Breakaway

Kneeling, she picked up the puppy. He’d soiled the wee-wee pad. “Good morning, baby boy,” she crooned softly. “How are you feeling?” Celia was greeted with a yawn. “Are you still sleepy from the drug?” Terry had become her first non-human patient.

Cradling Terry to her chest, she walked to the French doors, punched in the code on the security keypad on the wall and opened the doors leading out to the deck. She placed Terry on the flagstone surface and returned to the bedroom.

Celia made a mental list of the items she had to purchase from a pet store: bed, crate, lead and harness. She wouldn’t trust the terrier to have the run of the house until he was housebroken.

She wasn’t certain whether Terry would eat, but she knew he had to get some nutrition or he wouldn’t survive. She removed the pad, returned him to the basket, carrying it down the staircase and placing it in a corner between the kitchen and pantry. The puppy’s nose twitched as he surveyed his surroundings.

Sitting on the floor, she attempted to hand-feed the puppy when he sniffed the bowl containing a small amount of dry food. He’d walked away, taking furtive steps. It took Celia forty minutes to coax the dog to eat five pieces of kibble. She was more successful getting him to drink water before settling him on her lap where he curled himself into a ball.

She traced the tan spots with her fingertips. “Don’t get too used to me feeding you, little prince. Once you’re healed, either you’ll eat by yourself or you’ll go hungry.” Terry opened his eyes, staring at her as if he understood what she’d said. Celia sat holding the puppy until it fell asleep, then placed it in the basket and went upstairs to ready herself before Gavin arrived.

Celia patted the moisture from her body with a thick, thirsty towel, and then went through her morning ritual of applying a moisturizer to her face and perfumed cream to her body. She’d just slipped into her underwear when the telephone rang. It was a rare occasion when the house phone rang. Her family and close friends usually called her cell.

Smiling, she lifted the receiver from its cradle when she saw the caller ID. “Good morning, Hannah.”

“Good morning, Celia. I’m sorry to call so early, but I forgot to ask you yesterday if you were going to Florida for the Memorial Day weekend.”

Celia sat on a chair in the bedroom’s dressing area. She’d stopped the day before to visit the woman who’d welcomed her with a pan of scrumptious lasagna and an apple pie the day she’d taken possession of the house.

Hannah Walsh, who’d been a newlywed, had just celebrated the publication of the first book she’d illustrated, and Celia made certain to buy copies for every one of her young cousins. Hannah had taught daycare, and her husband worked night security at a department store while attending classes to earn a criminal justice degree. Five years later, Daniel became a North Carolina state trooper and a father for the first time within the same week.

“No. I’ve decided to hang out here for a while. I’m not certain when I’m going back.”

“If that’s the case, then I want to invite you over for a Saturday afternoon barbecue. Please tell me you’ll come.”

“Of course I’ll come. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“No. We have everything. I just want to warn you that Daniel has invited some of his single buddies and now that they know you’re available, you may get more attention than you want.”

Celia smothered a groan. She was more than familiar with Daniel Walsh’s buddies. They were overly friendly, good-natured and quite vociferous after imbibing one too many beers. She didn’t know if Gavin had plans for the weekend, but if she invited him to go with her, then he would become her buffer.

“Would you mind if I bring a guest?”

“Of course I don’t mind. The more the merrier. I’m going to have as much fun as I can before the baby comes. Having to care for a newborn while dealing with a two-year-old and balancing a career will definitely test my patience and my sanity.”

“You’ll do just fine, Hannah, only because you’re the most organized person I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t you mean obsessive-compulsive?”

“That, too,” Celia teased. “What time should I come?”

“I’m telling everyone to come around two.”

“I’ll see you Saturday at two.” She hung up and glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was nine-forty. She had to get dressed and be ready to leave by ten.

“Is there something wrong, Gavin?”

Gavin blinked as if coming out of a trance. Celia Cole-Thomas was a chameleon. Each time he saw her she looked different. This morning, she’d brushed her hair off her face and secured it in a twist on the nape of her long, slender neck. A white linen blouse, black tailored slacks and a pair of ballet-type patent leather flats bespoke simple elegance. The pearl studs in her ears matched the single strand around her neck, while a light cover of makeup accentuated her large eyes and lush mouth.

“No,” he admitted. “You look—wonderful.” He’d said wonderful when he’d wanted to tell Celia that she looked beautiful. He took a step, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “And you smell delicious.”

A flush heated her face. Celia wanted to tell Gavin he looked and smelled delicious, too. The aftershave on his clean-shaven jaw was the perfect complement for his body’s natural masculine scent.

“Thank you. Please come in.”

Gavin stepped into the entryway, his penetrating gaze cataloguing the furnishings. The night before, he’d been too involved with helping Celia with Terry to take note of anything.

“How’s Terry?” he asked, following Celia into the living room of the split-level house. The fireplace was the room’s focal point, competing only with the arch in the ceiling paneled with fir and illuminated with concealed strip lighting. The walls, covered with a coffee-colored fabric, complemented varying shades of cream and tan suede and leather on a club chair, love seat and sofa.

Celia smiled at Gavin over her shoulder. “Come and see for yourself.”

Slowing, he glanced around the dining area, mapped out by a border of cherry inlay in the oak flooring. Sunlight coming in through oak-framed French doors spilled over the gleaming waxed floor. A bouquet of yellow and white spring blooms on a cherrywood table added a homey touch.

An island separated the open kitchen—with stainless-steel appliances—and the dining room; the ceiling styles in the two spaces were as varied and intricate as the one in the living room. The ceiling was flat over the kitchen with recessed lighting, while it was pitched over the dining area. Glass inserts in the kitchen cabinets came to the same roof-like peak as the cathedral ceiling over the dining table.

The abundance of wood imbued a sense of warmth and hominess. A cushioned sitting area—reminiscent of a window seat—under a row of windows was the perfect spot to sit, read or survey the activity in the kitchen and dining area at the same time.

“Do you own this house, or are you renting it?” Gavin had asked a question to which he knew the answer.

“I own it.”

“How long have you lived here?” He’d asked yet another question to which he knew the answer.

Celia stopped, turned and stared up the man who made her feel something she didn’t want to feel: desire. Although she’d found herself in love with Yale and planned to marry him, he never evoked the all-consuming desire she felt whenever she and Gavin Faulkner occupied the same space.

The tall man standing in the middle of her kitchen wearing jeans, a navy blue golf shirt with a familiar designer’s logo over his heart and a pair of low-heeled boots gave off waves of sensuality that threatened to smother her with its intensity. He’d removed the stubble, and the strong line of his lean jaw made him even more attractive.

“I don’t live here year-round.”

“You live in Florida.” The query was a statement. “Your truck has Florida plates,” Gavin explained when her eyes grew wider.

“Miami,” Celia confirmed. She’d given Miami the Spanish inflection, it sounding like Me-a-me.

Gavin smiled. “You speak Spanish?”

Celia’s smile matched his. “Sí. I have Cuban roots that go back to my great-grandmother.”

“Every time I go to Miami I put on at least five pounds because I can’t stop eating the food,” he admitted.

“Maybe I’m biased, but I believe Caribbean cuisine is superior to any other in the world.”

Gavin’s expression changed, vertical lines appearing between his eyes when he gave her a level frown. “I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he countered.

“Tell me what’s better than Caribbean cuisine, Gavin?”

He registered the slight reproach in her tone. “Southern cooking. Have you ever had North Carolina-style barbecue pulled pork?”

“No. But I bet it’s not as good as—”