Page 42 of Bracing The Storm

“Funny!” Smirking, I put the candleholder on a nearby counter and regard the sandwich. There’s so much salad on that plate, I actually feel healthier just by looking at it.

“Not your thing? Suit yourself.” He shrugs and tosses some lettuce into his mouth, chewing slowly.

“You plan on living past a hundred?” I sit down at the table to watch him eat. Even that’s fascinating about him, which annoys the hell out of me.

“Maybe. I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than growing old with the woman you love while raising a bunch of children and grandchildren.”

I stare at him for a long moment, unsure whether he’s joking, but his expression is serious, almost rueful. “You want to get married?” I ask.

“One day, when I find the right one, yes.” His gaze settles on me and a shadow crosses his face. “Why?”

“Nothing. I just—” I clear my throat and shrug, choosing to keep my thoughts to myself.

Clearly, Patrick isn’t someone who ever drops a subject. “Didn’t peg me for the marriage type?”

No, I didn’t.

He pushes his plate aside and sits back in his chair, waiting for my answer.

“Honestly, I don’t know you well enough to have you pegged down for any type.” Big lie. I hold his gaze in the hope he won’t see right through it. The truth is I saw “player” and “fuck boy” stamped across his forehead the moment his lady friends turned up in the driveway.

“Is that so?” He raises his brows.

I open my mouth to deny the obvious or apologize or saysomething, but no words make it out. A few moments of awkward silence seem to stretch into an hour.

Patrick breaks the ice first. “Two people whose lives are intertwined, sitting together outside every night to watch the night sky—I can’t imagine a scene more beautiful than that.”

I laugh.

His brows shoot up again and another shadow crosses his features. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Sorry, I’m just—” I clear my throat to regain my composure.

“Not the romantic type, I gather?”

I ponder his question for a moment. “I’m just your usual cynic, that’s all. I really don’t see the appeal in all that twosome nonsense.”

“Then you’ve never been in love.”

His statement hits a soft spot. I hesitate, unsure what to say to that. Have I ever been in love? I thought so on several occasions, mostly during my adolescent years. In retrospect, Irealize they were little crushes based on as much substance and common ground as thin air.

Butreallove?

“I guess it never happened to me.” I smile and lift my legs to my chest, balancing my bare feet on the edge of the chair. His gaze instantly moves to my legs and lingers a little longer than necessary. Heat rushes up my neck and my heartbeat speeds up, beating frantically in my chest.

He makes me nervous, though I can’t tell whether it’s just pure, undiluted attraction or because there’s something about him that screams confidence and experience.

His gaze lifts to meet mine and something passes between us. It’s invisible and fleeting, but like an earthquake, it reverberates through me, leaving little cracks and crevices in its wake.

“You’re waiting out on a hero,” Patrick says.

I laugh awkwardly. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m not one to wait on anyone. Life’s too fleeting; there’s too much to do and see to spend the precious time we have in the waiting line.”

“It was a wordplay,” Patrick says. “Waiting out on a hero?”

I gawk at him, not getting the drift.

He shakes his head, incredulous. “Tina Turner? The famous singer? Doesn’t ring any bells?”

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