Page 4 of Ardently Yours

Bob Miller clamps a hand on his son’s shoulder and mutters in the bearded man’s ear. No doubt, something like “Calm down”or “This isn’t the time.”

As satisfying as I’m sure Max’s outburst felt, his father is right. His behavior will have done nothing but feed the flames.

For the first time, I hear Charlotte’s voice, a husky alto that squeezes something inside my chest. “Enough. I need some air.”

She bolts across the lobby and toward the doors.

When her friend moves to follow, Charlotte’s mother takes her hand. “Give her a minute.”

What are they thinking?Charlotte wears no coat. The polyester of her dress is too thin for December in Pennsylvania, and the cracked ballet flats on her feet offer next to no protection from the elements.

She shoves her way outside through two sets of double doors, trading the metaphorical coldness inside the church for its more literal cousin.

I’ve taken two steps in her direction when Bianca’s fingers clutch my forearm. “I wouldn’t if I were you. That girl is trouble.”

Only years of experience in a courtroom allow me to maintain a neutral expression. I reach out a hand to shake. When she takes it, I give an imminently professional squeeze. “I don’t believe I introduced myself, Bianca. My name is Arden McRae III.”

Her eyes widen in recognition.

“On behalf of the late Steven Hunsic, I’ll be acting as legal counsel representing Charlotte Miller’s interests.”

She snatches her hand back as if I burned her, stares at me wide-eyed, then bolts for the stairs.

Reese opens the doors to the church, and I head outside in search of Charlotte. I manage to catch a glimpse of a blonde in a black dress turning the corner at the edge of the building.

I follow her as she picks her way over a light layer of snow.

“Stay here,” I say to Reese. Something tells me a looming bodyguard won’t encourage Charlotte to open up.

“That isn’t a good idea,” Reese protests, but he stops at the corner to give us the illusion of privacy.

The young woman comes to a stop at a metal bench, dusts it off, and lowers herself to sit. She shivers violently, and, without intending to, I find myself standing too close to her, attempting to block the wind with my body.

Startled eyes, a shocking arctic blue with a dark outer circle around the iris, peer up at me.

”Hello, Ms. Miller.” Taking a seat on the far end of the bench, I lean forward and rest my forearms on my knees in an attempt to look less imposing. I’m at least half a foot taller than she is and about twice as wide at the shoulders. The last thing I want to dois frighten her. “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear about the car accident.”

She looks away and swallows hard.

“My name is Arden McRae.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “You’re Steve’s boss. The prosecutor from New York.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think about . . . I should have contacted you about his real funeral at the theater. This one wasn’t . . .” She lapses into silence and shakes her head.

“I understand. It’s not a problem.”

My proximity offers some protection from the wind, but not enough. When her teeth chatter, I remove my overcoat, then, crouching, I drape it around her.

She recoils, and I rise, backing away. I shouldn’t have touched her at all. It was completely out of character for me.

I see this woman and know Steve was loved fiercely while he lived. The baby she carries reminds me that some small piece of him still exists in the world, but she and I aren’t friends. The small comfort I’ve derived from her presence is a one-way street. My behavior was beyond inappropriate.

She pulls my coat off her shoulders and passes it back to me. “I forgot my jacket in the church, but I do have one.”

She’s probably telling the truth. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s shivering right now.

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