life, hiding behind his father. And he’d said the worst thing he could have said to her. He’d told her she didn’t love anyone, not even herself.
He’d backtracked, explained it wasn’t her fault, it was the way she was raised, but the damage had been done. He’d grabbed her by the throat with her deepest fear and that was that.
Eventually he realized she was right to cut him off. If her love for him was so fragile that it couldn’t bear a delay, couldn’t forgive harsh words said in anger, then it wasn’t the kind of love that would last—the kind of love he wanted. Love sacrificed, love forgave, love was sturdy, not brittle, not contingent or conditional. Tara had never felt that kind of love, so how could she give it?
Pulling into his driveway, however, Dylan noticed he was still wound up, playing back the way she’d smelled, the sound of her laugh, the glint in her eyes, her lips. Oh, her lips. His body seemed to have a mind of its own.
He didn’t need this in his life. Not ever again.
What he wanted was a solid, resilient, steady love. A love that could last a lifetime. And he would go after that once he finished at Ryland and got things rolling for the town. Seeing Tara was helpful, really. She reminded him of exactly what he didn’t want.
CHAPTER FIVE
BY THE TIME TARA returned from her hummingbird break, the house had nearly emptied out. She felt guilty for abandoning her host duties, but talking to Dylan had helped. She felt calmer and less exhausted by the hours of accepting condolences, reporting about Faye, smiling the frozen smile that made her cheeks ache. Dylan had rescued her.
He’d always done that for her. Too much, she’d realized later. She’d let herself depend on him, leaning back like a trust exercise, except he’d let her drop to the dirt, rattling her to her core.
It had been a hard lesson, but an important one that had served her well: stand on your own two feet, count on yourself more than anyone else. She’d dated, had boyfriends, but she stayed self-sufficient.
Standing there with him, when he’d caught her arm, she’d been so tempted to kiss him. She’d felt the same rush to be with him, to shut out everything but him, to be safe in his arms, to be home. But that was stupid. He belonged in Wharton and she belonged anywhere but.
She had the uneasy awareness that part of the reason she’d never gotten close to a man was that she’d been waiting for the heart-stopping rush of rightness she’d felt with Dylan.
But that was first-love lunacy, right? And look how that had turned out. That horrible fight, when he’d confirmed her worst fear—that she wasn’t capable of love—proved how wrong she’d been to get so close to him. She never wanted to go through that again. Like an addictive drug, the high wasn’t worth the hangover.
She noticed her face still felt hot. From Dylan? Maybe the tequila. She wasn’t much of a drinker, after all.
She’d been stunned by how much she’d wanted him to kiss her, to kiss him back. Of course, it made sense. She was upset, sad and scared. It would be natural to want to escape, to get caught up in something intensely physical.
She’d done that after the breakup. The first week of college, she’d slept with a guy just to stop missing Dylan, to block the pain for a little while, to have someone’s arms around her. It had been a mistake. She’d never felt more empty in her life. Cold to her bones and lonelier than ever.
Sex with Dylan would stay a fantasy. That would be best. She was glad that he seemed happy. He’d made the best of getting stuck here, managed a degree, done remarkable work with his father—and hers. But then, he was brilliant, so he’d do well anywhere. What might he have done if he’d escaped like she had?
Not fair. The Wharton Effect again. Like she’d told him, there were other paths. She’d better get that through her head.
She pushed away thoughts of Dylan and focused on the remaining guests, speaking to each one, noticing again the way conversations broke off when she approached. Were they gossiping about her, her family or Wharton Electronics? Maybe all three.
“Señorita Wharton.” She turned to face a short Latina, probably early thirties, who held out her hand. “So sad to lose Señor Wharton.”