Bliss and the Art of Forever - Alison Kent Page 0,27

was so . . . what? Sexually needy? That she’d invent reasons to see a man with whom she shared only chemistry?

Except that wasn’t true, not at all. For one thing, they had his daughter in common, her education, her welfare, though the latter wasn’t truly Brooklyn’s purview but that of Adrianne’s father. But more than both caring about the girl’s well-being, well . . . what were their mutual interests?

Chocolate, obviously, though he was the expert and she was only there to enjoy the fruit of his labors. She’d never been on a motorcycle before riding behind him, and could add that to the list of things they enjoyed. And tattoos, even if she didn’t think she’d ever be brave enough to get one.

But bigger than all of those things, he made her laugh, which few people did anymore, and in a different way than Artie had. Her sense of humor was, well, stunted if not lacking. Artie had known that and teased laughter from her as often as he could.

Callum wasn’t a jokester, except at his own expense. He took himself seriously, but only when it mattered, and when it didn’t, he had no problem making light. She liked that about him. She liked it a lot. She liked, too, the way he flirted. And that he included her in the fun. He wasn’t performing. He didn’t need an audience. A subtle thing, but it was there.

His grin spoke volumes, but his words came layered with so much meaning, requiring she peel back the ones she’d deciphered, and hope she could do the same with the next. She liked that depth. Liked that she couldn’t take what he said at face value because the true gems in his words were buried. Liked a whole lot that he found solace in words, too. Enough so to mark himself permanently as if wearing them as armor against the world.

But attraction or not, she should not have gone to see him. It was February. She was leaving for Italy in June. Four months barely gave her enough time to get her house ready to list, the sign in the yard, and her possessions either sold or stored. And all her books . . .

Suddenly, she was extremely exhausted. And left pondering the fact that she was scheduled to leave town after meeting a man worth staying for.

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 2006

“Please let me do something,” Brooklyn said. “It’s my anniversary, too, you know.” She was sitting at the table in the kitchen of the Hope Springs house she and Artie shared, watching him very capably pull their dinner together.

He had already set the table, taken the lasagna he’d worked on all afternoon from the oven to cool, and put the fresh Italian loaf he’d baked earlier in to warm. Their kitchen smelled like a ristorante: onions, tomatoes, oregano, and wine, and Brooklyn was starving. For the food. For her husband.

He brought two glasses and the bottle he’d just opened to where she sat, and poured hers first. She reached for the stem, looking past it to the dark hair dusting the edge of his hand, his wrist. The tattoo on his forearm. It was new, and still healing. He had it inked to commemorate ten years on the job.

It was the Austin Fire Department symbol. Above and behind it flew the Texas state flag as well as the stars and stripes. An eagle perched on top, its talons gripping the emblem’s edge, and the word Brotherhood stretched across the center on a banner.

She lifted her glass to her mouth and sipped, her gaze falling to his belt buckle against his flat stomach. She wanted to take him to bed. The lasagna could wait. But this was the first time in their five-year marriage that his shift hadn’t fallen on their anniversary date. This was his night as much as it was theirs, and she wouldn’t do anything to take away from their celebration.

“Drink,” he told her. She raised her gaze; his smile was bright in his five o’clock shadow, and his brown eyes flashed. “That’s what I want you to do. Drink and relax and enjoy dinner. Your gift to me.”

“Five years. You’re supposed to give me wood,” she said, and when he snorted with laughter, she felt the heat of a blush rising. She loved that he could still make her blush. “Something made out of wood, you perv.”

“You love every pervy bit of me,” he said, heading back to the