His hands cupped the back of her head, his fingers soothing the hurt he'd caused when her head had connected with the wall behind her. Her head barely reached his shoulder and she pressed her head back into his hands, lifting her chin to try to discern his expression. But the darkness kept his motives hidden, and Fern wondered briefly if Ambrose was dangerous and if his injuries were more than skin deep. But the thought had no time to simmer as Ambrose bent his head and lightly touched his lips to Fern's.
Shock and surprise bloomed in her chest, crowding out the brief moment of fear, and Fern's attention narrowed instantly to the sensation of the brush of Ambrose's mouth against her own. She catalogued the prickle of stubble on his left cheek, the whisper of his exhale, the warmth of smooth lips and the hint of cinnamon and sugar, as if he had sampled something he’d baked. He was hesitant, his gentleness at odds with his aggressive display. Maybe he thought she would push him away. When she didn't, she felt his sigh tickle her lips and the hands that held her head relaxed and slid to her shoulders, pulling her into him as he pressed his lips more firmly against hers.
Something unfurled itself low in Fern's belly, a shaky heat that curled and twisted its way through her stunned limbs and clenched hands. She recognized it immediately. It was desire. Longing. Lust? She had never experienced lust. She'd read about it enough. But feeling it firsthand was a whole new experience. She stretched up and held Ambrose's face between her palms, holding him to her, hoping he wouldn't come to his senses any time soon. She registered the contrast between his left cheek and his right, but the ridges and bumps that marked the right side of his face were of little consequence when his beautiful mouth was exploring her own.
He stopped abruptly, pulling his face from her palms and manacling her wrists with his big hands. Fern searched his face in the darkness.
“There. That was much better than the first one,” he murmured, his hands still locked around hers.
Fern was dizzy from the contact, drunk on sensation, and at a complete loss for words. Ambrose released her wrists and he stepped back and walked to the bakery entrance without so much as a see you later. Fern watched him go, saw the door swing shut behind him, and felt her heart skip along after him like a lovesick puppy. One kiss wasn't going to be nearly enough.
The very next night, Bailey Sheen rolled into the bakery at midnight like he owned the place. Fern had obviously let him in, but she wasn't tagging along behind him. Ambrose told himself he wasn't disappointed. Bailey did have a cat though. It scampered along beside him like a co-owner.
“You can't have an animal in here, Sheen.”
“I'm in wheelchair, man. You gonna tell me I can't have my seeing-eye cat with me? Actually, it can be your seeing-eye cat, since you're blind and all. One of the perks to being a pathetic figure is that I tend to get what I want. Did you hear that, Dan Gable? He called you an animal. Go get him, boy. Sic him!”
The cat sniffed at one of the tall metal shelves, ignoring Bailey.
“You named your cat Dan Gable?”
“Yep. Dan Gable Sheen. Had him ever since I was thirteen. My mom took us to this farm for my birthday and Fern and I each got to pick one from the litter. I named mine Dan Gable and Fern named hers Nora Roberts.”
“Nora Roberts?”
“Yep. Apparently she's some writer. Fern loves her. Unfortunately for Nora Roberts, she got knocked up and died giving birth.”
“The writer?”
“No! The cat. Fern's never had very good luck with animals. She smothers them with affection and care and they thank her by croaking. Fern hasn't figured out how to play hard to get.”
Ambrose liked that about her. There wasn't any pretense with Fern. But he wasn't going to tell Bailey that.
“I've been trying to teach Dan Gable a few wrestling moves, in honor of his namesake, but so far all he can do is sprawl. But hey, sprawling is one of the basics–and it's more than I can do,” Bailey said with a chuckle.
Dan Gable was a wrestler who had won an Olympic gold medal. In fact, he didn't surrender a single point during the whole Olympic games. He graduated from Iowa State with only one loss, coached the Iowa Hawkeyes, and was a legend in the sport. But Ambrose didn't think he would be especially honored to know a cat had been named for him.
Dan Gable, the cat, rubbed himself against Ambrose's leg but abandoned him immediately when Bailey patted his knees with the tips of his fingers. The cat jumped up on Bailey's lap and was rewarded with stroking and praise.
“Animals are supposed to be good therapy. Actually, I was supposed to get a puppy. You know, man's best friend, a dog to love only me, the kid who couldn't walk. Cue the violins. But Mom said no. She sat down at the kitchen table and cried when I asked her.”
“Why?” Ambrose asked, surprised. Angie Sheen was a damn good mom, as far as he could tell. It seemed a little out of character for her to refuse a dog to the kid who couldn't walk, who needed a loyal companion . . . cue the soft lighting and the farmhouse on Christmas morning.
“Do you know that I can't wipe my own ass?” Bailey said, looking Ambrose straight in the eye. He wasn't smiling.
“Um. Okay,” Ambrose said uncomfortably.
“Do you know that if I lean down too far to get something, I can't sit back up? I got caught once for a half hour just hanging limp over my knees until my mom came back from running errands and sat me back up again.”
Ambrose was silent.
“Do you know that my 120 pound mother can pick me up under the arms and move me into the chair in my shower? She washes me, dresses me, brushes my teeth, combs my hair. All of it. At night, she and my dad take shifts coming in and turning me throughout the night because I can't roll over, and I get sore if I lay in one spot. They've done that since I was about fourteen, night after night.”
Ambrose felt a lump forming in his throat, but Bailey carried on.