But he'd left the choice in her hands, he reminded himself. Since she
hadn't made a move in his direction in days, he was afraid he knew which
choice she'd made.
He couldn't blame her for it.
She would find someone else--someone she could make a life with. The
thought burned in his gut as he loitered by his truck, but he refused to
let it pass. She deserved to have what she wanted out of life. That was
marriage and children and a pretty home. A father for Aubrey, a man who
would appreciate both of them for the treasures they were.
Another man.
Another man who would slip his arms around her waist, rub his mouth over
hers. Hear her breath quicken, feel her bones go soft.
Some faceless son of a bitch who wasn't good enough for her would turn
to her in the night, sink inside her. And smile every goddamn morning
because he knew he could do it again.
Christ, Ethan thought, it was making him crazy.
Foolish bumped into his legs, a ratty tennis ball clamped hopefully in
his mouth, his tail wagging persuasively. In a habitual move, Ethan
tugged the ball free and tossed it. Foolish bounded after it, yapping
furiously when Simon darted like a bullet from the left and intercepted.
Ethan only sighed when Simon pranced back, sat, and waited for the game
to continue.
It was as good an excuse as any to stay outside, Ethan decided. He would
fool with the dogs, go fiddle with his boat, stay out of Grace's way. If
she had wanted to see him, she could have found him.
The dogs worked him around the side yard, and taking pity on the slower,
less skilled Foolish, Ethan found a stick to toss along with the ball.
It lightened his mood a little to watch them bash into each other,
wrestle, fetch, and retrieve.
You could depend on a dog, he thought, giving the ball a higher, harder
toss that sent Simon bounding in pursuit.
They never asked for more than you could give them.
He didn't see Grace until he was well around the house. Then he simply
stood.
No, one look, one quick glimpse, wasn't enough. Would never be enough.
The sheet she lifted to the line flapped wetly in the breeze as she
pegged it. The sun was on her hair. As he watched, she bent to the
basket, took out a pillowcase, gave it a quick snap, then clipped it
beside the sheet.
Love flooded into him, swamped him, left him weak and needy. Small
details hammered him--the curve of her cheek in profile. Had he ever
noticed how elegant her profile was? The way her hair sat on her head,
feathered at the back of her neck. Was she letting it grow? The way the
trim cuff of her shorts skimmed her thigh. She had such long, smooth
thighs.
Foolish rapped his head against Ethan's leg and snapped him back.
Abruptly nervous, he wiped his hands on his work pants, shifted his
feet. It was probably best, he decided, if he just slipped back around
the front, went into the house and upstairs. He took the first step
back, then pulled up short when she turned. She gave him a long look,