Kathryn Shay - A Man She Couldn't Forget

She glanced down at the white skirt and red halter top she wore. When she pivoted back around, she gave him a haughty look. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

Huh. She was distracting him, big-time. “I don’t need to. I told you I always win.”

Stopping at the serve line, she faced him. “Let’s play a game.”

“I’m not—”

“I’ll take it easy, I promise.”

Without his instruction, the mechanics of the serve were there for her: throw the ball up, racket angled behind down her back, over her head, slam! During the course of the serve, her top pulled up and Brady got a very nice glimpse of a tanned patch of skin on her midriff. Arrgh!

He barely reached the ball in time because of his double take on her stomach, but he managed to hit it back. She raced forward and sent it soaring over the net. He didn’t even try to get to the shot.

Her hands went to her hips. “You missed that on purpose.”

“I did. I don’t want you playing too hard.”

“I won’t, but I gotta move. I need exercise, I need to sweat.”

He opened his mouth but bit back a sexual innuendo. Those were better left unsaid right now. “Maybe a little.”

She served three more times and won the game. “Told you I was good,” she gloated.

He grinned. “My serve.”

He let her win a few points, but took the last three of the next game. She was running around—and sweating—and breathing hard. “God, this feels good.”

On another volley, she charged the net to return his short lob. Brady hit it back way over her head. She raced toward the ball and was just about there when she stumbled and went down. “Ohh…”

Leaping the net, he was at her side in seconds and knelt down. “Damn it, what was I thinking?”

“I twisted my ankle a bit. It doesn’t hurt much.” She rubbed her foot. “I’m sorry I pushed. Probably too hard.” She shrugged her shoulder. “But it felt good.”

Chuckling, he reached for her foot. Very gently, he untied her sneaker, removed it and her sock. He palpated her sole, her ankle and her shin. “Hurt?”

She sighed. “No, it feels good.”

“The injury feels good?”

“It isn’t injured. Your fondling me feels good.”

Oh, Lord, now she was flirting.

“I was not fondling!” A smile quirked at his lips. “I was checking for damage.” He glanced around. “We’re done here.”

“I guess.” After sliding her sock and shoe on, he stood and offered her his hand. “Here, let me help you up.”

She took the assistance. When he didn’t let go after she was on her feet, she moved in close to him. His arms slid around her as if he’d never stopped hugging her. His whole body tightened. “You okay? Dizzy?”

“No. I like it when you hold me. I feel safe. We must be really close.”

He had to clear his throat. “We are.”

She drew back. “Thanks.”

“Time for a nap?”

“Not on your life. I’m so tired of sleeping.” Her eyes sparkled like the old Clare’s. “I know. Let’s go to the grocery store.”

He grabbed the cage and started picking up balls. “I wondered when that would kick in.”

“What?”

“The grocery store’s your favorite place.”

“You think it would be okay to go there, or would it push my memory too much?”

“I think it’d be okay. Let’s finish up here, and we’ll head over.”

They pulled up to Weidman’s fifteen minutes later. Clare had hoped for a bit of recognition at the sight of the big blue sign on the huge storefront, but none came. Brady squeezed her hand and held it after they exited his Blazer. Once inside, he got a cart and set it in front of her.

“Where to?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“Hmm. I’ll wander.”

First she went to the dairy counter and selected goat cheese. Then she headed to the vegetable department. They strolled along, and Clare seemed to absorb the sounds and sights and smells of her surroundings. She picked up onions and juicy tomatoes. Bypassing the bagged kind, she chose curly red lettuce in a bunch. They kept going: chicken, canned artichokes. By the time she snagged a couple of loaves of fresh bread, she turned to him. “I have the ingredients for a chicken artichoke dish I used to make.” Her face lit, and she smiled broadly. “Oh, wow.”

“You remember.”

“Yes, suddenly.” She closed her eyes. “There’s more.”

“What?”

“Me behind a counter, facing cameras, wearing a pretty fuchsia apron with embroidery on the front of it.” She looked at him. “I made this dish in one of my cooking shows, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, one of the first demos you did.”

“Do you like this recipe?”

“A lot.”

“Will Max and Delia come if I cook tonight, do you think?”

“If they’re free.”

But he wasn’t so sure of his statement. Max and Delia had each stayed with her a couple of times, Max overseeing mostly when she was sleeping. He knew Delia had brought over a photo album and showed her pictures of their life together. Clare had laughed at the way she looked in college, made jokes at the images of herself surrounded by boxes on moving day, and got tears in her eyes over the baby pictures of Donny, whom she’d helped raise. But there was still an underlying tension among them all.

When she and Brady reached the checkout line, something else occurred to her. “Do I have tapes of the shows, Brady?”

“Uh-huh, from the studio.”

“I’d like to watch this one, then make the meal.”

Without speaking, he paid the cashier. He had a bad feeling about her watching the show that had, in the long run, taken her away from him.

“I’ll stop if I get a headache or upset.”

“I don’t think you should rush your memory.”

“I won’t.”

Though he was worried about this step, he was pleased about one thing. Over the course of the past few days, she’d taken to asking his opinion, his permission sometimes, like she used to in the old days. It had gone both ways and they’d spent a lot of years consulting each other on choices and decisions to be made. It was only right that she should now, after what they’d meant to each other.

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