Out of Town Bride

Once she’d let the lid off that particular Pandora’s Box, there’d been no going back. It would have been one thing if he’d returned her feelings. But when he’d indicated with crystal clarity that he was not open to romance, her only other choice had been coldness. To get over him, she’d had to convince herself she hated him.

She didn’t, of course. Never had. And she’d never exactly gotten over him. Even when Marvin had come along and swept her off her feet, she’d still sometimes lain awake at night, wondering how it might have been if McPhee had responded to her romantic overtures that night so long ago.

Now, maybe it was time she got over it. She wasn’t some teenager with a crush, even if she still felt that way sometimes. She was grown up. Holding on to a ten-year-old grudge was stupid, especially when she knew McPhee couldn’t help it that he hadn’t wanted to get involved with her. Just as she hadn’t been able to control her own emotions.

“McPhee, I’ve been horrible to you. And I’d like to apologize. I know one apology can’t make up for ten years of bitchiness…”

“Whoa, whoa!” McPhee shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind of some untenable thought. “Did you just apologize to me?”

“I was trying to. But if you’re going to be ugly about it—”

“No, please. Go on.”

She tried to ignore the trace of amusement evident in the set of his mouth, the sparkle in his brown eyes. “Mother’s illness has brought some things into focus for me. You just never know when you’re going to lose someone. I want to appreciate the people in my life before they’re gone and it’s too late.”

“I…thanks. Does this mean you forgive me?”

“For what?” she asked, pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about.

“You know what. That night. When everything changed.”

“Oh, that.” She waved away the notion that it was important. “I had too much to drink and I put you in an awkward position.”

“I could have handled the situation with a little more tact.”

“It’s ancient history, as far as I’m concerned.” And she was very proud of herself for having such a mature discussion about it. “We should have cleared the air about that years ago. But better now than never. I don’t want us to be enemies,” she added.

“No, I don’t want that, either. I don’t want to leave here on bad terms with you.”

Sonya sat up straighter. Suddenly all that burgeoning maturity fled like a flock of sparrows when a hungry cat jumps into their midst. ‘You’re not really leaving, are you?”

He looked at her the way he used to when she would ask a particularly dumb question about motorcycle maintenance. “I already told you that, right? That I’m going to work for the Sheriff’s Department?”

“Yes, but that was when you thought I was getting married.”

“I’m still going. My last day is still January 8.”

“But Mother—”

“—will have to get used to the idea. I want to go now, while my father is determined to stay off the sauce. If I stay, it might give him an excuse to give up, since he knows I’ll be here to rescue him.”

A few days ago, Sonya had actually been worried that she’d be stuck with her bodyguard for the rest of her life. She should have been immensely relieved that she would finally be rid of him.

But what she felt wasn’t relief, she was pretty sure.

She reached for another chocolate, but McPhee slid the box out of her reach. “You’re going to be sick if you eat any more of those.”

Come to think of it, she did feel uncomfortably full. How many had she eaten? Three? Four?

“You ate seven,” McPhee said, reading her mind in that annoying way he had.

“Seven! Oh, why did you even let me get started? You know how I am.”

“You’re not exactly the queen of moderation,” he agreed.

“How many did you eat?” She started to count the empty squares, hoping to discover he’d eaten at least as many as she, but he put the lid on the box.

“I’ll get rid of the rest.”

“Good idea.”

“So I’m forgiven?” he persisted.

“Assuming you don’t force me to eat any more of those chocolates. Or do anything between now and January 8 to make me mad.”

“Sometimes all I have to do is say ‘Good morning’ to make you mad.”

She stood and gave him an imperious look, but for some reason she was about to laugh and ruin her exit line. “You’ll want to try not to smirk at me when you say ‘Good morning.’”

“I do not smirk.”

“You do. In a really annoying and condescending way like one of those English servants who know everything. Admit it.”

“It’s possible,” he said carefully, “that I sometimes lift a sardonic eyebrow in a sort of Heathcliff-esque way. I wouldn’t refer to it as a smirk, which would involve pursing my mouth in some unattractive manner.”

“You’re getting into semantics now. Whatever you call it, a smirk or a sardonic eyebrow lift, it gets my goat. If you’ll make an effort to stop doing it, I will try not to get mad more often than you really deserve.” And she whisked out of the room in search of some Pepcid.

JOHN-MICHAEL WATCHED HER GO, his stomach lurching in an odd way that had nothing to do with eating too many chocolates. Who was this woman? She certainly wasn’t acting like the spoiled debutante. She’d jumped out of that neat pigeonhole into which he’d had her safely stuffed all these years. And he wasn’t comfortable with the situation, not at all.

A spoiled, petulant Sonya, putting him in his place, was far easier to deal with than a kind, sensitive, funny Sonya. She’d actually shown him her sense of humor just now, something she hadn’t directed his way in forever. First he’d had to accept her cloak-and-dagger activities. Now this.

All right, he was going to have to face the fact. His lust for Sonya was turning into something else, something dangerous. For the first time in many years, he wasn’t sure he could hold himself back, pretend indifference.

But maybe he didn’t have to. Hell, he was soon to be off the Patterson payroll. Sonya would no longer be forbidden fruit. He let himself roll that idea around in his head, intrigued with it.

Whistling, he carried the chocolates into the kitchen, where he found Matilda. Normally the roly-poly Patterson cook was perky as one of her own orange-marmalade muffins. But ever since Muffy’s heart attack, Matilda had been sulking over the fact that she had to completely change the way she prepared Muffy’s meals. Now he found her sifting through her recipe box, sorting cards into “keep” and “throw away” piles. The throw-away pile was much larger than the keeper.

She eyed the box of chocolates suspiciously. “Oh, so it’s all right for you to be peddling this fattening stuff,” she said as she took two candies, “but not me?”

“You don’t have any heart problems, do you?”

“Not a one. Doc says I’m healthy as a horse. Good genes.”

“Well, not all of us were born so lucky. C’mon, Mattie, you can adapt. Think of it as a challenge, a chance to try some new recipes.”

“But those recipes Mrs. Patterson’s doctor gave me are so boring, so tasteless.”

“So, invent your own recipes. Maybe if you and Eric work together you can come up with some gourmet heart-healthy recipes and we can all eat healthier.”

“Healthier, right.” She nodded toward the candy. “Where did you get those?”

“Tootsie. Sensitive soul that she is, she brought them for Mrs. Patterson.”

“Ugh! What’s she trying to do, kill her best friend? Just because she’s a skinny twig and can eat anything she wants. Take those chocolates out of here.”

“Mattie?” said a disembodied voice. “Mattie, are you there?” It was Muffy on the intercom.

Matilda walked over to the kitchen unit, on the wall near the phone. “Yes, Mrs. Patterson?”

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