Lauren trudged toward the base lodge early Monday evening, giving mental kudos to her brother. Running WiLA was a pile of fun, but that fun came with a fair degree of challenge. So far today she’d juggled staff scheduling requests, put out fires with a bookings glitch and called in a maintenance crew when a fuel injector had crapped out on the Peak Chair’s prime mover. However, it was better than suturing wounds.
No. Dealing with a fricking diesel engine is not better than medicine. She shoved the door of her brother’s office in the basement of the main lodge and held back a groan as it swung open.
Tavish sat at Zach Cardenas’s desk, studying a sketchbook. She’d been hoping for some time to herself to end the day, but no, no reprieve for her.
Probably a good thing given they needed to talk about what had happened at the reception, though knowing a conversation was necessary didn’t mean she actually wanted to have it. Maybe he expected quid pro quo for how well he’d pleasured her on that picnic table. It would only be fair. That table, or maybe his tongue, merited being bronzed. But though they’d walked back to the lodge hand in hand—separating before they’d run into any guests, mind you—she hadn’t seen him yesterday. This morning, he’d kept things super light between them, greeting her with an exaggerated, sexy grin and a comment about getting to play secretary to the boss. Did he intend to end the day in the same vein?
Slumped in his chair, he lacked his customary, just-shy-of-arrogant confidence. He greeted her with a bare nod. No more teasing, then. Whatever was on his page was demanding his full attention.
She straightened her hiking shorts and perched herself on the corner of his desk. “Where’s my end-of-the-day innuendo? It perked me up better than a coffee this morning,” she teased.
He lifted a shoulder and traced her knee with the pencil in his hand. “Just tired.”
Based on the color in his cheeks and the lack of smudges under his eyes, she doubted it. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I just got off the phone with...work stuff. Got me a little edgy, I guess.” Dropping his pencil on the desk, he traced her knee with the tip of his finger instead.
Her breathing kicked up a notch. She linked her fingers with his to prevent him from traveling closer to the hem of her shorts. Hyperventilating would not project an I-can-take-you-or-leave-you image.
Leaning forward, she caught a better view of his creation, which looked like his thinking place. She’d last been there with him after her grandparents’ funeral. She’d been distraught and he’d used his skillful hands and mouth to get her mind off her grief. Then they’d argued.
And he’d left.
Just like he’ll leave in a few weeks. She forced the thought to linger, let the full weight of it settle on her shoulders. “Can I see?”
His guarded eyes studied her for a moment before he passed the book to her with a flick of his wrist. “I guess.”
Lauren rotated the pad. The flowing water was indelibly and precisely etched. Alive on the page. “Tavish,” she breathed. “This is incredible.”
He shrugged. “Fine arts electives came in handy. I can create something decent with most art materials.”
“This is beyond decent. You could sell this. I feel like I could put my hand through the page and bring it out dripping.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but I couldn’t sell my sketches.”
“But drawings and photography are both art. And you’re gifted in both media.”
“I’m not above selling my art. Obviously. But that—” he pointed at his sketchbook with the unsharpened end of his pencil “—that’s me. I don’t sell myself.”
“I can see your heart in this, definitely. I think I get what you mean.” She flipped the page.
And was staring into a mirror.
Her breath caught in her throat. “Oh, my God.”
She tried to breathe evenly. He’d rendered her face with such detail, such reverence. If his art was a part of him, then did he consider her a part of him still?
“Tavish.” She traced a finger along the two-dimensional replica of her nose.
He kept his gaze on his tented fingers in his lap. “Your eyes are the same color as the river as it changes from shallow to deep. I was at that spot, and remembered...” Turning red, he looked around the room with a panicked jerk to his motions. He stood and grabbed a clipboard. “I have to go debrief with the rafting folks.”
He bolted through the door faster than the river at spring melt, leaving Lauren holding a mirror-image picture of herself but no longer knowing who she was beneath the surface.
* * *
Straggling into the WiLA office two days later, Lauren collapsed into the office chair. Hump day number one was over, and she was pleased with how she’d done so far. Andrew’s job was mainly supervisory, but like her brother, she couldn’t help but get involved in operations. She’d have preferred to actually do some of the guiding, but being pregnant precluded buckling on a climbing harness. Tavish had filled in the gaps where necessary—they made a good team. On the job, at least.
A single daisy, stuck in a water glass next to her keyboard, drew her attention to a sticky note attached to the flat-screen computer monitor.
Meet me at my place at 7.
My place.
Huh. Up until now, Tavish had always called the pretty apartment just off Main Street “Mackenzie’s place.” Lauren sank farther into the chair. Why did he have to tease her with little steps toward growing roots? It didn’t matter how many little steps he took—he wouldn’t be able to make the big leaps.
Don’t forget that. If they were going to function together as parents, they had to resist their emotions—and their physical pull. So what if he still kinda-sorta wore their wedding rings? She still hadn’t convinced him to stay put in Sutter Creek.
But...my place...?
No. She couldn’t count on him.
Stay firm.
She recited the words to herself as she closed up and headed home. As she changed into a T-shirt and a stretchy skirt that skimmed her knees. As she drove to Tavish’s, and especially when she read the Post-it note on his door, written in the same bold print as before.
Come on in, sweetheart.
Her internal stay-firm mantra wavered in the face of his words, the confidence of his penmanship. And when she cautiously opened the door, walked through the entryway into the high-ceilinged living and dining area, the chant shriveled and died.
All of Mackenzie’s old furniture—gone. She stroked her hand along the back of the polished leather couch. He’d decorated with raw-wood coffee and end tables and a Peruvian rug. A square dining table filled the other end of the rectangular room. Some late-nineties rock played quietly from the docking station on a tall, wide bookshelf next to the unlit fireplace. An assortment of hardcovers and paperbacks stood on the half-filled shelves.
And the art—a fist of emotion gripped her throat when she realized he’d personalized the walls. An eclectic blend of his photography—the sharp angles of New York City architecture, the twirling spires of Eastern Europe, the towering ice of Antarctica—mixed in with internationally flavored prints. Every single item a piece of Tavish.
Her eye was drawn to the mantel. Oh, sweet Lord. Two framed pictures were nestled with a collection of colored rocks. One of Andrew and him hanging off a rock face, and one of Mackenzie, their mom and him at Mackenzie’s wedding that he’d clearly had printed in the last few days. She said silent thanks for the fact he hadn’t put up a picture of her—that would have reduced her to a helpless puddle of skin and bones and need.
“Lauren?”
She spun. “Hey.”
He stood in the doorway to the little galley kitchen with a tomato-splattered dish towel tucked into the waist of his jeans. One muscle-roped arm braced against the door frame. Good God. The human body was a marvel, and Tavish’s, with all its long lines and hard definition, never disappointed. Desire curled in her belly, stirring against her fascination with every part of him. Her confusion rolled into a great, brewing, uncontainable churn.
His eyes gleamed. “Hungry?”
“Sure.” For more than food. She cleared her throat. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
“Thanks. I’ll need to have a home base for the sake of the baby, and this works. I thought I could put a crib and stuff in the spare room.”
Unsettling reality encroached on the happiness from seeing his personal mark on the apartment. Why hadn’t she considered the separation involved in coparenting—him having his time with the baby, her having her time? Dealing with custody and deciding who got what weekend and arguing over holidays? Her stomach rolled worse than from morning sickness.
His brow wrinkled. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Lauren? Me, showing some consistency?”
“Well, yeah, but—” She bit her lip.
“But...?”
But what she said she wanted and what she really wanted were two different things. Him making changes to support her and to love their baby checked boxes but didn’t actually fill her soul.
“I love you,” she blurted. Holding herself up under his startled, steaming gaze, she balled her fingers into fists and fought the hot moisture pricking the corners of her eyes.
“I love you, too.” Tavish took two long strides and gathered her into his strong arms. Kept her upright as her legs turned to gelatin. She gripped handfuls of the back of his soft T-shirt and lost her grip on her tears.
“Hey, shh.” He stroked a gentle hand through her loose-hanging hair. “We’ll figure something out.”
His shirt muffled her “How?”
“We’d intended to compromise before—we can do it again. Maybe you and the baby can travel with me sometimes. Your family isn’t asking as much of you as they did last year—”
“No.” She leaned back and wiped her eyes before staring into his. The hope glinting there shattered her heart. “It’s not about what they expect from me. It’s about what I expect of myself. And I want to be here for them. Nor will I be able to leave the clinic for long stretches of time.”
Music from the docking station filled the hollow silence of the room. Failed to fill the hollowness of her heart.
Tavish didn’t say anything, just pressed his fingertips into the base of her spine.
“We might be able to manage if you only left for two or three months a year.”
Dropping his hands from her body, he jammed his fingers into his hair, squeezed at the messy strands. “I was thinking more half and half. But I’m trying, Lauren. I even called about taking a part-time position at Montana State—”
“You did?” Losing control over her jaw, she stared at him, hands hanging limply at her sides. Staying resolute was so much easier when it was all his fault. But now—the apartment, the job...
Tavish’s forehead wrinkled. “Yeah, I did. I can’t put our child through what I was put through. I know you’re not willing to come with me when I work—can we come up with a different solution?”
She could barely look at him, so sweet and hot and staring at her with challenge flashing in his eyes. “You left me last time. You will again.”
Was that her voice, that desperate, shrill noise?
Anytime she’d heard that tone come from anyone else, she’d viewed it as a sign of stubborn irrationality. That couldn’t be the truth in her case—her devotion to her family and the clinic wasn’t irrational. Tavish changing his life only affected Tavish. A compromise by her had the potential to hurt the baby, her dad, Cadie... They needed her to be here, to support them. And she had to follow through on her promise to her mom, follow through with the clinic. She pressed both hands over her heart in an attempt to quell the ache in her chest.
Tavish let out a gust of air. With a slight nod of his head, he said, “You’re right. I’ll eventually leave. But this time, I’ll come back.”
“And a part-time relationship between us is no less plausible now than it was last year.”
“Not unless you’re willing to sever the umbilical cord between you and your dad—”
“Enough.” She cut him off before he could hammer any further dents into her reasoning. The professional in her started to nag that she was nearing the definition of phobic, but she ignored it. Wanting her family happy and safe was not a phobia. It wasn’t. She’d seen what happened when she acted selfishly. “Do you remember where I was when my mom’s surgery went sideways? At summer camp, having a grand old time. And when my grandfather was dead on the side of the road, my grandmother in a coma, I was off marrying you. Pretending that it was okay for me to have given up the plans I’d made with my mom before she died.” She rambled on, desperate for him to understand. “I won’t put myself before my family again. My dad and Cadie need me here. And the baby will need that stability, too.”
“And what if I need you?”
His pleading whisper pushed her over the edge. “I have to go.” She crossed her arms, tried to hold in the blood from the verbal knife he’d just shoved between her ribs. He needed to stop looking at her like he was tearing into pieces. She couldn’t handle it. Because he was compromising. He was trying.
Which only made it obvious how much she wasn’t able to do the same.
Backing toward the front door, she said the only thing she knew would make him shut up, make him close off. “Call me if you decide you love me enough to put me ahead of your job.”