Gail Gaymer Martin - Bride in Training

Martin tilted his head toward the family room. “You didn’t need to wait.”

“I like watching you work in the kitchen.” The words sailed out with a mind of their own.

His grin brightened as he handed her the tea. “I find that interesting.”

She shrugged, wishing she had a snappy response. “I don’t have much of a kitchen. It’s a studio apartment.”

His grin faded, and she wished she hadn’t admitted it. She took one last sweeping gaze of his spacious kitchen before moving into the family room. When she did, sunlight filtered through the glass door onto the carpet, leaving sunny splotches and changing its color from beige to gold. Sunshine also radiated from above, and she lifted her gaze to the cathedral ceiling with a skylight. Ultimate luxury. She’d never known anything like this. She turned in a circle, searching to see if he’d thought to purchase a doggie bed for Nessie, a place she could call her own. She saw none.

Across from another fireplace—how many did one man need?—she eyed the wide patio door.

Martin stood in the doorway, watching her, but she didn’t care. She’d never been in a house like this. None of her clients had a home of this size. Nessie pit-patted beside her as Emily ambled across the room and looked through the glass. The large yard spotted with shade trees and shrubs looked inviting but lacked the flowers she loved.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I know it’s cool, but could we sit outside? Nessie probably needs to run, anyway.”

“Why not?” He followed her as she unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Nessie shot through the doorway, sniffing the ground and heading for an area in the back of the property.

“How about there?” Martin motioned toward the chairs arranged around an umbrella table.

Emily strolled over, forcing her mind to focus on why she’d come. The house and the attractive man gave her a fairy-tale feeling. Though she loved those children’s tales, she knew real life didn’t always have happy endings.

When she sat, she still clutched the paper sack in her hand. She set the package on the table and sipped the tea. The condensation wetted her fingers, and she wiped them on her jeans, then placed the glass on a coaster and gazed toward Nessie across the yard. “You have no flowers.” The thought shot from her mouth.

He looked up, peering at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What?”

Uneasy with her bluntness, she sank deeper into the chair cushion. “Your yard. It’s beautiful, but…”

His eyes searched hers, and a prickling sensation ran down her arms.

“Maybe it’s a woman’s thing.” He gazed across the lawn. “My mom always had flowers in the yard.”

His mom. The impact of his statement was unexpected. She’d never had anyone in her life she wanted to call Mom. Sometimes the word mother even clung to her tongue. Her hand trembled as she looked at Martin and thought of his home. She shouldn’t be sitting here like a friend. This wasn’t her world, and if she loved it too much, she—

“Is that for Nessie?”

His voice tugged her from her thoughts. When she looked up, his finger aimed at the sack. She lowered her hands to her lap, willing them to steady and begging her heart to stop pounding. “It’s for both of you, really.” Her voice sounded breathy. She sucked in air. “You can open it.”

Martin unwound the top of the bag and looked inside, emptying out a raw hide, a squeaky toy, and tug rope. He squeezed the plastic hotdog, releasing its high-pitched squeal. “Thank you so much.” He grinned. “I didn’t buy a thing for her.” He raised on one hip and slipped his hand into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet, his face so tender her knees weakened.

Panic filled her as Emily shook her head. “No. It’s a gift.” Her heart pummeled her chest as she rose. “Nessie needs a spot to call her own, too. Everyone needs a place…” She dragged in some air. “A place to call home.” She stepped back from the table, overwhelmed by her feelings of sadness and fear.

Martin frowned and leaned forward, his wallet still clutched in his hand. “What are you doing?”

She backed away. “I have to leave. I’m sorry.”

“But what about—”

“I’m sorry.” She rushed to the patio door. “Thank you for the tea.” She dashed through the house and onto the porch, as if midnight had struck and she had to make her getaway.

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