With a harsh gasp, she flew across the room and slammed the door, blocking his way. “No need to duke it out at the gym, McGee,” she snapped. “I’ll give you a good fight right here.”
He jerked her aside. “Get out of my way, Katie, we’ll talk when I’m good and ready.”
“No,” she said, shoving him back, “we’re going to talk now.”
He leaned in, eyes flashing. “Get this straight, Katie Rose, and get it good—you don’t run this household and you don’t run my life.”
“Our life!” she hissed, tears pooling against her will. She battled the quiver of her lip with a thrust of her chin. “We’re one, whether you like it or not. In God’s eyes, if not in yours.”
“One flesh, Katie, but two wills. What you did . . . ,” he shook his head, eyes naked with pain and voice hard, “wounded me. You’re my wife, my family, the one I should trust . . .”
Her throat constricted. “You can trust me, Luke, I promise. I won’t ever do this again.”
Fatigue shadowed his features as he tightened his grip on his bag. “No, Katie, you won’t. Because if you do, you’ll jeopardize our marriage more than you know.” He opened the door. “We’ll talk later, when my anger’s under control, but for now, I’m leaving.”
“Well, that makes two of us then,” she whispered. “When you get back, Kit and I will be gone.” A sob rose in her throat as she ran down the hall, tears streaming. She heard the front door slam, but ignored it, hauling her suitcase from the bedroom closet and thrusting it on their bed. Hands shaking, she opened her dresser drawer and snatched an armful of clothes.
“What the devil are you doing?” he asked from the doorway, his tone taut.
She continued to pack.
He strode forward and hurled his duffel onto the floor, the sting of a curse sizzling the air. “I said, what are you doing, Katie?”
Yanking more clothes from the drawer, she flung them into the bag, facing him with fire in her eyes. “You refuse to talk? Fine. I refuse to stay. I won’t live in silence, Luke McGee, no matter how angry you are. We’ll stay at my parents’.” She turned away to retrieve her toiletries from her vanity.
“You’re not going anywhere—”
She spun around. “No? Well, to borrow a phrase—you don’t run my life.”
Jaw ground tight, he seized her suitcase and dumped it out before pitching it on the floor.
She stared, mouth gaping. “You’re a devil,” she rasped, voice straining low to avoid waking Kit.
Muscled arms to his hips, he gave her a thin smile. “Yeah? Well, you wouldn’t exactly make it past the pearly gates, you little brat.” He scooped up a skirt and tossed it at her. “Put your clothes away.”
He headed for the door, and she jerked the suitcase onto the bed once again to repack her clothes.
She singed him with a scathing look, her whisper harsh. “This isn’t the BCAS, you brainless Neanderthal—you can’t order me around.”
In two powerful strides he had her suitcase upended again and clothes toppled in another unsightly heap. He launched the bag on the bed. His voice was a threat edged with a hard smile. “Sure I can, Katie—I’m bigger than you. I suggest you put the clothes away—now.”
She reared up to kick him, but he was too fast and deflected her with an innocent parry that toppled her back on the bed. He slacked a leg, hands parked low on his hips. “You’re a handful, Katie Rose, but so help me, I will wear the pants in this family or die trying.”
Katie gritted her teeth, anger hissing through every syllable. “Now that’s the best idea you’ve had yet, you overgrown ape—croak away!” Her lip curled in a sneer that belied the tears in her eyes. “And you were going to make me the ‘happiest woman alive’—HA!”
———
Luke stared, his breathing as ragged as his wife’s as she lay, chest heaving and tears trailing her cheeks. Shame crawled up his neck with a heat that scalded his pride. He exhaled a halting breath, painfully aware that as a man of God and the spiritual head of his home, he had set a poor example. Yes, Katie had been wrong initially, but he wasn’t responsible for Katie’s heart, only his. And he had failed—both God and his wife—miserably.
Easing down on the bed with a weary sigh, he reached for her hand, feathering her wrists with his thumbs. His words were halting, hoarse, and difficult to say. “Katie, I’m . . . sorry . . . for giving in to my anger.”
“Sorry doesn’t change the fact that you’re a bully,” she said, practically spitting the words in his face.
He could smell the rose scent of her hair and a faint whiff of baby powder on her clothes, and all at once he was keenly aware just how much he had missed her. His gaze wandered from blue eyes glinting with ire, to pink, full lips, angry and parted with every heave of her breasts, and in a wild thud of his pulse, all anger dissipated as quickly as the air in his lungs. He swallowed hard, suddenly craving her so much, he thought he would lose his mind. “Katie, please—let’s not do this. I’ve missed you more than I can say.” Her eyes flared as he bent close, and the groan that escaped his throat was no more than a rasp when his mouth tasted hers.
She bucked like a rodeo filly that’d never been ridden. “Oh, no you don’t, McGee,” she hissed, thrashing her head side to side. “You are not going to sweet-talk me now—”
He silenced her with a kiss that nearly consumed him, and his breathing was heavy when his mouth slid to suckle her ear. “Come on, Katie,” he whispered, “let’s kiss and make up . . .”
“Not on your li—”
Slipping his hands to her waist, he pulled her close with another kiss that reminded him just how much he needed her in his life . . . wanted her. His lips trailed her throat while blood pounded through his veins. “Look, Katie, I told you I was sorry . . . and I need you, Sass . . .”
Two petite palms slammed hard against his chest, holding him at bay with a voice that threatened despite the glaze in her eyes. “Hold your horses right there, buster! There’ll be no needs ‘met’ until we talk.” She wrenched free and shimmied to the far side of the bed, back butted hard against the headboard and palms splayed as if ready to bolt.
“Okay, Sass,” he said with a tight smile, “you’re the boss.” He moved to sit beside her and rested a palm on her thigh, gaze focused on hers as his thumb slowly circled.
She smacked his hand. “Do we have to take this to the kitchen? Focus!”
“I am,” he said, arm draped casually over the headboard. His gaze slid to her mouth.
Huffing out a sigh, she pinched finger and thumb to his jaw and thrust up, her brows arched in expectation. “On my eyes, McGee, not my mouth. We have serious issues to discuss.”
Luke sucked in a deep breath and blew it out again. He folded his arms and fixed his gaze on Katie’s, his manner suddenly serious. “Okay, you’re right—we do have a lot of air to clear. So why don’t you start by telling me why you would keep something this important to yourself?”
The sparks in her eyes tempered while she inched sideways to face him. Her chin elevated just a smidge before she glanced away, picking at the nubby rose motif of the quilt her mother had made. He studied her as she focused on the coverlet rather than his face, and although her voice carried the strength of recent fury, she chewed on her lip, betraying her guilt.
“I shouldn’t have done it, Luke, I can see that now and I’m sorry.” She glanced up, eyes holding a residue of anger. “But this week has certainly been proof as to how . . . unreasonable you can be.”
He jagged a brow. “Unreasonable? That my wife excludes me from a life decision that affects us all?”
A lump shifted in her throat despite the further lift of her chin. “Yes, because when you are bent on a certain course of action, Luke McGee, you can be quite the brick wall, and I was afraid that if I told you . . . ,” a faint shiver rippled her body, “well, that you might postpone the wedding or even . . . ,” she peeked up, teeth tugging her lip, “not marry me at all.”
H
is heart melted as always when Katie let her vulnerable side show, and he tugged her into his arms, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips to her hair. “I could never not marry you, Katie, don’t you know that? You and Kit are the family I’ve waited for my whole life.” He pulled away to lift her chin with his thumb, his voice husky with emotion. “Loving you, marrying you . . . has been like finally coming home.”
Tears pooled in her eyes and she fell into his arms with a hoarse cry. “Oh, Luke, I love you too, and I am so sorry for not telling you, but I was afraid. Law school has been a dream of mine for so long and yet I know it interferes with your dream of a family.”
Exhaling a heavy breath, he kneaded her back with a gentle palm. “It does present a dilemma, no question about that—Lizzie having Kit five days a week and then losing you at the BCAS.” He held her away with a wry smile. “Nor am I thrilled that Parker will be funding your dream instead of me. But . . . ,” he cupped her face in his hands, “if this is important enough that you quake in your boots at the prospect of me saying no, then I guess it should be important enough for me to say yes.” His lips skewed to the right. “And I did promise to make you the happiest woman alive, so I guess my goose is cooked.”
“Oh, Luke!” She thrust herself back into his arms. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
He held her at bay with a firm grip. “Not so fast, Sass—there are conditions.”
A smile nudged the edge of her lips as she feathered his arms with her thumbs, giving him a lidded gaze that focused only on his mouth. “To make you the happiest man alive?”
His throat suddenly went dry, and he tightened his hold. “No, Katie, I want your promise that you’ll never keep secrets from me again when it’s something I should know.”
She nodded, exhaling a slow breath.
“And that we will discuss and pray about everything,” he said with a stroke of her hair.
“Of course, Luke, whatever you say.”
“And,” he said with finality in his tone, quite sure his last condition would not be to her liking. His eyes locked on hers. “If you get pregnant at any time during law school, you will quit and stay home, no questions asked.”
“Forever?” Her eyes gaped as wide as her mouth.
He softened his hold, resorting to thumb feathering of his own. “Just until the kids are in school and Kit’s old enough to watch them. Say sixteen? Then, we’ll see what we can do.”
She tilted her head. “You promise?”
He leaned in. “Absolutely,” he said with a slow nibble of her ear. “That way we both keep our dreams, but it’s God who makes the decision.”
A moan trembled from her mouth and he smiled, descending on her lips to seal the deal. “So, what do you say? You ready to put both of our dreams in God’s hands and let him decide?”
She nodded, a hazy look in her eyes.
“Good,” he said, teasing her lips with a playful tug of his teeth. “Then I say we get busy.” He lowered her to the bed, his breathing rapid and warm as he whispered against her skin. “Because as you know, I don’t like to lose.”
“I know, but you can’t always win, McGee.”
His chuckle rumbled against the hollow of her throat as his fingers toyed with the button of her blouse. “Sure I can, Katie,” he whispered. His mouth explored her collarbone with deadly intent. “Because when it comes to winning,” he said with a lingering kiss, “I seldom strike out.”
“Da-da? Stor-wee?”
Luke froze, lips fused to Katie’s throat while her chuckle vibrated beneath his mouth. She wiggled from his hold to sit up and grin at Kit, who stood in the door with a book in her hand.
Katie patted the bed. “Sure, Peanut, Daddy would love to read you another story, wouldn’t you, Luke?” Her smile was innocent. “By the way, honey, did I mention Kit’s learned to climb out of her crib?”
A groan trapped in his throat as their daughter scrambled into their bed with the same dexterity with which she obviously escaped her own. He scooped her up and settled her on his lap with a kiss to her neck, then took the book from her hand. His gaze thinned as he shot his wife a warning smile. “Don’t get cocky, Katie Rose—this is only a rain delay, not a loss.”
“Whatever you say, Luke,” Katie said with a bored yawn. She jumped up to collect her clothes from the bed, then sauntered to the dresser, delivering a sassy smile over her shoulder. “Which only goes to prove my point, McGee, that if you think you’re going to win this competition”—she angled a brow—“I’d have to say you’re all wet.”
“Gosh, Emma, I don’t know who’s the better cook—you or Mrs. Peep.” Eighteen-year-old Casey ladled the last spoonful of strawberry trifle in her mouth with a moan, winking at their elderly landlady who sat across from her at Emma’s kitchen table.
Emma tossed her young neighbor a smile, the aroma of stew and fresh-baked bread mingling with the smell of fresh-ground coffee beans that Emma had just prepared to brew. The happy sound of chatter merged with the chug of the coffee and the laughter of children playing stickball in the street outside Mrs. Peep’s six-family flat. Lemon-yellow gingham curtains fluttered in the summer breeze, infusing the kitchen—and Emma—with the clean scent of new-mown grass, along with a cozy feeling that fit as snugly as the floral wallpaper hugging the walls.
“The better cook? Why, Emma, of course.” Mrs. Peep spooned a bite of dessert into her mouth, savoring it with a dreamy roll of her eyes. Shadows from crystal candlesticks flickered and swayed across a lemon-yellow tablecloth bedecked with floral-patterned china cups and saucers salvaged from a return at the store. She patted a napkin to lips now pursed in a pout, then hiked one silver brow in a show of authority. “Although my Archie swore till the day he died that it was my cooking that got him to the altar.” Her blue eyes suddenly twinkled. “Said it was better than a Big Bertha cannon at a shotgun wedding.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder, smiling at her pert landlady and the young woman who’d become more like a daughter. “I’d put your money on Mrs. Peep, Casey. I can’t compete with a woman who cooked for six strapping sons over the years and a hungry husband too. Whom,” she said with a lift of her brows, “I guarantee didn’t marry her just for the taste of her food.” Emma dipped her head in tease, eyes warm with affection. “You forget I’ve seen your portrait on your mantel, Mrs. Peep, the one that’s a dead ringer for Greta Garbo.”
“Oh, pshaw!” Mrs. Peep tossed her head, but Emma could see her pleasure in the glow of her face, dewy and soft despite an abundance of wrinkles. Finger waves glimmered against her temple like white satin as she straightened in her chair, a tiny woman, petite and pretty in a perky housedress that brought out the blue of her eyes. Weathered lips crooked into a droll smile when she leaned in to return Casey’s wink. “I can tell you right now that if I were a dead ringer for Garbo, Archie wouldn’t have let me spend so much time in the kitchen.”
“Mrs. Peep!” Even Casey’s cheeks hazed pink, probably the exact shade of Emma’s.
The tiny woman chuckled, sipping the cup Emma had just filled. “My Archie was a real Romeo, romantic to the core,” she said, her exuberance edging into a touch of melancholy, “and I can’t help but remember him that way. I was young once, you know.” Her gaze trailed into a faraway look that tipped her lips with a soft smile. “Truth be told, I still am.” She closed her eyes to sip her coffee before they popped open with a cheeky grin. “Now, if I can just convince my mirror.”
Emma bent to give the old woman a hug. “Fifty-two years with the love of your life is a lot of blessing, Mrs. Peep, and more awaits when you see Archie in heaven.”
Her smile trembled. “I know, my dear,” she said with a sigh. She patted Emma’s cheek, eyes brimming with fondness. “You’re too good to waste, Emma Malloy, you know that?”
“I totally agree,” Casey said. Sitting cross-legged on her chair, she swiped whipped cream from her lip with the tip of her tongue, as if she were eight instead of eighteen. “It’s a real shame
Emma doesn’t have anyone to cook for.”
“I do too,” Emma said with a mock scowl. “I cook for you and Mrs. Peep every chance I get.”
Casey licked her spoon with a glint of mischief in her blue-gray eyes. “Come on, Emma, you know what I mean. You should be making these wonderful concoctions for a grateful man who can shower you with praise . . .” She wriggled her brows. “Or kisses . . .”
“Casey Miranda Herringshaw!” Emma’s cheeks flamed hot as she poured cream into her coffee. “You’re as bad as Mrs. Peep, for goodness’ sake. Must I remind you I have a ring on my finger?”
The imp chuckled. “Oh, that ring claims you have a husband, Mrs. Malloy, but I sure don’t see one around. Which is a real shame, because Mrs. Peep isn’t the only one who thinks you’re too good to waste—Mama and I do too.”
Emma stifled a smile with a stern jut of her brow. “So now my life is a waste, is it?”
“Now you know that’s not what we mean, Emma,” Mrs. Peep said.
“Of course not. We just wish you had a little romance in your life, that’s all.” Chin in hand, Casey drifted off into a dreamy stare. “Because every girl needs a little romance, right, Mrs. Peep? Someone tall, dark, and handsome to weaken her knees?”
Mrs. Peep giggled like a schoolgirl, leaning to give Emma’s hand a quick press. “Or tall, blond, and handsome, such as my Archie. But yes, even though I know it can never be, Emma, nothing would give me more pleasure than seeing a little romance in your life.”
Gulping her coffee too quickly, Emma scalded her tongue, a timely reminder of how “romance” could do the same. Memories assaulted her—of roses from Rory, candlelit dinners, the warmth of his lips, the stroke of his hands—and her heart cramped at the knowledge that she would never have that again. Nor the pain, she reminded herself for the thousandth time since she’d left Rory’s bed.
Blowing on her coffee, she studied Casey and wondered if she’d made a mistake in convincing her mother to let her stay in Boston. For all of her independence, Casey seemed too naïve when it came to love, much like Emma at the same age. Too wide-eyed and unaware as to just how treacherous the wrong relationship could be.