Except make me cry.
Now, that same combination of product plus Pat makes my hands tremble. I’m fighting the urge to grab him by the shirt and kiss him. I may be a messy tangle of emotions, but the desire for physical connection with Pat is very uncomplicated. I remember exactly how his mouth fit perfectly to mine, the heat of his body, and the way it felt to be wrapped up in his strong arms.
“You have a chicken,” Pat says, and I glance over to see Elvis strutting around the porch.
“A rooster, actually.”
This makes Pat smile, and I don’t like it when he smiles. Mostly because I like it way too much.
“He’s on your porch.”
I shrug. “Some people have house elves. We have a porch rooster.” Pat laughs, and I mentally kick myself for being playful. But it’s hard to stop. Even now, with good reason to be hurt and angry, Pat makes me … light. He always had that effect, like when I was with him, we existed somewhere above the normal plane of living. “Elvis thinks he’s a house cat. He’s always trying to sneak inside.”
“Elvis.” Pat shakes his head and holds out a hand to the rooster, who gives him a heavy dose of avian side-eye before stalking away.
Smart rooster. Get away while you still can!
Pat shifts, and his thigh brushes mine. Even encased in jeans, I’m aware of his muscles, pushing the fabric to its limit. I always loved the way his legs and butt hardly fit into pants. Once, we went dancing at some country bar in Austin, and the back of his pants ripped all the way up the seam when he did some kind of ridiculous dance move.
Being this close to Pat requires an exercise in the most careful restraint. I could easily be persuaded to channel all my hurt and anger into a passionate, deliciously angry make out session.
Would that be so wrong? Some angry kissing before I kick him off my property?
Yes. Yes, it would.
I edge away from him, which takes me closer to the hole in the porch step. It’s kind of a toss-up between Pat and the splintered wood, but I think I’m safest with the broken step.
I clench my hands into tight fists, letting them hang between my knees. “So, you’re here. In my town, at my house, no less. How do you know where I live?”
Pat clears his throat and raps his knuckle on the porch. “I’ve been here before, actually.”
My head whips toward him, which is a mistake. We’re still sitting too close, our faces only a foot or so apart. I lean way back, looking awkward and obviously comical, based on the amusement glinting in his eyes.
“When? When did you come here?”
“Must have been about two-and-a-half years ago. Right after my injury, when I came back to Texas. Your mama didn’t tell you I was here?”
Of course—Mama was still here.
Little black dots eclipse my vision. Though I’ve never passed out before, I’m immediately aware that’s what’s happening.
I wrote an article recently on old-timey words making a comeback, which is the only explanation I can give for what I say just before I start to collapse: “I’m swooning.”
Everything tilts and goes dark. I’m foggy, but slightly aware, like I’m in a strange dream. One in which strong arms cradle me.
Warm hands position my body across something soft and warm. A lap. Pat’s lap.
I have some sensation in my limbs, though I cannot move or respond. I’m not sure how I even would respond to Pat murmuring, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you now, Lindybird.”
If I had all my faculties, I’d find a stick in the yard and beat Pat off with it. Instead, I’m helpless, a rag doll being curled against him. It’s nice here, especially as my conscious mind slips away for seconds or minutes or hours. There is no time here, which means there is no past. No mistakes to atone for.
Just as I’m wishing I could float in timelessness, I begin to come back to myself, feeling a prickling sensation like the pins and needles after your foot has fallen asleep. Something brushes against my cheek—did Pat just kiss me? I try to tell him to get off me, and all that comes out is a mumbling groan.
“That’s my girl. Come on back to me, darlin’.”
As I come into full awareness, I’m embarrassed to realize my head is burrowed deep into Pat’s broad chest. My fingers grip his shirt. I’ve untucked the whole front of it, revealing a tanned and toned stomach I definitely shouldn’t be ogling. This is not the time to count Pat’s abs.
“Let me go, you big oaf,” I grumble.
Pat only chuckles, and there’s a tenderness to the sound as he brushes my hair back from my cheek. “As soon as I’m sure you’re not going to swoon on me again. I thought that word was only reserved for romance novels.”
I did say swoon, didn’t I? I am a complete and total mess. I’d like to crawl into a hole and emerge in a different decade, Rip Van Winkle style. I don’t think I ate this morning, and the tacos Mari sent home with me are still in the car. Come to think of it, I’m not sure when the last time I ate was. The combination of hunger and emotional overwhelm seems to have short-circuited my brain.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I manage to sit up completely, though I’m still slightly dizzy. When I try to pull myself off Pat’s lap, he circles his arms around me protectively.
“Relax,” he says.
I can’t. Not with his scent invading my senses and the familiar feel of him surrounding me. It’s like I’ve been transported right back to the days where I spent as much time as I could just like this—greedy for his touch, knowing there was an expiration date on how long I’d have to rest securely in the space of his arms.