bed, heading down the hallway, not sure why. She paced through the house with her thoughts in a miserable jumble.
What was she doing, going on a date with another man, when she still said good night to a picture of her husband every night? When she still wore his wedding ring on her finger? What had she been thinking when she said yes to Cole?
She picked up the phone and started to dial the office number.
Was she losing her mind? Cole wouldn’t be at the clinic at nine o’clock on a Friday night. Then she’d just call him at home. She quickly pulled Bristol’s thin phone book from the drawer and flipped to the Hs. Then just as quickly she slapped the book shut and put the phone back on the hook.
You’re just nervous, she told herself. Cole is just a friend. It’s not like he asked you to marry him.
She paced some more and finally wrapped herself in an afghan, flopped down on the sofa, and grabbed the remote. She clicked on the television, muted the volume, and sat there in the dark, the flickering lights from the screen casting eerie shadows over the room, reflecting the chaotic direction of her thoughts.
It was 1:00 A.M. before she finally switched off the set and crawled into bed, and another hour before she slipped into a fitful sleep.
Daria paced nervously through the rooms of her apartment, stopping to push the curtains aside and watch for Cole’s car each time she passed the window that overlooked the driveway.
She’d been having second thoughts all day long. There was no doubt that she was attracted to Colson Hunter, no doubt that a part of her wanted to get to know him better. But maybe it was too soon. And he was her boss. She needed her job. What if things went sour between her and Cole? She couldn’t afford to lose this job, especially now that she’d been promoted with a nice raise.
She went into the bathroom and fussed with her hair for the dozenth time, tucking it behind her ear, untucking it, then tucking it again. She picked a nonexistent piece of lint from her sweater and flipped off the lights over the mirror, then went back to the living room to resume her pacing.
The sound of tires on gravel made her heart lurch. “Okay,” she whispered under her breath, “this is it.”
She grabbed her purse and a light jacket and ran down the stairs to the door. She opened it a moment before the doorbell chimed in the hallway above her.
“That was quick!” Colson Hunter stood in front of her, smiling, hand still raised to the doorbell button. He wore neatly pressed chinos, a cream-colored rag wool sweater, and a light jacket. She caught an appealing whiff of cologne.
She ran her moist palms over her corduroys and attempted a smile. “Hi.”
“Hi. How are you?”
“Good, how about you?”
“Great. All ready?”
“Sure.” What in the world would they talk about all night?
He led her to the passenger door, opened it for her, and waited as she got in. She thought he looked like a teenager as he ran around to the driver’s side door and hopped behind the wheel. She suddenly felt fifty years old.
“Do you like Mexican food?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a new place on the west side I thought we’d try. I haven’t eaten there, but I’ve heard it’s pretty good.”
“Okay.”
He drove to the end of Bristol’s main street and down a blacktop road toward the interstate. They rode in silence for several minutes.
“Did you get Natalie off to Kansas City all right?” he ventured.
“Yes. Vera called this morning, and I guess they got along pretty well last night. She only woke up once.”
“That’s good.”
Silence.
She twisted her watch on her wrist and stared straight ahead.
“So…” Cole said. “It sure has been windy lately.”
“It sure has,” she replied.
Silence.
“The Regier dog seems to be recovering well from the C-section.”
“Yes.”
“For a while there, I was afraid we’d lose her and the pups both.”
“Me, too.”
“I think we can probably send her home Monday.”
“Okay.” Daria looked at her watch again.
Finally, as they neared Wichita he turned to face her, his voice insistent, forcing her to look at him. “Daria?”
She turned toward him.
“Are you all right?”
She was afraid she would cry, but she couldn’t answer his probing gaze with anything other than complete honesty. She put a hand to her forehead. “No, Cole. I’m really not all right. We need to talk.”
Eleven
“What’s wrong?” His voice was rough, and his brow was etched