Roomful of Roses by Diana Palmer

Author:Diana Palmer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-07-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Andy didn’t call. Not that Wynn expected him to. But it was the first weekend she’d spent totally alone since they’d gotten engaged.

Worst of all was that she missed McCabe. She always had, ever since he’d left Redvale all those years ago, even though she hadn’t admitted it before. She’d missed him, worried about him, brooded over him so that she hardly realized how fast the years were passing. When he didn’t come back, and she’d secretly hoped that he would, she had had to face the fact that she could be alone for the rest of her life mooning over a man who had never so much as kissed her.

But now he had. And the desperation that had sent her eagerly into Andy’s arms when he’d first proposed was back full force.

She wandered around, lingering helplessly in the room where McCabe slept because it was the only place in the house that was full of him. Not that she was snooping—she wasn’t that kind of person. She didn’t open drawers or look through his few things. But her eyes wandered over the bed he slept in, and glared at the battered suitcase he’d left behind with its multicolor stickers from all the countries he’d visited. And every time she remembered how it had felt to hold him and be kissed by him, she wanted to wail. It was going to make it so much worse when he left. No matter what she did with her life from now on, it was going to be pure hell, because she’d have the memories to eat her alive. It was better, in one way, when she hadn’t experienced McCabe physically.

He didn’t come back until late Sunday night. Wynn heard the sound of a car, the slam of a door, and went to open the front door.

McCabe walked in, muttering something, with his duffel bag over one broad shoulder while he leaned heavily on the cane. He looked worn and tired, as if he’d been carousing all weekend. Wynn immediately thought of other women and what McCabe had said about being capable with women if he got involved enough, and she wanted to slap him.

But letting him know that wouldn’t do. She had to be cool, so she smiled politely and asked about his trip.

“The mark of utter insanity, if you want to know,” he told her flatly. “I’d forgotten how damned big that Atlanta airport is. You walk miles between concourse and ticketing—a man with a fleet of golf carts could open a concession and make a fortune there!”

“I’ll bet New York was worse,” she murmured.

“I flew into La Guardia,” he told her. “It’s a crackerbox compared with Hartsfield International. It’s smaller than JFK and easier to get around, but I still feel as if I’ve had part of my thigh sawed off.”

He sat down heavily in the chair, rubbing his leg, with his disheveled head leaning back. “Wynn, could you make me a cup of coffee?” he asked wearily.

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