A Reunion And A Ring (Proposals & Promises 1)

The dashboard clock said 5:59 when her cell phone buzzed half an hour after she’d driven away from the cabin. Knowing Thad, she figured her car clock was off rather than him.

She pulled into the parking lot of a closed tire dealership to take the call. She had to draw a deep breath before she answered with her usual measured tone. “Hello, Thad.”

“Hi, sweetheart. How’s the vacation?” His voice was rich and clear, mostly free of accent because he’d been raised to speak with a neutral Midwestern cadence rather than a Southern drawl.

“Over,” she replied lightly. “You were right, it seems. The weather was just too unpleasant this weekend. I’m headed home.”

“Are you all right?” She heard the concern in his voice. “You sound odd.”

“I’m just a little tired. The storm kept me from sleeping well last night.”

She would tell him about Gavin, she promised herself. Just not over the phone.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you get more rest tonight.”

“Thanks. How’s your trip?”

“Successful.” His tone was satisfied now. An image of him popped into her mind—gym-toned and slender, clad in pressed slacks and a discreetly expensive shirt, his chestnut-brown hair combed into his usual impeccably groomed style. If he’d been working in his room—as he almost always was when he wasn’t out making valuable contacts—he was wearing the horn-rimmed glasses she teased made him look like a roguish professor. His handsome face would be creased with the indulgent smile he usually wore when he spoke with her.

Picturing Thad made her feel calm. Comfortable. Much preferable to jangled nerves and trembling fingers and knotted muscles, right?

They concluded their call with his usual breezy, “Love ya, Jenny,” and her habitual, rather lame response of “You, too.” The routine satisfied them both, so she saw no reason to change it.

She put her phone away and started her car again. She had quite a few more miles to travel that evening. She turned up the music—classical, not country—to distract her from the emotions that seethed inside her as she left the cabin and its owner behind her.

* * *

Gavin stood on the front porch of the cabin later that evening, studying the moon-washed grounds with weary satisfaction. The rain had stopped for good finally, and the clouds had parted. Tomorrow was supposed to be dry and sunny, which would let him put in another full day’s work. He needed to stack and burn the remaining storm debris, and rake the lawn immediately around the cabin. The roof was repaired now, thanks to his friends, but he had a couple places to patch on the ceiling of the back bedroom. He had linens to launder, floors to clean and a couple of broken steps down toward the river to replace.

He was sore and bone-tired from all he’d done today. Every joint protested the very thought of all he planned to tackle tomorrow. But he was glad he had so much to do, mostly because the work would keep him too busy to brood about Jenny. Jenny, who was on the verge of marrying someone else, putting her out of Gavin’s life again, this time forever. Jenny, whom he’d once planned to marry himself. He’d even fantasized about proposing here at the cabin, beside the river. Maybe in their private clearing, where he’d go down on one knee and offer her his paternal grandmother’s ring. The pretty little diamond-and-sapphire band had been passed down to him when his grandmother died while he was still in high school. His grandfather had wanted him to have it to one day offer his own bride.

Maybe someday he’d pass it down to his eldest nephew. It seemed unlikely he’d ever use the ring himself, even if he found another woman he wanted to marry. In his mind, that ring would always have been meant for Jenny. Jenny, who hadn’t wanted him, at least not without changing him into something he could never become.

Frowning in response to having her name pop up in his mind again—he’d lost count of how many times he’d had to push it away since she’d driven off—he spun on one heel and went back inside the cabin. It was time for his antibiotic, so he downed one with a glass of water. He flexed his shoulder tentatively, satisfied that it felt slightly less stiff, though still plenty sore. It would feel even better when he had the stitches out in a couple days. He was anxious to get back on the job and put this whole misadventure behind him.

The cabin seemed unusually quiet now that he was here alone. Usually he welcomed the tranquility. Tonight, though, the silence seemed almost oppressive. He thought about turning on music to listen to while he ate a can of chili he found in the pantry, but decided to dial in the television satellite instead. For some reason, country music didn’t seem like a good choice tonight.

After eating, he cleaned the kitchen and carried the trash out to the plastic bin on the back porch. He opened the animal-proof lid, then froze when he saw the muddy, ruined green sneakers atop the other refuse.

He told himself to leave them alone, to bury them beneath the kitchen waste. Instead, he found himself cradling one of the small shoes in both hands, gazing down at it with a scowl. He’d promised to replace them, so it only made sense for him to check the size.

He was not prepared for the surge of hot blood that coursed straight to his groin. It wasn’t the shoe that aroused him, but the wave of memories.

“Your toes are funny.”

A girlish giggle, followed by “What’s funny about my toes?”

“They’re so tiny. You have teeny, tiny toes.”

“I know. Stubby toes. I hate them.”

“No. They’re perfect. Funny, but perfect.”

Naked and lazy, they had sprawled on a tumbled bed, bathed in candlelight. He’d proceeded to show her just how erotic funny little toes could be. And when her laughter had dissolved into low moans of need, he’d surged up her body to pay thorough homage to the rest of her.

Brought back to the present by the screech of an owl in search of dinner, he shifted his weight, preparing for a long, uncomfortably restless night ahead.

Something told him his dreams, if he slept, would be very disturbing that night.