Dance Away with Me - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,44

that were a bad thing.

“So what?”

“Nothing. Only that you don’t need to lose weight.”

“Thanks for your input. I’ll make sure I forget it.”

He had the nerve to look hurt.

* * *

The nightmare returned that night, worse than ever. Would she ever stop having this dream of blood and fear, or would it plague her sleep for the rest of her life?

By the time she and Wren got downstairs the next morning, Ian was gone. As she drank her morning coffee, she thought about the nightmare and then about the photos she’d uncovered when she was doing her Internet stalking. Photos of Ian with one exotic-looking woman after another. She kicked aside the sneakers she’d abandoned by the stairs. She didn’t want him hooking up with one of his lovers. She wanted—

She didn’t know what she wanted. Maybe a lover for herself? Even a few weeks ago, the idea would have been unthinkable. She blamed Ian. Living around his overly potent masculinity was messing her up.

She’d thought her sexuality had died along with Trav, and it was unsettling that a man who couldn’t be more different from Trav seemed to have resurrected it. But maybe that was the point. Maybe the fact that Ian was Trav’s opposite had given her subconscious permission to get turned on without feeling disloyal. Despite the wayward path of her thoughts, she’d never go to bed with North. If . . . when . . . she had sex again, it would be with someone like Trav. Except sexually aggressive in a way Trav hadn’t been.

Always the seducer. Never the seduced.

She was glad she’d never told Trav that she needed him to be more aggressive. Now her sexual greediness seemed petty. Considering how much he’d loved her, she couldn’t imagine having that conversation with him. He would have been so hurt.

She rearranged Wren’s baby Mohawk. “Distract me from my wicked thoughts, sweetheart. How about a little conversation?”

Wren blinked her sleepy eyes and screwed up her mouth.

“Don’t cry, okay? You did enough of that last night.”

Tess fed her and poured some Cheerios into a bowl for herself. As she ate, she faced the dismal prospect of being holed up alone with Miss Crabby Pants while Ian dined in fine restaurants and rumpled the sheets with a beautiful woman. Maybe more than one.

She heard a car and peered out the window in time to see a woman she didn’t recognize emerge from a muddy SUV and head toward the house. Tess opened the door.

The woman looked like a sixty-year-old fashion model for the alternative, boho, yoga crowd. She had shiny gray hair in a single braid, a glowing complexion, and bright hazel eyes with delicate lines at the corners that bespoke character. Her lithe frame was packaged in an embroidered tunic top, skinny jeans, and ankle boots. Long turquoise earrings dangled from her earlobes, and a mala bead necklace completed her outfit. “You must be Tess,” she said. “I’m Heather.”

Tess didn’t recognize her from the Broken Chimney, but any company was welcome. “Come in.”

Heather stepped inside and opened her arms like a preacher embracing his congregation. “What a magnificent space! I wanted to buy the schoolhouse for myself as a home studio. I’m supposed to be a potter.” She dropped her arms. “Unfortunately, I’ve never been good with money.” She gazed at Wren. “You’re a little miracle, aren’t you? Let me wash my hands so I can hold her.” She saw Tess’s hesitation. “Don’t worry. All my immunizations are up-to-date, and I haven’t been sick in years.”

“That’s good to know, but . . . Who are you, and why are you here?”

“Ian didn’t tell you? I’m Heather Lightfield. Your backup babysitter. He’s concerned about you being alone while he’s gone, and he knows Phish needs you.”

“My backup—”

“Phish told him about me. And Phish wants you back at the Broken Chimney right away.”

“I know. But Ian didn’t say anything to me about a backup babysitter.”

“Maybe he thought you’d object. I can see the two of you have bonded.”

For a moment, Tess thought she was talking about bonding with Ian, but then she realized Heather meant Wren.

Heather headed for the kitchen, talking the whole time. “Ian checked all my credentials, called half a dozen references, and made a general pain in the ass of himself. You can ask Phish.” Water began to run in the kitchen sink. “I was a preschool teacher,” she said from the other room. “After I retired, I wanted to make pottery full-time. Instead, I started