Love Me Tender (22 page)

“I suppose,” Cassidy said listlessly.

He murmured greetings to a couple of passing townspeople, then told her, “The bookstore has some nice ones.” For years, he'd been giving Robin an annual diary for Christmas, always with horses on the cover.

“Fine. But I don't want to buy those books there, the ones Dr. Young recommended.” Books on MS and on dealing with chronic illness, she meant.

“No, we'll order them online. As the doctor said, it's up to you to decide when to tell people.” Obviously, the store salesclerk shouldn't be the first to know.

They went into the bookstore and he led her to the stationery section, where she stared at the couple dozen journals, everything from mellow Zen-type designs to vivid cartoony covers. She chose one with brightly colored hot-air balloons against a blue sky. Symbolic of what? he wondered. Freedom, the ability to fly away? If there'd been one with a wild goose, he'd bet she'd have chosen that.

As they walked through the store, he said, “Have you been hot-air ballooning?”

“Yes, in Sonoma. It was so much fun, and we had the craziest pilot.” A smile flickered. “He reminded me of Indiana Jones. He had the hat and the attitude—kind of daredevil, though I'm pretty sure that was calculated. You know, to give us a thrill.”

She stopped and looked him in the eyes for the first time since they'd left the doctor. “Imagine this. He takes us up into a cloud. It's misty, cooler, kind of magical. I mean, we're standing in the middle of a freaking cloud. It's touching our skin with cloud breath.”

He saw the wonder in her eyes as she remembered.

“It's scary, though,” she said. “We're flying totally blind. Trusting that this crazy pilot knows what he's doing. And then we burst out of the cloud, and the sky is this brilliant, blazing blue. The sun's shining and it's amazingly beautiful. We have distant views of the ocean and of San Francisco. He takes us low again and we drift over hills and vineyards, with deer and rabbits scattering below us, scared by our shadow. We even scoot down to dip our toes—well, the basket's toes—in a lake, and then we float up again.”

“Sounds incredible.”

She smiled. “It's one of my favorite memories.”

Something happy to think about, he figured. To cheer her up when she wrote in the notebook. Maybe to give her hope that after the year she'd committed to she could slip her tether and find new adventures.

He had missed her when she left. Yes, he'd been pissed, worried, overworked. But he'd missed her smile, her sassy comments, the warm tingle when she touched him. A year from now . . . Well, who knew? Maybe he'd miss her like crazy, or maybe by then they'd barely tolerate each other. No point worrying about it; he'd already committed.

As they approached the cashier, he pulled out his wallet.

Cassidy said, “Thanks, but no. My book, my thoughts. My money.”

“Okay.” He stepped back while she paid.

They left the store and walked across the town square toward the Wild Rose. The roses on the gazebo had faded and the bandstand was deserted. A few people hurried past the wire-framed caribou, on their way toward whatever evening plans awaited.

“How about coming back to my place?” he said. “You can call Ms. H and let her know where you are, so she doesn't worry. I'll cook you dinner and—”

“You don't have Robin tonight?”

“No. It'd just be us. We could start that list, then have an early night.” He could make sure she started the list, and he could look after her.

She hesitated.

Trying not to be too controlling, he said, “But if you'd rather be alone or spend the evening with Ms. H, that's fine too.”

“It's not that. It's, uh, the idea of me spending the night with you.” Again, she wasn't looking at him.

Guessing where her thoughts had gone, he said quickly, “Look, just because I'm being a support person for you, that doesn't mean you should feel obligated to sleep with me.” Oh man, how could he handle being close to her but not being able to touch her like a lover, to hold her naked in his arms at night?

She cocked her head to stare at him. “And you shouldn't feel obligated to sleep with me because you feel sorry for me.”

His jaw dropped and he stopped walking. “Jesus, Cassidy, I don't feel sorry for you.” He stopped, reconsidered. “Well, I guess I do, actually. And for me, and everyone else who's going to be affected. It's sure not what anyone would want.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Her mouth twisted. “Like the Stones said, you can't always get what you want.”

The next line was something about getting what you need, which sure wasn't true in this case either. “I'm just saying, the fact that I'm sorry you have this disease has nothing to do with me wanting to be your lover.”

Her forehead pinched. “Before, everything was different. I was sexy and fun, and even if I had a bum leg every now and then, I was healthy, active, strong.”

“Cassidy.” He leaned down to rest his forehead against her frowning one. “You're all of those things now, and you don't even have a bum leg right now.” Though God knew what might happen to her with future attacks. He straightened and managed a wink. “Though I'd still be happy to massage you.”

“On the outside, I look healthy. But inside, I'm flawed.”

“Is this the time to tell you that I never thought you were perfect?” He tossed it out, hoping to lighten the mood.

She didn't take the bait. “You know what I mean. Now I'm sick. There's this invisible thing inside me, like some kind of time bomb, and there's no telling when it's going to strike or what it's going to do.”

A time bomb didn't strike; it exploded. But he understood her point. All too well. If he mentioned Anita, would it upset her? For three years he'd avoided even speaking Anita's name, but now, increasingly, he found himself wanting to talk about her.

Tentatively, he said, “That's kind of how Anita felt about her cancer.” He shook his head, remembering. “Her cancer,” he repeated. “At first she called it ‘the cancer,' like she was trying to disown it”—her form of denial, less dramatic than Cassidy's attempt to run away from her diagnosis—“but then she had to accept that it was part of her. So she claimed it, but she hated it. She waged war with it every waking minute.”

Cassidy's frown had disappeared as she tilted her head, listening to him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got sidetracked. What I was going to say was that she felt like her cancer contaminated her.”

Her eyes widened and he wondered if he'd offended her, but then she nodded. That encouraged him to continue. “She said she felt invaded, contaminated. She knew some people were wary of her. Most of the time it was just because they were uncomfortable and sad and didn't know what to say, but it meant that they avoided her. She felt like a leper. She said people looked at her and didn't see Anita, but this diseased creature. Having the disease inside her, and having people avoid her, she said it made her feel”—crap, this was probably a really bad idea, but he finished anyway—“ugly.”

The word, such an ugly sound in itself, dropped into the air between them.

Cassidy's face was still, her eyes huge. Then she breathed, “Yes.”

He reached for her hands and clasped them. “But she wasn't. She was still Anita, still beautiful. And so are you, Cassidy. I'm still attracted to you, I still want to have sex with you.” He added on a note of discovery, “Actually, you're maybe even more attractive, because now I've seen how gutsy you are.”

“I don't feel gutsy,” Cassidy said. She tried for a smile but it wobbled. What Dave had said about Anita rang so true, and it sure didn't make her feel brave.

“Of course you're gutsy.” His voice was full of conviction, as were his hazel eyes, staring intently into hers. “You're not running. You're facing this thing head-on.”

Hah. She had done her best to run, but he wouldn't let her. “This
thing
.” She swallowed. Tried out the words. “My MS.” A part of her and her life, from now until the day she died or a cure was found.

His fiancée had faced a terminal illness and remained strong, a fighter. Which was worse: to be told you were dying and had a limited time to live, or to be told you'd have a normal life span but you were diseased and your future was completely unpredictable? And what did it matter? Anita had been given her diagnosis and she'd dealt with it. Now it was Cassidy's turn.

Anita'd had the man she loved at her side every step of the way. Dave didn't love Cassidy, but he'd been generous enough to offer her his support, at least until she pulled herself together and had a treatment plan in place. “I'm used to feeling like an equal in relationships,” she said quietly. “Not the weak partner.”

He frowned. “Of course you're an equal.”

“But I'm doing all the taking and you're doing the giving.”

“Tonight, you're tired and in shock. I want to look after you. Just like you've cooked dinner and rubbed my shoulders when I've had a rough day.”

He was such a good guy and he was trying so hard. She imagined what it would have been like if she'd gone to the doctor on her own today, and come home alone afterward. “Tonight,” she admitted, “I would love to be looked after. But remember, Dave, I'm perfectly healthy right now. So after tonight I'll do my share of looking after, and I'll work, ride, and do all that normal stuff too.”

“Deal. Now let's go home. I could use some food.”

And later, they'd have sex. She hoped that he'd told the truth when he said that he still found her attractive. She felt like such a mess. How could any man, much less a handsome, smart, almost perfect one like Dave, find her desirable? Well, he wouldn't if she acted like a mess. He thought she was gutsy, so that's what she'd try to be. “Food sounds great,” she lied. “Let's go.”

When they walked into Dave's suite, Merlin greeted them.

Dave said, “I'll take him out, then start dinner.”

“I'll call Ms. H.” She sat on the couch and dialed her landlady's number.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Cassidy said to her, “that I'm staying at Dave's tonight.”

“Thank you for letting me know. Are you all right? How did the doctor appointment go?”

“It was, uh, informative, I guess.” If she could ever make sense of all that she'd heard.

“I'd like to hear about it.”

“Hang on a minute, Ms. H.” Dave, with Merlin on his leash, was about to leave and she stopped him. “Do you have Robin tomorrow night?”

“In theory. I was supposed to have her for the weekend and tonight, but, well, you know. We'll all be flexible. She can stay at her mom's a while longer.”

“No, that's not fair on her or on you. I want to talk to Ms. H anyhow. Why don't you take Robin for the next few days? I'll have dinner with both of you one night. Just not tomorrow.” His daughter was too bright, too inquisitive. Cassidy needed to build a tougher façade if she was going to keep her secret, and that would take a little time.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” She couldn't cling to Dave. That wouldn't be healthy for either of them. Besides, she didn't want to shut out Ms. H, and she valued the older woman's opinion. She waved Dave and the dog away, then said into the phone, “I'll be home tomorrow after work. Perhaps we could get together in the evening?”

“Let's have dinner. I hate cooking for one.”

Cassidy's lips twitched. “That might not be a problem much longer. Maybe you'll have a houseguest.” Yesterday, her landlady had told her that she'd tracked down Irene via the Internet and they'd exchanged a couple of e-mails.

“Don't count your chickens, Cassidy. Or, rather, my chickens.”

“We'll talk about that over dinner. And I'm helping cook.” She closed the phone. And speaking of helping cook . . . She went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared inside. What did Dave have in mind? Nothing appealed to her, yet she had to eat. Dr. Young had stressed the importance of a proper diet, regular exercise, and lots of sleep.

“Hey.” Dave came up behind her. “I'm doing the cooking.”

How long had she been staring into the fridge? “Thanks. I guess I should start that list.”

He opened a bottle of red wine. “Or sit and relax. We could work on the list after dinner.”

Like she could relax, with all the things jumbled around in her mind? “I'd rather get the list out of the way so we can take the rest of the evening off.”

He handed her a glass of wine. “Now there's a plan.”

A plan. How about that? She sort of had a plan.

She sat at the kitchen table and Merlin came to lie at her feet. She scratched behind his ears, had a swallow of wine, then took the notebook and a pen out of her purse. Gazing at the hot-air balloons, she wished she could fly up into the sky and escape her problems. Yet the picture did remind her that she'd had great adventures in the past, and would have many more.

She opened the book and stared at the lined page. She should write something there. Some kind of title. Maybe “Me And My MS.” But she couldn't bring herself to do it, so she turned to the next page and wrote, “Things To Do,” then drew a line under it.

“Number one,” she said. “Buy notebook. Yay, I can cross it off.”

He chuckled. “Great start.”

“Two. Uh . . .”

“Order the books?” he suggested.

“Right. Three is to talk to Ms. H.” She wrote it down. “That smells great, by the way.” To her surprise, the aroma was giving her an appetite. “What are you cooking?”

“Stir-fried beef and veggies with ginger and soy sauce, to serve over rice.”

“Mmm.” She gazed down at the lined page. “What's four? I suppose, to read the information Dr. Young gave me on treatment options. And try to digest it.” She gazed at the brown envelope Dave had dropped on the table. Wading through the medical stuff would be tough, not to mention frightening. The doctor had said there was no one best treatment. Several had proven to be effective, but each had potential nasty side effects, and none offered a cure.

“A suggestion?” he said.

“Sure.” She tore her gaze away from the envelope.

“Dr. Young gave us two copies of the information. Tomorrow, let's make another copy and you can share it with Ms. H.”

“The print's really small. She'd have trouble reading it.”

“Too bad. That must be a pain for someone like her who's such an intellectual.”

“It is. She loves her e-reader with the ability to pump up the font size. Even then, her eyes get tired. If she wants, I'll read the material to her. It might help me digest it better.”

“Good idea. I'll read it too. Maybe the three of us can get together in a few days and discuss it?”

“Decision by committee?” she asked warily. Ever since she was eighteen, she'd controlled her own life.

He turned from the stove, shaking his head. “The decisions are yours. We, along with Dr. Young and the neurologist, can help you make informed ones.”

Dr. Young had arranged for the neurologist in Williams Lake to Skype in for the next appointment. She'd said that Cassidy's health care team needed a neurologist.

A team. Cassidy had worked with teams, like the staff at the Wild Rose, but now she'd have a health care team and a personal support team. So much for independence and spontaneity. Not to mention, the doctor wanted her to join a counseling group with other people who had chronic illnesses or disabilities. But that would mean admitting publicly that she had MS.

“Want to eat here or in the living room?” Dave asked, plating the food.

“Living room.” She closed the notebook, eased Merlin's chin off her foot, and stood. “Dave, you'll keep that medical stuff out of sight when Robin's around, right?”

He handed her a plate. “You don't want to tell her?”

She headed for the living room, where she took her usual seat on the couch. She didn't want to tell anyone. She didn't want the diagnosis to be true. The more people who knew, the more she'd be looked on with pity, treated like a leper, as Anita had said. “Not yet. It's a lot for a kid to deal with. I know how much you want to protect her, so let's hold off until . . .” Until when? She had no idea.

Dave sat down beside her. “Yeah, I'm protective, but this is different. It's like her Grandpa Wade's stroke and Anita's cancer. A fact of life. My daughter's a strong kid. Of course, I'd check with Jessie and Evan first.”

And two more people would be in the loop. “I know, but . . .”

“It's a lot for you to deal with. I get it. For now, it'll be just you, me, and Ms. H.”

“Thanks.” She slumped into the couch, closed her eyes, and sighed. “This feels good. Can we watch a movie? I'll order those books tomorrow morning, and tomorrow night I'll start reading the medical stuff to Ms. H. But now, I'd like to goof off for the evening.”

“You've earned it.” He handed her the remote. “Pick something.”

“Hmm . . .” What would be purely entertaining, a distraction from real life? She checked the menu and chose
The Big Easy
, with Dennis Quaid and Ellen Barkin. “This is set in New Orleans and it's about . . . well, you'll see.” It was fast-paced, intriguing, and sexy.

“I should've cooked Cajun,” he joked.

“This will do just fine.” She picked up her plate and dug in.

Because she moved so often, Cassidy had often found herself alone in a new place. Some nights she went out to explore, maybe look for company. Other nights, she stayed home and watched movies. This film, she'd seen a couple of times before. Glancing over, she saw that Dave seemed absorbed by her choice.

They ate and watched in companionable silence until he paused the movie to take their empty plates to the kitchen. Merlin trailed him.

Damn. Restless now, Cassidy rose. Without Dave by her side, without the distraction of the movie, it was hard not to think. She wandered around the room, checking out a horse drawing Robin had been working on, folding the crumpled afghan. The kitchen door closed and, relieved, she turned as Dave returned minus the dog but with the wine bottle. He refilled their glasses and she reclaimed her seat and restarted the movie.

When a shirtless Remy hiked Anne's skirt up and caressed her leg, Cassidy snuggled into the curve of Dave's arm and rested her hand on his thigh. She had missed this—missed him—so much when she'd been away. “Steamy, isn't it?” she murmured.

“The movie, or you?” He moved her hand higher to cup his fly, where he was growing beneath the denim of his jeans.

“For now, the movie. But later . . .” Cassidy pressed firmly and he pulsed in response.

The couple on screen, caught up in foreplay, were interrupted by Remy's pager. The cop had to go to a murder scene. Anne murmured that she'd never had much luck with sex anyway, and he said her luck was about to change. Later, when he got back from the investigation.

Remy and Anne might have to wait until later, but Cassidy was palming one very fine erection. And, unlike Anne, she
was
good at sex. While sex was a basic physical act, each time was unique. It was definitely a participatory sport, and the outcome depended on how well the partners played together. Dave Cousins brought great equipment to the table, and his skill, thoroughness, and attention to his partner made him something special.

Let's face it, Dave
was
something special. In bed, out of bed. And he made her feel special. He cared enough to chase her to Cannon Beach and persuade her to come back. He found her sexy, despite—no, she wasn't going to think about that. Not now.

With her free hand, she fumbled for the remote and pressed the PAUSE button. “You, Mr. Cousins,” she purred, “are about to get very lucky.” She swung over to straddle his lap.

“I'm liking this.”

She shimmied her crotch against his erection. “I can tell.” There were so many possibilities. Inspired by the movie, she chose sultry. Rather than rip open the row of snap buttons on Dave's shirt, she undid them one at a time, caressing his chest as she went. His body was so strong and lean, so perfectly male, just touching it made her body hum with arousal.

She undid his belt buckle and the button at the waist of his jeans and tugged his shirttails free. Then she sat upright on his lap and raised her arms above her head, stretching and undulating. She undid the snaps at the cuffs of her own shirt and slid each sleeve up her arm in slow, sensual touches that caressed her bare skin, making her whole body tingle.

“Need any help?” he asked huskily.

She shook her head. “Leave it to me.”

Another thing she liked about Dave: unlike some guys, he didn't need to always control the sex. If he sensed she wanted to take charge, he went with the flow.

With those same slow movements, she unsnapped the front of her own black shirt. Under it, she wore a turquoise bra. A couple of shrugs sent the shirt sliding off her shoulders but, anchored by the sleeves shoved up her arms, it didn't fall. Sometimes, like in the movie, it was sexier to have disheveled clothing than to be naked.