Charlie sighed. “Yes, I know. It’s about trust. Trusting a man. Trusting myself with a man. Being able to have men in my life in a serious way so my child can be comfortable with a male role model.”

Dakota smiled. “You’ve been thinking about this. You’re aware of the problem and taking steps to fix it. That’s good.”

“I hope so. I keep thinking if I can just be with a guy without freaking, I’ll relax more and start letting men in my life,” Charlie admitted. “Clay was nice about it. He didn’t laugh or say no. He’s thinking about it. I’m just scared he’ll agree. And maybe scared he won’t.”

Normal seemed like such an easy goal—for everyone else. She’d always been on the fringes.

“You’re attracted to him?”

“Have you seen him?” Charlie asked with a grin. Then her smile faded. “Ignoring the obvious, there have been a few tingles. Nothing huge, but more than usual for me.”

She returned to the chair and sank down. “I’m not expecting anything like a relationship. I don’t want that. I just want to get through whatever it takes to be in a place where I’m comfortable having a kid. Whatever form that takes.”

“Understandable,” Dakota said. “Okay, you have a plan and you’ve taken the first step. Now what?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie admitted. “That’s what I want to talk about. What do I do if he says yes?”

“You let the man seduce you.”

Charlie could feel her face getting hot. “I can’t even think about that. It makes my stomach hurt. But assuming I can get through that, aren’t there girlie things I should be doing? I don’t know how to do this stuff. Is there a Dummies book?”

“No book required. Just be yourself.”

“Being myself is the problem. Do I have to buy lingerie? Get a bikini wax?”

Dakota laughed. “I would pay big money to be in the room next door when some poor person tries to give you a bikini wax.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Sorry. Look, you’re understandably conflicted. Who wouldn’t be? If he says yes, then shower, shave in the usual places and let the man do his thing. If he says no, I have the name of the trauma specialists to give you. How’s that?”

“Good.” She drew in a breath. “I’m on birth control. I have period issues and the pill helps.”

“One problem solved. Oh, be safe and use a condom.”

Charlie winced. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’m sure he’ll take care of buying them, but just make sure you have the conversation.”

“Because that will be so comfortable.”

“If you can’t talk about protecting yourself with the man, how do you expect to have sex with him?”

“I thought I’d just lie there and think of England.”

“He’ll be so flattered to hear that.”

Charlie told herself to keep breathing. After all, she didn’t have to do it that second. And Clay could say no. Although now that she’d asked, she found herself hoping he would agree. Or maybe not. Maybe therapy was a better choice.

Dakota’s expression softened. “Trust yourself. You have good instincts.”

“I picked the guy in college and look what happened there.”

“You didn’t pick him. You were young and impressed by who you thought he was. There’s a difference.”

“I hope so.”

“From what I know about the Stryker brothers, their mother raised them right. Keep breathing. Whatever happens, you’re strong and capable. You’ll get through this.”

Charlie could only hope she was right.

* * *

WHAT CHARLIE DISCOVERED was that waiting could be its own brand of hell. She worked the next day and that was a nice distraction. Paige McLean, the station’s former receptionist, had dropped by to talk about how happy she was with her new husband. The two of them had been in Australia and were heading to Thailand next. But once Paige left, Charlie had too much time to think. Worse, she was now off for twenty-four hours. She was jumpy and crabby and lots of other words ending in y. In desperation, she attacked her hedges, deciding to cut them back before winter.

She’d been at it for a couple of hours. She was sweaty and hot, her sticky skin dotted with bits of leaves and smudged with dirt. She had just finished with the last hedge and was about to take her tools to the garage for cleaning when Clay strolled up.

He looked cool and fresh, his cotton shirt all smooth. His jeans were worn, with interesting creases at the h*ps and thighs. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but there were tiny reflections of herself on the lenses. Sweat, grime and debris were not her best look.

“What do you want?” she demanded, before she remembered that perhaps she might want to be nicer to the man she’d asked to sleep with her.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Not a morning person?” he asked.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“I was giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

She sighed. “I don’t like yard work. I’m not good at it. Not the physical stuff—that’s easy. But knowing what to do. I think my plants make fun of me behind my back.”

“Because they respect you enough not to do it to your face?”

“Something like that.” She looked at him, then away. Confusion made her uneasy. Should she demand he tell her what he’d decided? Or just withdraw the request and accept a year or two of therapy?

“We should go inside,” he said, motioning to the front door.

As it was her house, she should do the inviting, but she decided to simply go with it. She put down her clippers and wiped her hands on the front of her tank top, wished her jeans were a little cleaner, then mentally shrugged. This was the real her. If Clay couldn’t handle it, then sex was out of the question.

But as she led the way into the house, she realized she was filled with a queasy combination of anticipation and dread. He could agree or tell her to go to hell. To be honest, she wasn’t comfortable with any of the possibilities.

She passed through the living room and walked into the spacious kitchen. The previous owner had updated it a decade or so ago, which had been more than enough for her. Appliances that worked, wood cabinets and a countertop where she could stack takeout was plenty. Annabelle had done a full five-minute lovefest on the six-burner stove she’d chosen for Shane’s new house and an even longer soliloquy on the countertops. Charlie had listened with seeming interest because she wanted to be a good friend, but dear God. It was a kitchen. She simply didn’t have it in herself to get excited.

The table and chairs by the window had been a garage-sale find. She’d stripped them herself and refinished them. Heidi had helped her pick out the cheerful red cushions. Now she pointed to the chairs.

“Sit.”

The word came out as more of a bark than she would have liked. Clay removed his sunglasses, gave her an amused single-eyebrow raise, then did as instructed.

She sighed. Fine. She would admit it. The boy-girl thing was a complete disaster for her. At least she understood her limitations. Besides, she wasn’t looking for a meaningful relationship. She simply wanted to get laid.

Sort of.

She pulled a pitcher out of the refrigerator. After filling two glasses with ice, she carried them over to the table, set the pitcher in the middle and then glared at Clay.

“Did you want something else?”

The amusement never faltered. “You get defensive when you’re nervous.”

“Shut up.”

He chuckled. “Thank you for illustrating my point. Now you sit.”

She plopped down and poured them each a glass of lemonade. After passing his to him, she happened to glance at her hands.

Dirt covered every inch and collected under her nails. Crap. She probably should have washed her hands before getting them drinks. Which she would have done if he hadn’t been here. The man rattled her and not in a happy way.

“I’m not defensive,” she snapped.

He picked up his glass and took a sip. His unsettling gaze swung back to her. “This is lemonade.”

She rolled her eyes. “Most people would say the yellow color was a dead giveaway.”

He reached his free hand across the table and placed it on her forearm. “No claws required, Charlie. I’m not the enemy.”

His voice was gentle, as was the pressure on her arm. She was aware of the warmth of his fingers on her skin. It all seemed easy for him. Because for him, the touching thing was no big deal.

She could touch, too, she reminded herself. She could carry a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man out of a burning building, then give him CPR without blinking. But even she knew that was different.

She drew in a deep breath, ignored the warmth his fingers generated and then exhaled.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “It’s lemonade.”

“You used sugar.”

“Have you tried it without sugar? Do you know what a lemon is?”

His hold tightened slowly. She had a feeling if she were a stray cat or dog, he would be murmuring something like, “It’s okay, girl. No one is going to hurt you.”

“I was making conversation,” he told her, his tone still tinged with amusement. “Most people don’t use sugar. They use something without calories.”

“Women,” she said, snatching her arm away. “You mean women. I don’t like artificial sweeteners. And if most women lived my day, they could afford the calories.” She glared at him. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

He leaned back in his chair and picked up the glass. “Nope,” he said easily.

“Good. Because I’m not. I have muscles. I’m strong.” She eyed him. “I could probably take you.”

“Not a chance.”

“I don’t fight fair.”

“Neither do I.”

That statement sent a shiver of undetermined origin rippling through her. She clutched her glass in both hands, not sure what to do next.

“Tell me about your family,” he said.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your family. Who are they?”

An unexpected question. “I, ah, don’t have any brothers or sisters. I lost my dad while I was still in high school.” She thought about him and let herself relax into the memory. “He was great. A carpenter. He was a big guy and when I was little, as long as I was with my dad, I knew I was going to be okay.”

She smiled. “We were a team.” Mere mortals in the shadow of her glamorous and disapproving mother. Her smile faded. “After he died, I was devastated. My mother and I had never been close. That didn’t change.”

An understatement of award-winning proportions, she thought. But there was no reason to explain that her mother was world-famous ballerina Dominique Guérin. Even though it had been over fifteen years since Dominique had graced a stage, her career lived on in DVDs and PBS specials. And her ego was a life force that would live on for generations.

“You don’t see her?”

“No, and I’m okay with that.” More than okay. Delighted. But why go there?

“You’re honest,” he told her.

“Too honest. I tend to only be invited on shopping trips with my friends once. I don’t get the whole polite-lying thing. Okay, sometimes, sure. But when you can see disaster coming? Why not say something? I’d want that.”

Rather than reply, he just looked at her. His dark gaze was steady and, after a few seconds, unnerving. She found herself needing to fidget, although she wouldn’t let herself.

“I like that you’re honest,” he said at last. “That you get defensive when you’re scared, that you risk your life for people you don’t know. I like that you’re a good friend and that everyone in town has something nice to say about you.”

She’d been uncomfortable with the compliments, but that last statement gave her something to hide behind. “You’ve been talking about me behind my back?”

“Unlike your plants, yes.” He smiled at her. “I’ll do it.”

Do what? She hadn’t asked a question and...

Thoughts filed neatly into subjects and the most obvious guesses of what he was talking about popped to the front of her brain. She opened her mouth, then closed it. A neat trick, considering her heart had come to a complete stop in her suddenly tight chest.

I’ll do it, as in “it”? The big it?

She had a feeling she’d gone completely pale. Or flushed the color of a radish. Neither would be attractive. But there had to be some outward manifestation of her inward disbelief.

“Why?”

The word burst out before she could stop herself.

Clay grinned, then stood and walked around the table. He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet.

“I like you.”

She must have kept breathing, because she didn’t pass out. But the world seemed to be spinning.

“You say that now, but you’ll probably change your mind.” About all of it. “You know, I shouldn’t have asked. It was presumptuous. Too much, really. We barely know each other.” She tried taking a step back only to realize he was still holding on to her hands.

She stared down and saw his hands were much bigger than hers. His fingers were longer, his palms broader. There were no tingles, no heat. Just a sense of incredulity.

“I’ll get you where you need to go,” he told her. “How did you describe what you wanted to be?”