“Why not? They’ll be Wentworth-Robinsons, and if you thought being a Wentworth came with responsibilities, being a Wentworth-Robinson means global opportunities and global obligations.”
Alana turned to look out the kitchen window at the grass greening up in the backyard, the vines twining up the picket fence. Nannies and private jets . . . or a swing set. A wood one with a slide would look perfect next to the garage. Maybe a sandbox. She’d always loved the sandbox. The sandbox was a local thing. Not a global thing.
The door slapped closed on Lucas’s front porch. Suddenly aware not only of the heat simmering deep in her belly but of her robe open over her thin cotton nightgown, Alana turned to look out the screen door.
Lucas, wearing a uniform shirt, jeans, and boots, stood on his step. The early morning sunlight highlighting the planes and angles of his face only served to accentuate the lines on either side of his unsmiling mouth, the seemingly permanent furrow between his eyebrows. Despite the gentle, early morning sunlight, he slid on a pair of wraparound shades, gave her a short nod, and got into his Blazer.
Alana resumed breathing again. Two weeks. Just over two weeks to write a proposal and go back to Chicago different. It wasn’t much time, but if she played her cards right, two weeks could be an eternity of heated nights.
“I have to go. I need to send Mother yesterday’s briefing. The Senator’s on his way here. Do not get yourself ensnared in any . . . snares out there on the prairie. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” she said absently.
Lucas gave her another nod, then backed out of the driveway. Released from that intense stare, Alana rinsed out her mug. If she felt this frustrated after a night dreaming heated, unfulfilling dreams about Lucas, would the converse be true if she actually slept with him? Would she sleep well, body and mind satiated?
She intended to find out.
? ? ?
ALANA LIFTED ONE shoulder to keep her tote bag and purse in place as she locked her front door. In her peripheral vision, she saw Lucas’s police Blazer parked in the driveway, but she wasn’t going to glance over at his house. The lock was tricky. She had to lift the key just so while holding the doorknob toward the frame, so locking the door required all of her attention.
Or so she told herself.
Refusing to get caught sneaking sidelong glances at Lucas’s house like a lovesick teen had nothing to do with it. Besides, nothing had happened last night. Okay, a little something happened before the town meeting, but a whole lot of nothing happened afterwards. It would have been too obvious to leave with Lucas. Walkers Ford’s citizens had welcomed her with open arms, then with casseroles and cookies and invitations to attend church. This wasn’t Chicago.
She got the door locked, more out of habit than necessity, and set off down the sidewalk into the heart of the town. She knew nature existed, of course, but watching spring bloom in Walkers Ford continually amazed her. Trees bereft of buds a week ago now held a haze of that gorgeous spring green shade, full of promise and hope. Daffodils bobbed lazily in the planters lining Main Street, seeming to say good morning. She took a couple of pictures with her phone’s camera and sent them to Marissa Brooks’s e-mail address. Last fall the lifelong resident of Walkers Ford had left town to fulfill her dream of living aboard a sailboat, and she’d taken former Marine Adam Collins with her. They were sailing across vast expanses of open ocean, so Adam insisted on state-of-the-art communications technology. Even in Hawaii Marissa would enjoy seeing pictures of spring blooming on the prairie. As she typed up the email, Alana walked past the gas station and volunteer fire department to the Heirloom Café.
“Morning, Alana,” the waitress called. “The usual?”
“Please,” Alana said. She set her bags down at the end of the counter and scanned the national news on her phone while she waited for her morning oatmeal. The New York Times, then the Trib, then the political blogs all got a quick skim before the waitress set a to-go cup of oatmeal in front of her, the lid to the side. Alana handed over a five and poured syrup on the oatmeal, then fitted the lid to the container before shouldering her bags again.
“You could make that at home for a quarter,” the waitress said.
Alana took the change and left a dollar on the counter as a tip. “It’s a bad habit,” she said with a smile. “Besides, who would keep me up to date on the gossip?”
Her pace of life didn’t seem to allow for cooking. She perpetually ran late, often grabbing a bagel for breakfast, then a sandwich for dinner from the same deli that sat between her apartment building and her family’s offices.
“You’re the gossip today,” Peggy said.
Alana blinked. “I am?”
“People have opinions about the library, and no one knew Mayor Turner’d asked you to redo the proposal,” Peg confided, then hurried off with her coffeepot to the other end of the counter.