Almost An Angel Page 8

  Overkill, he knew. But Eliza was doing him an enormous favor. The very least he could do was feed her well. He thought about bringing her flowers, too, then decided he was turning into a cliché. The wine, food and chocolate would have to do.

  Burdened with three canvas totes bulging with edibles, scrapbooking supplies and the thick folder of digital photos he’d printed, he had to press her doorbell button with his elbow. After a few long seconds, she swung open the door and let out a little gasp. “Oh, my god. What did you bring?”

  “Lunch. And the stuff on your list. Can I come in?”

  She stepped back, allowing him to enter. Her townhouse had appeared rather bland from the outside, but inside it was all dramatic modern angles, stark white walls and polished hardwood and tile floors. The living room she led him through featured a soaring ceiling and a loft. Vast windows overlooked a deck and beyond it an expanse of snow-dappled woods. The kitchen looked like an illustration from an architectural magazine, hard surfaces, glossy counters, stainless-steel appliances.

  He remembered the way his kitchen had smelled when he’d arrived home after last week’s Daddy School class, that mouth-watering aroma of fresh-baked cookies. This kitchen was too clean. He wondered if Eliza ever baked cookies here.

  He set the canvas bags on the center island and turned to her—and forgot all about cookies. His mouth watered for her. Dressed in blue jeans, an oversized gray sweater and thick wool socks, her hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail, she looked young and fresh and more delicious than any cookie ever invented. In fact, she looked like the antithesis of her austere condo: warm, a little messy and utterly comfortable. That baggy sweater, the strands of hair that had escaped from her ponytail and drizzled in soft waves around her face, her large, dark eyes and the tiny spot of worn, fraying denim on her left knee all seemed to say, make yourself at home.

  He couldn’t. Not until he convinced her that he was worth inviting in—to her condo, her home, her life. Her heart and her soul.

  “We should eat first,” he said. “We can do the scrapbook after. If that’s all right with you,” he quickly added.

  She turned from him and surveyed the bags. “I thought you were going to bring some burgers from McDonalds. Or pizza.”

  “I brought this,” he said simply, then proceeded to unload the gourmet feast from the tote bags. He saved the chocolates for last, and rather than lining them up with all the other food, he placed the box in her hands. “These are for you, for later.”

  “Conor.” She gazed at the gold-foil box for a moment, then set it on the counter and shook her head. “I’m doing this to help Amy,” she reminded him. “You didn’t have to bribe me with chocolate.”

  “It’s not a bribe. It’s lunch. Enough lunch to give us time to talk while we eat. If you’re okay, time-wise,” he added again. This was about her, not him. Her needs, not his.

  “I don’t have any plans this afternoon,” she said. “Other than making this scrapbook. What about you? When do you have to get back to Amy?”

  “She’s with friends. They’re going to a one-thirty movie. I’ve got all afternoon, too. Corkscrew?” He presented the wine bottle to her.

  She bit her lip, as if trying to decide whether wine was a good idea. With a shrug, she pulled two wine goblets from a cabinet and a corkscrew from a drawer. For the next several minutes, they worked side by side in silence, arranging the cheeses on a cutting board, rinsing the fruit and piling it into a bowl, lining a straw basket with a napkin and filling it with fist-sized chunks of bread. She gathered as much as she could onto a tray and carried it to a dining area at one end of her cavernous living room, leaving Conor to follow her with the open wine bottle and glasses. Beyond the window next to the table, a soft snow began to fall.

  “This is quite a townhouse,” he said discreetly. It really was striking. It just didn’t seem like Eliza.

  She snorted. “It was the only place I could find in my price range on short notice,” she told him. “Well, there was a house that had a flooding problem in the basement, and a tiny apartment in a building that smelled of mildew. Not too many rentals in Arlington. Most properties are for purchase, not rent.”

  Conor nodded. “And you didn’t want to buy a place?”

  “I wanted to get to know the area first. And who knows if this job will work out? They gave me a three-year contract, but…” She shrugged, then tasted the wine. “This is delicious.”

  “Tell me about your hell,” he said.

  Her eyes flicked at him, a sharp stare before she averted her gaze. “What I said at the store the other day—”

  “—was true,” he cut her off. “You were right. All I ever thought about was me and Amy and our loss. And that was wrong. I hope you can forgive me. I want to know everything about you. Everything you’re willing to tell me.”

  She laughed vaguely. “There’s not that much to tell.”

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  She stared at him again, this time a long, measuring look. “All right,” she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  HE TRULY SEEMED to want her to talk. She stalled by piling her plate with cheese and grapes, bread and a slice of pear, but he only watched her, saying nothing, waiting for her to speak. After a long minute, she did.

  “My mother raised my brother and me herself,” she said. “My father left her when I was about three. I hardly remember him. He sent birthday cards for a few years, but I guess he really didn’t want a family. Which was okay, because my mother was a wonderful parent. She worked so hard, went back to school at night, got her Realtor’s license and became a real estate broker. We grew up in Jacksonville, and after my brother and I left home, we’d always go back to Florida to be with her for Christmas. This will be the first year we won’t be doing that.” Eliza’s voice cracked slightly, and she eased it with another sip of wine.

  “How did she die?”

  “A stroke. Completely unexpected. She was as healthy as a horse. So full of life.” Her words tripped over another rough spot in her voice, and she swallowed. She would not cry. Not in front of Conor. If he wanted to know about her, she’d tell him, but she would not fall apart. She didn’t want his pity.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last March. My brother and I went to Jacksonville and closed up her house. And I made my scrapbook about her.”

  “And then you moved to Arlington? Because your mother died?” Conor frowned, clearly unable to make the connection.

  “I didn’t come here because my mother died,” she said.

  “But you came kind of suddenly, no? Too quickly to find a house that fit your personality.”

  She nibbled on the slice of pear, savoring its sweetness as she decided what to tell Conor. She’d been worried, after their last meeting, that she’d been too hard on him, too demanding. Yet he was rising to her demands. Maybe he felt he owed it to her. Maybe he thought he ought to pretend to be interested in her past because she was going to help him make a scrapbook.

  She’d agreed to help him with the scrapbook without any strings attached, though. He didn’t owe her. They had no real relationship, no bonds of intimacy tying them together. Just their shared concern for a little girl who missed her mother. Their shared concern and that one explosive episode of lovemaking.

  “It took about three weeks to settle my mother’s estate,” she told him. “When I returned home to Albany, I learned that while I was away, my fiancé and my best friend had slept together—and discovered that they were in love. They both came to the airport to meet me. They told me this on the drive home. So…in less than a month, I lost my mother, the man I’d been planning to marry and the woman I’d chosen to be my maid of honor.”

  “Wow,” Conor said. “That’s more than a small hell. I’d call it a medium hell, at the very least.”

  He didn’t sound pitying. In fact, she detected a faint undercurrent of humor in his voice. “It’s not funny,” she muttered.

  “No. It
sucks. But it brought you to Arlington, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s not all bad.” He contemplated his words, then gave her a contrite look. “Sorry. I’m only thinking of myself again. But I’ve got to admit, I’m glad you lost that fiancé. I thought I was a jerk. He’s got me beat by a mile in the jerk derby.”

  The jerk derby? The phrase tickled a laugh out of her. “Anyway, that’s why I moved when I did. I couldn’t stay in Albany anymore. When heard about a job opening here in Arlington, I grabbed it.”

  “The Arlington school system wisely grabbed you.” He gazed at her and she was moved by the roiling emotion in his blue eyes, the earnestness, the sheer beauty of his features. “I hope this isn’t just a way-station for you. I hope you stay long enough to find a house that suits you. I hope…damn it.” He sighed, then reached across the table and gathered her hand in his. “I hope you stay long enough for us to get to know each other. Not rebounding. Not healing. Just…being together.”

  Her fingers curled against his palm, then wove through his, locking his hand to hers. “We both still have a lot of healing to do.”

  “We can heal together. Like roommates in a rehab center.”

  She laughed again. “Oh, wow. That sounds like fun.”

  He brushed off her sarcasm. “We can make it fun. Last Saturday night was fun until you walked out the door.”

  No argument there. She felt her cheeks grow warm at the memory of just how fun it had been.

  “I want us to heal together, Eliza. I haven’t stopped thinking of you since that night. Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I walked into your office the day you called to tell me Amy had hit a classmate. You were right, I was too wrapped up in myself at first. But I want to be wrapped up in you. I want you in my life.”

  His words weren’t poetic. They weren’t flowery. But they were the most romantic sentiments anyone had ever expressed to her. “I’d like that,” she murmured.

  “Spend Christmas with Amy and me,” he said.

  “Oh—I don’t know. If she’s going to be getting the scrapbook, all full of her mother…”

  “You and Sheila are not in competition,” he said firmly. “Sheila will always be Amy’s mother. But you’re Amy’s friend. Maybe her mentor. Her inspiration. Amy doesn’t have to abandon her mother to love you. She can love you just because you’re you.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “So can I.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. All right, so Conor would see her cry, after all. She didn’t have to worry about his pitying her. Pity was definitely not the emotion she felt radiating from him. Affection, yes. Trust. Lust.

  Love. The mature love of a man who knew what love was, what it required, what blessings it could bestow if you committed fully to it. He was a man who’d loved his wife, who loved his daughter, who knew how to give and receive love.

  “Well,” she said, sniffing away her tears. “If I’m going to spend the holiday with you and Amy, we’d better get to work on that scrapbook. I don’t want her to be disappointed on Christmas morning.”

  “She might be,” Conor conceded. “She’s not going to find an angel by the tree. At least not the angel she expected.” He squeezed Eliza’s hand again, then lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “But if you’re there, we’ll have an angel. Amy and me both. We’ll have you.”

  ***

  About the Author

  Judith Arnold is the award-winning, bestselling author of more than ninety published novels. A New York native, she currently lives in New England, where she indulges in her passions for jogging, dark chocolate, good music, good wine and good books. She is married and the mother of two sons.

  You can find out about Judith’s other books, contact her, and sign up for her newsletter by visiting her website.

  About The Daddy School

  The Daddy School is an award-winning series of contemporary romances about heroes, the children they love, and the women who love those men and their children. Founded by best friends Allison Winslow, a neonatal nurse, and Molly Saunders, the director of a preschool, the Daddy School offers classes on how to become a better father. The first three books of the series tell how the school was founded and celebrate the love stories of Allison, Molly, and Molly’s sister, Gail. Those first three books were so beloved by readers, I just kept writing more Daddy School books. Enjoy them all!

  Father Found

  Jamie McCoy is the ultimate guy. His syndicated column, “Guy Stuff,” keeps thousands of men in a macho frame of mind. But the day Jamie finds Samantha on his doorstep, his life changes drastically. Samantha is a baby and Samantha is a girl. Jamie knows nothing about babies and girls. More important, Samantha is his daughter, so he phones Allison Winslow, a nurse who runs the Daddy School, for advice. But when he actually meets Allison, he finds he wants much more than her assistance.

  Father Christmas

  Police detective John Russo is responsible to a fault. When his girlfriend got pregnant, he married her. When she walked out on the marriage, he committed himself to raising their son himself. But when his baby-sitter has a family emergency and must fly to California, John's carefully rigged existence comes crashing down. He needs help, and fast. Molly Saunders co-founded the Daddy School to help men become better fathers. When it comes to learning the skills he needs to raise his son well, John is an A student. But Molly's lessons in love prove much more challenging.

  Father of Two

  Dennis Murphy’s rambunctious seven-year-old twins swear he’s the best lawyer in Arlington, Connecticut. They don’t make his job easy, however. When the nanny he hires to watch the twins walks out on them one afternoon, Dennis is forced to bring his work home with him. A lawyer in the public defender’s office, Gail Saunders agrees to represent a former client suing the city’s newspaper for libel, even if it means going up against Murphy and his prestigious, wealthy law firm, and even if it means she has to deal with his wild children once their nanny goes AWOL. Being the sister of one of the founders of the Daddy School, Gail believes Murphy could use a few lessons in how to be a better father. But she’s got a few things to learn, too, and Dennis Murphy might just be the man to teach her.

  Somebody’s Dad

  Fund manager Brett Stockton wants love, commitment, maybe even marriage—but no kids, period. Falling in love with photographer Sharon Bartell is easy. She’s everything he could possibly want in a woman…except that she’s the single mother of a two-year-old son. Can Brett learn to love Max? Or for both Max and Sharon’s sakes, should he walk away?

  Hush, Little Baby

  When Levi Holt’s single-mom sister dies and he learns he’s the guardian of her six-month-old baby, he needs a crash course in fatherhood. Juggling child care with his demanding career as an architect, he has trouble conducting business with Corinne Lanier, who wants him to alter his design for her boss’s new house. Corinne has no time or patience for a frazzled dad and a cranky baby—until both Levi and D.J. start working their magic on her. With love, lullabies and a few desperately needed classes at the Daddy School, Levi might figure out how to put the fragmented pieces of his life back together. But will there be room in it for Corinne? And can he be certain Corinne loves him for himself and not for his precious little baby?

  Almost an Angel

  Widower Conor Malone wants Christmas to be joyous for his daughter. But Amy believes Santa is going to bring her mother back to her. How can Conor make the holiday bright for Amy when he can’t give her the one gift she wants? With a little help from Eliza Powell, the new school psychologist—and the Daddy School.

  Daddy’s Girl

  As a court-appointed guardian for Alix Medina, Hayley Baines has only one job: to represent the best interests of the little girl at the center of a difficult custody battle between the child’s widowed father, Kevin Medina, and Kevin’s in-laws. That Kevin is a working-class guy who runs a lawn service and the Porters are outrageously wealthy, able to provide Alix with everything she could ever want, doesn’t influence Hayley.
That Kevin is strong and sexy and irresistibly attractive shouldn’t influence her. But how objective can she be when talking to him, gazing at him, simply being with him turns her on in a crazy way?