Home Again

He didn’t ever want to leave her. He wanted this moment, this intimacy, to go on and on, his soul cradled in the warmth of her touch, her smile.

But how did a man like him say that to a woman like her? What were the magic words that would make her believe that what they’d just done was special and that he’d finally grown up enough to realize it?

There were no words that he could think of, and so he used his body to tell her that he loved her, that he couldn’t get enough of her. His hands, his lips, his tongue—he used them all to worship her body again, until she cried out with pleasure and then slumped against him.

They lay entwined forever. Then, with a trembling laugh, she tried to draw away. “We’d better get going…”

“No way.” He drew her closer, until their bodies were a sweaty, seamless whole. “It’s probably not even midnight.”

She rolled over and smiled down at him. Her hair spilled in a messy pile of honey brown, caressed by firelight, and her lips were puffy and swollen from his kisses. Her nipples caressed his bare chest. “Welcome to dating a single parent.”

The words were like the tiny flick of a knife. He winced. “Is that what I’m doing, dating you?”

A frown darted across her face. Nervously she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well… what would you call it?”

He lifted a hand to her face, touched her cheek, traced the pink outline of her upper lip. He wondered suddenly how a man could survive, loving a woman this much; if she wanted to, she could rip his soul out and smash it beneath her foot. Just like he’d done to her.

For the first time, he understood—really understood—what he’d done to that beautiful, trusting sixteen-year-old girl, and the shame was almost overwhelming. And more than shame, there was regret, deep and aching and unquenchable.

He gazed up at her, loving her so much it hurt. “I’d call it falling in love.”

Chapter Twenty-six

I’d call it falling in love.

For a second Madelaine couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. She lay beside him, still naked, the bear rug damp beneath her body. She bit her lip, afraid suddenly that she would say the words she shouldn’t say, the words that, once spoken, couldn’t be taken back, could never be unsaid.

She didn’t want to think about the past now, but it came back to her, creeping into her mind on tiny, whispering feet. All the things they’d ever said to each other billowed up between them, hanging in the air above them. So many of her dreams had been tangled up with this man, and she was afraid—so afraid—to let him have the power over her again. And yet he did, already he did.

She twisted around to look at him. Her lips parted in a silent plea, an invitation.

He lifted himself from the floor and reached out for her. She knew he was moving slowly, as if he were scared she would turn away.

She remained motionless. His hand breezed down her bare arm, setting off a flurry of goose bumps. “Angel…” His name fell from her lips on a breathless whisper of longing.

She stared into his green eyes, mesmerized by the possibilities she saw there. She knew then, as certainly as she’d ever known anything in her life, that he wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen anymore. There was a depth of pain in his eyes that was new, a fear and a regret that she understood. He was, in his own way, as terrified in this moment as she. And seeing that, his fear and his insecurity, was like the brush of a warm, soothing wind on her own uncertainty.

He kissed her then, a light, breezing touch of lips that somehow stamped her soul more deeply than any of the lovemaking ever could. Her arms curled around him, held him close. One by one the years of loneliness and loss seemed to fall away from her. When he drew back, she saw the same

dawning sense of wonder in his eyes that swelled in her own heart.

“Ah, Madelaine,” he said. Just that and nothing more; yet it felt like everything.

At twelve-forty Lina clicked off the television and stood up. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. The red and brown papier-mâché turkey she’d made in kindergarten huddled alongside it, a yearly reminder that Thanksgiving was just around the corner.

Where in the hell was Mom?

She crossed her arms and paced back and forth in the room. She had every light in the room on, but still it felt dark in here, a little lonely. It was the first time she’d ever been in her house this late alone. Whenever Mom had an emergency call at the hospital, Francis always came buzzing right over to keep Lina company.

The thought reminded her again of how much she missed Francis, and she sighed heavily. She plopped into the big overstuffed chair by the front door and sat there, waiting, her foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor.

Her mother had no right to be out this late—didn’t she know that Lina would be worried sick? When Lina had spoken with Angel earlier, he’d said he had to talk to her mother tonight. Talk, So where were they?

She glanced at the phone and thought about calling the hospitals. She was just about to stand up when she reined herself in. It was ridiculous, worrying this way. Her mother was thirty-three years old; she could certainly stay out all night if she wanted to.

But it wasn’t like her mom. Madelaine was way too responsible for something like this.

It was Angel’s fault.