Page 59
He took a seat on the opposite side of the breakfast counter and watched as she moved — barefoot, miles of toned leg on display — around the small kitchen. She set out two mugs, offering a choice of tea. “Chamomile, or something spicier?”
“Whatever you’re having,” he replied.
Her hair fell past the middle of her back, the drying strands lightening, lifting slightly as she moved. She shoved her sleeves up above her elbows in an impatient gesture, then turned to face him. “How is Ruth?”
The question came out of nowhere. He blinked. “Ruth?”
“You’re spending a lot of time with her.”
Ah. “It’s been a busy time for her. The holidays coming up. The store. The kids’ activities. I help where I can.”
“That’s” — she cleared her throat — “good.” She swallowed. “Today … Lance Whittaker is an abysmal father. It’s good Davey and Michaela have you.”
He leaned his elbows on the counter. “Felicity.” He waited till she glanced at him. “I’m not their father. I never will be. They know it. Ruth knows it.”
She tilted her head. “Does she?”
“I’ve never given her reason to think otherwise.”
“Her friends seem to disagree.”
The kettle clicked off, and she turned to pour water over the teabags. A moment later, she set a steaming mug in front of him, followed by a bottle of honey and a teaspoon. She took the seat opposite him, caught the tag between her fingers, dunking the teabag with quick, restless movements.
“I’ve been warned to stay away from you. Luckily” — she lifted the bag, set it on a small holder, and met his gaze with a measured stare — “I’d already done so myself.”
Damn Bella and her meddling.
The aroma of spice drifted between them, and he took his time before replying. “As you said … small town.”
She dropped a dollop of honey into her mug. “Or a friend wanting something good for another friend,” she said, stirring slowly.
Lifting her mug, she blew across the surface.
“You’re a good man, Ronan Murphy. And if you and Ruth can make a go of it…” A small pause. “I think you should give it your all.”
He didn’t reach for his mug. Just watched her take a tentative sip.
“Ruth and I — we’re friends. That’s all.” He drew in a breath, reining in his irritation at interfering busybodies. “There’s no spark. No reason to notice the freckles across her nose. No pull to touch her. To kiss her.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “And I certainly don’t want her under me, falling apart as she takes my cock.” He paused. “Not like with you.”
Felicity set her mug down. “Dammit, Ronan. You’re not playing fair.”
“I’m not playing. At all.” He held her gaze. “What I feel for you … it’s real. The last few weeks have been” — empty, lonely — “hard.” He straightened, reaching for the mug. “But that’s not why I came here tonight.” He took a small sip. “Hmm. Not bad.”
She stayed quiet, sipping the hot liquid.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. There were kids involved—”
“It happened in Denver.” Felicity set her mug down, interlacing her fingers. “Another family of four. And a mother-in-law. The kids were barely walking.” Her voice dropped. “I was on the neighboring roof, waiting for a clean shot when he opened fire.”
She blinked. “The grandmother died protecting the kids. The wife took a bullet to the back.” Her fingers white-knuckled. “Paralyzed.” A beat of silence. “He died rushing the police. Suicide by cop.”
Another beat. “I never got the chance to pull the trigger. Maybe … if I’d scaled the roof quicker, found the gap sooner—” Her voice cracked.
Ronan’s chest tightened at the self-recrimination threading her voice. He reached across the counter, covering her hands with his — just a touch, no pressure. “I’m sorry you have to carry that weight.”
Platitudes were pointless. It wasn’t her fault. She knew that. Yet it would always linger at the back of her mind. He had his own version of that regret, a holdover from the war.
