”

“I don't want you to hold my hand in bed.”

And if she was in bed—no, no, he wasn't going to go there, not even in his imagination. He cleared his throat. “Look, can I get you anything?”

“No.”

His conscience pricked him. “I just can't run off. I promised your boss I'd look in on you.”

“But you did look. You can see it isn't pretty. Now please leave me alone.”

It was perverse of him, he knew that, but the more she tried to push him away, the more stubborn he got about staying. Until he could do something for her at least.

“How's your stomach?” he asked.

“I might have lost it altogether sometime last night. As a matter of fact, I hope that's the case.”

“It's been quiet since then?”

He took her head movement as a yes. “Then you need liquids. Water. Gatorade.”

Without waiting for an answer, he found his way to the kitchen. No Gatorade, but she had a low-calorie version of the stuff in a sports bottle and that would do. It was the electrolytes and the liquid that her body thirsted for.

When he got back she didn't protest much as he helped her to a sitting position and brought the bottle to her mouth. She tried to hold it herself, but he brushed her weak hand away and she ended up leaning on him as she took greedy sips.

“Not so fast,” he murmured, brushing her hair off her face again. He wondered how many times he'd done something similar for one of his siblings. “Take it slow.”

She turned her face away and he lowered the bottle, as she continued to rest against him. A few minutes later they repeated the process. Two more times, and she pronounced herself feeling steady enough to get up and make a trip to the bathroom.

A muted half shriek from the hallway had him dashing the few feet to find her, staring aghast at her reflection. She met his eyes in the mirror over the sink. “I did die, and hell is that you had to see me looking like this.” Her hand gestured to the wild state of her messy hair.

He grinned. “You always know a woman's feeling better when she's worried about her hairstyle or the size of her butt.”

“Later, I'm going to be insulted by that,” she said, her voice weary. “But right now I don't have the energy.”

To hide his second grin, he pulled open the door to the shower stall and adjusted the taps. “Save your strength for some soap and water. You'll be fifty percent better once you get out.”

“I'm not settling for less than eighty-five.”

“Sixty.”

“Eighty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“Pessimist,” she said, as he let himself out into the hallway and shut the door behind him.

Even sick, she made him smile.

He was glad she didn't take long in there. The idea that he might have to barge in and rescue her, naked and wet, wasn't a prospect he was feeling as clinical about as he should. When she pulled open the bathroom door, he was waiting nearby, his back braced against the wall, and they stared at each other a long minute.

Her wet hair was slicked back from her face. He smelled sweet shampoo and minty toothpaste and her pallor was warmed by a flush brought on—he supposed—by the hot shower. The pink color ran from her cheeks and down the flesh of her neck, all the way to the vee of her chest exposed by her tightly wrapped, white terry cloth robe. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She'd rubbed something on them, because where they'd been chapped before, they were now already shiny.

His glance slid away and he straightened from the wall. “I made some soup I found in your cupboard. And oyster crackers. Where shall I bring it to you?”

“You don't—” she started, stepping forward, but then she wobbled, and had to grab the doorjamb for support.

He leaped to her, wrapping her waist with his arm. “Let's get you to bed.”

The shuddering sigh that went through her body was the only answer he needed. In minutes she was tucked between floral printed sheets and he was settling a tray of soup and crackers across her lap.

She murmured a thanks, then looked up. “You have to go now.”

“I will, when—”

“I'm not one of your charges. I'm not your responsibility.”

Irritation flashed through him. Okay, and maybe a half dose of guilt. “Gee, Em. Your gratefulness overwhelms.”

Her mouth set in a stubborn line. “Take offense. And then take it and yourself out of my house.”

“I take it back,” he said, scowling. “You're more like Jamie than Besty after all.”

“It's just that…” Her shoulders slumped. “It's just that after all you've done for others you don't deserve being saddled with another person to care for.”

It didn't feel like saddling. It felt like…hell, he didn't know. And she was right. He wasn't responsible for her and damn sure didn't want to be. His footsteps backed toward the door. “Fine, then. But you should call someone.”

“I'll ring Izzy.”

“Can she come from wherever she is to make sure you're all right?”

Emily shook her head. “I told you I don't need a keeper.”

But looking wan and fragile like that, she did need someone, he thought. “I know your folks are at the other end of the state, but can you call them? Maybe your mom could come stay for a few days.”

“Oh.” A strange expression crossed Emily's face. “No. My mom and dad are gone now.”

“What? When?” He thought she'd been close to them as a kid. If he remembered right, they'd had Emily late in life and she'd been an only child.

“My dad had a massive heart attack when I was twenty-five. Then I stayed with my mom in our old house for the next few years. She had a couple of strokes about eight months ago—the last one…well, it was the last one.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, Em.” She'd said those same words to him a couple of days ago, and though he realized she was years older than he'd been when he lost his folks, he knew it still had to hurt.

“That's when I decided to make a move,” she said. “I needed to get away from all those old memories to make a fresh start in a new place.”

Meaning she was away from all that was familiar, he realized. And that meant she was here in his part of the state, in his
county
knowing no one but him. Having no one, but him.

Her husband.

Hell.

Maybe another bachelor could have pushed that out of his mind right now. Maybe another man could have brought up to her—sick or not—that they had to get on that quickie divorce. It was the kind of bachelor he'd always thought he would be someday.

Or not.

Because, God, he couldn't do it. Separating himself from her at this point would leave her all alone. Without him, who would have gone looking for her when she didn't show up at work? As yet, no one knew her well enough—heck, how many people even knew her phone number or new home address?—to make sure she was safe. Not to mention happy.

Will's fingers curled into fists and he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his frustration. There wouldn't be any quickie divorce or speedy annulment. Not yet. He couldn't break his ties with Emily until he found her a community of friends, a circle of caring people who would let him finally leave her for good—and leave him with a clear conscience.

E
mily was back at her new job and feeling like her old self by the second half of the following week. She hadn't seen or heard from Will since he'd come to her aid that day on her couch. Still, when she picked up the phone with the greeting, “Reference Desk,” she immediately recognized the voice on the other end.

“Can the librarian tell me the most popular Friday night activity in the county?” he asked.

“
This
librarian enjoys putting a dent in her to-be-read pile of books,” Emily answered, “but if you'll let me put you on hold a moment, Will, I'll research how the rest of the Ponderosa County residents like to celebrate TGIF.”

“No, no, no hold,” he put in hastily. “I haven't had a minute to spare this week thanks to a second wave of Firefighters' Flu and I'm afraid I might never reach you again. I want to—”

“Talk, I know,” Emily interrupted, guilt making her toes curl in her sensible low heels. “I've been meaning to get in touch with you, too.”

He'd been right about the Danielle Phillips thing. Emily indeed had the ostrich-like habit of trying to ignore unpleasant or uncomfortable circumstances in the hopes they would go away. But burying her head in the proverbial sand—or in this case, bookshelves—wasn't going to fix what hot Vegas sun and too many mojitos had wrought.

She plucked the pencil she had tucked behind her ear and brought forward a scratch pad. “Obviously I'm the one who has the skills to find out the best way to—”

“I don't have time for that now,” Will suddenly said.

Through the phone, Emily heard the clang of an alarm and then other commotion—pounding feet and maybe the clink of equipment?

“We've got a call,” he continued, his voice hurried, “so I have to make this quick. Will you go with me to the Paxton High football game tomorrow night?”

“Um…well…” She really
had
planned on spending the following evening reading.

“Listen, Em, I have to hang up. Six o'clock? I'll meet you at your place.”

And before she'd managed to do more than stutter, he ended the call.

She stared at the receiver in her hand. That conversation had been too rushed and definitely less-than-satisfying. Sort of like their marriage.

Blood rose on her cheeks at the errant thought. She should be thankful they hadn't consummated their bad decision instead of complaining about it! Still…Closing her eyes, she remembered the sensation of being in his arms on the dance floor in Las Vegas. She recalled the hot, male scent of his neck when she pressed her face there, the imprint of his large hands on her back and then sliding lower, the unmistakable ridge she'd felt pressing against her stomach as they swayed together.

Squeezing the phone tight, she wrenched her thoughts away from the past. And from what wasn't to be.

Instead, she promised herself she'd focus on discovering what needed to be done to put an end to their impulsive mistake. Friday night, she'd present her findings to him first thing.

 

Okay, “first thing” wasn't going to happen, Emily realized, when she found herself squeezed between Will and his youngest sister on the bench seat of his pickup. Betsy had insisted on giving her the spot closest to her brother.

“Nice to see you again,” the other woman said, “though I'm sorry to horn in on your date.”

“Oh, we're not…” Emily let her voice trail off. Explaining they were only out together in order to discuss their divorce was surely subject matter Will didn't want her pursuing with his little sister.

And it would have been a lie, anyway, Emily realized, as they made their way into the crowded stands. While Betsy went off in one direction, Will was hailed by a group who scooted down the bleacher seats to make a place for two on a plaid woolen blanket. Thigh-to-thigh and arm-to-arm with him on one side and a total stranger on the other—not to mention knees to shoulder blades with other people she'd never met—meant they wouldn't have a chance to get into anything serious.

The man beside her stuck out his hand. “Patrick Walsh,” he said, with a friendly smile. “Let me guess, you met Will at Roady's. Or was it that new bar over on Chestnut?”

Emily blinked. She looked like some woman Will had picked up in a
bar?
she wondered, glancing down at her jeans, boots and wool coat. Okay, the coat was cherry red, and she'd succumbed to some beauty magazine advice about matching her lipstick to the color of the clothes closest to her face, but she hadn't ever been mistaken for a barfly type in her life. “No, I—” She broke off to press her lips together, hoping to rub some of the brightness away. “Um…”

Patrick was looking at her expectantly. “Um?”

“Well, you see, we met a long time ago…”

The man laughed. “I get it. I've had one of those
looong
nights myself. You were pub-hopping and can't quite recall where you first said ‘how do you do' to our man Will?”

“No!” Not that there was anything wrong with pub-hopping or bars or anything like that, not really. But Emily lived a much quieter life, if you didn't count those few crazy days in Las Vegas. “I'm a
librarian.
”

“Oh.” Patrick stilled, then scooted down the bench to put another inch between their limbs.

If she'd said “serial murderer” she didn't think he could look more surprised—or was it alarmed? Emily sighed. A reference to books tended to work on some people that way.

The man gave her an awkward half smile. “It's just that I didn't think Will was in a place where he was interested in women, who, uh, read.”

Emily ignored the little flame of annoyance sparking somewhere beneath her red coat. “What ‘place' is that, exactly, that Will's in? And what are the occupations of his usual type of female companion?”

“Not going there,” Patrick said, lifting his hands in surrender. “So not going there. It's just that we used to call him ‘Wild Will' in the old days, and he's been making noises about reclaiming the title now that Betsy's—”

“Graduated and out of the house,” she finished for him. “I know about that.” But what she didn't know was this nickname he used to have. The Will of her past had been summer-tan, summer-strong, the best swimmer, the fastest with a canoe, the guy who could actually
use
a compass. He'd evicted eight-legged creatures from the girls' cabins without one teasing guffaw and she was certain he'd never participated in a single, stupid panty raid.

So…Wild Will?

Glancing to her other side, she saw that the man in question was deep in a conversation with someone sitting on the bleacher behind him. “When exactly was he called that?” she asked the red-haired man beside her. “‘Wild Will', I mean.” And
why?

“High school,” Patrick answered, a nostalgic smile overtaking his face. “Want to play a practical joke on a friend? Will was the go-to guy. Looking for a class prank? He had dozens of schemes to make the administration nuts. One year we kidnapped the graduation caps and gowns and held them for the ransom of a longer lunch period. His idea.”

“Oh. Well.” That sounded harmless enough and very much like the clever Will she knew from summer camp. He'd been the one who came up with the best comic lines for the end-of-season skits.

“Of course, then there was his success with the ladies,” Patrick went on, followed by a sentimental sigh. “The stuff of legends.”

“‘Stuff of legends'?” Over her shoulder, she cast another swift glance at Will, but he had turned away from her to grab a box of goodies being passed down the row. “I didn't realize.”

“Oh, yeah. The head cheerleader—a senior—before he could drive. Next year, it was the hot yearbook editor-in-chief. Then there were the twins he took to junior prom. I heard he kept the codes to a dozen girls' home alarm systems in a little black book.”

“Codes?” A dozen girls?

“You know. He wheedled out of them—not that they put up any fight, mind you—those codes so he could sneak into their bedrooms at night.”

A dozen girls?

“I had no idea,” Emily said, her voice a little faint.

“He was a bad boy, our Wild Will,” Patrick confirmed. “Envy of the guys, the goal of the girls.”

She was trying to absorb all that when Will leaned close to insert himself into the conversation. “What are you two talking about?” His brows met as his gaze darted between Emily and Patrick. “You're not hitting on her, are you, Pat?”

“No, Will,” Patrick protested. “No way.”

Will focused on Emily's face. “Then why do you look so…so…” He made a vague gesture. “Upset?”

“I'm not upset.” A cannon at the end zone boomed, announcing the beginning of the game, and everyone around her directed their attention to the field, including, thank goodness, Patrick and Will.

She wasn't upset.

But she had plenty of time to try to figure out what she
was,
because she'd never been a big fan of football. Who could follow that little dirt-colored ball? And there wasn't much else to think about besides how dangerously low teenage girls' denim rode when they sat and why they didn't seem to feel the draft down the back gap of their blue jeans.

Will—her Will—had been “bad” September through June? How then, come summer camp, was he the attentive, sweet, good boyfriend that she remembered? Not once had he tried wheedling any code out of her that would give him access to her bed. Though their kisses had been frequent and sometimes a little bit hot, he'd never pushed her for anything physical either.

Because when school started up again he had all the nookie he needed?

She shot him an assessing look, but he was focused on the game. Probably because he'd been such a player at one time himself, she thought. And not just the football kind of player, either.

So which Will had she met in Las Vegas? The sweet summer guy or the bad boy on the make?

Annoyance flaring again, she crossed her arms over her chest and turned slightly on the bleacher to study his handsome profile. Before she divorced, she decided, she certainly wanted to figure out which one she'd married.

 

Betsy had another ride home, Will was relieved to hear, because that left him alone with Emily for the drive back from the game. Something was wrong and he was determined to get to the bottom of it, so he was taking the back roads to her place to give him more opportunity to figure out what was up with her mood. Sometime after the start of the game she'd gone ultra-quiet and had stayed that way through the fourth quarter. It was no way to make new friends.

And a befriended Emily was his path to freedom.

Reaching over, he turned up the heat because the atmosphere in the truck's cab was decidedly chilly. It was nothing like the ride on the way to the high school stadium, when Emily's perfume had teased his nose and her warmth had been pressed close to him. Now she was cuddling the passenger door, closer to it than she'd even been to him during the game when she'd been sandwiched on the bleacher between him and Pat.

Pat.

He remembered her chatting with the other man before the start of the first quarter. Damn. Had Pat-the-Rat done or said something to offend her?

“He's harmless,” Will ventured, glancing over even though he couldn't see her expression because the back route they were taking was just that dark. “Pat, I mean. Whatever he said, it doesn't mean anything.”

“Are you calling him a compulsive liar?”

“No, of course not. I just meant that he wouldn't knowingly cause offense. Did he say something rude to you?”

“No. He didn't say anything rude.”

“Okay.” Will breathed a little easier. “Good. You just seemed a little, I don't know, subdued tonight.”

Get a grip, Dailey, he told himself. Emily had been sick recently and then this evening she'd been plopped in the middle of a group of strangers at a raucous football game. He should have thought of a better way to introduce her to new people.

“I'm probably overreacting, anyway,” Emily said.

Overreacting? He cast her another look. Overreacting about what? If Pat hadn't said anything offensive, then he must have done something to insult Emily.

Will's hands squeezed the steering wheel as heat shot up his spine. Damn it! The bleachers had been so jammed they'd been packed in like sardines, giving Pat an opportunity to somehow touch Emily. Will's Emily.

Thinking of another man's hands on her creamy skin—on even the fabric covering her creamy skin—made him tighten his choke-hold on the wheel. “I'll break every one of his fingers. I swear, honey, I'll make him rue the day—”

“That he told me about your bad boy reputation?”

“What?”