then, Angie turned her head and caught Miles’s eye. “Sounds good. Before you head out, though, I think you may have a visitor.”
She nodded toward Miles, and Mary looked his way for the first time.
He didn’t see any judgment in her wide-set dark eyes. No disgust at his uneven beard and overlong hair. No disdain at his ill-fitting clothes.
No recognition, either. Just curiosity and the natural warmth he’d anticipated.
“I don’t know the landlubber.” Clarence gave him a crisp salute and ambled toward the library door. “So I’m guessing he’s yours, Miss Mary.”
Oh, God. He needed to talk to her. Introduce himself. See how she’d react to the knowledge that he—of all people—was the man she’d been e-mailing for months.
“May I help you, sir?” She offered him a welcoming smile, her professional demeanor impeccable and seemingly sincere.
“I…” He faltered, unsure he could actually go through with it.
With a friendly nod his way, Angie headed toward the front of the library, a huge ring of keys jingling in her hand. Mary’s attention, however, didn’t stray from him. She watched and waited with a patience he envied.
He was coming out of his skin. No more. No more delaying the inevitable.
“I’m Miles,” he told her, his voice strangled and rough. “I came to see you.”
Her mouth fell open. In shock? In distress?
Then Mary’s face lit with the biggest, most piercingly beautiful smile he’d ever seen. The bridge of her nose crinkled as she beamed at him, and so did the corners of her eyes.
“Oh, my heavens!” She rushed toward him. “Miles! You’re here!”
He held out his right hand, and she came to a halt a couple of feet away from him.
Her smile faded. “Miles?”
Slowly, inch by inch, he made himself move away from the wall. “I came to see you,” he repeated. “And I came so you could see me.”
Then he turned so she could look at his left side. The too-tight jeans. The T-shirt that clung with unfortunate faithfulness to his transformed body.
And most of all, his sleeve.
Correction: his mostly empty sleeve. Pinned shut above his elbow so no one—not even Miles himself—could see the ragged remnants of his left arm.
Her quiet gasp seemed to echo in his ears.
“Here I am.” He forced a tight smile. “Well, most of me, anyway.”
4
Oh, thank goodness, Mary thought.
She couldn’t wait any longer. Ignoring the tension that tightened every inch of Miles’s frame, she rushed forward and threw her arms around him. He inhaled sharply at the first touch of her body against his, an inadvertent echo of the sound she’d just made. Then he went very still. So still she could barely detect his breathing.
But he felt solid against her. Strong and vital in a way that forced her to blink back tears.
As she pressed against him, he stiffened even more. Then, slowly, he relaxed and allowed himself to be held. After a few seconds, his arm curved around her, and she squeezed close to his broad chest and rested her head on his shoulder.
He smelled good. Like expensive soap, citrusy and spicy. Which seemed odd for a man whose choppy beard, overgrown hair, and ill-fitting clothes proclaimed him less than interested in appearances and pricy trappings.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, and his arm tightened around her.
For months, she’d been convinced Miles was either wasting away from some sort of degenerative illness, cancer-stricken, or so severely hurt he couldn’t leave his house.
Yes, she understood that an amputated arm wasn’t a minor injury. And yes, she ached for him and the pain he must have suffered. Heck, the pain he might still be suffering. But here he stood in front of her, vibrant and full of leashed energy. Alive and healthy, albeit missing most of his left arm. She’d take that over the alternatives she’d envisioned any day.
“Is this…okay?” His cheek rested on her head, and his deep voice rumbled through her.
That involuntary gasp had hurt him. She wished she could snatch it back. Swallow it before she saw him react to it, fresh misery clouding his hazel eyes. Too late now, though. All she could do was show him, by word and deed, that the anxiety vibrating through every inch of his frame had no cause. That she accepted and cared about him exactly as he was.
“Of course,” she said.
With one last squeeze, she stepped away and studied him from head to toe. From this moment forward, she didn’t want him to feel like he needed to hide anything from her. So she scanned him carefully, taking her time.
His shoulders shifted and bunched. “I probably don’t look like you expected.”
“You don’t.” She smiled. “You look better.”
He snorted. “Right.”
“Trust me, Miles. I’m not lying.”
And she wasn’t. She’d pictured him gaunt and sallow, not simply pale and disheveled and sporting a tiny belly. His solidity, the reassurance that he wasn’t fading away on the other end of their computer connection, comforted her. And she could feel the muscles beneath his flesh, testimony to his basic fitness.
Even that soft tummy charmed her. He was clearly a man who ate, as well as exercised, and she was a woman who particularly appreciated that.
“I do.” He gave a little nod. “I do trust you.”
“Good,” she said.
His hair, thick and unruly, contained a million shades of brown, russet, and gold. Before his injury, she suspected he’d spent a lot of time in the sun. The faint lines across his forehead also indicated sun exposure, or maybe that he was a man who’d experienced a lot of pain. Probably both, given his injury. And the crinkles at the corners of those beautiful hazel eyes showed that he’d once laughed and laughed often.
He was a handsome man. The word Angie would probably use? Delicious.
For once, Mary agreed with Angie. To delicious, though, she’d add vaguely familiar.
Had they already met? Maybe out in California?
“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.” She pursed her lips and thought back to UCLA and her three years of teaching in the Los Angeles school system. “Any chance I ran into you while we both lived on the west coast?”
“Just one of those faces.” He shrugged and looked around, clearly eager to shift her scrutiny away from him and his injury. “Want to take me on a tour of the library?”
“Sure.” She waved an arm toward the wall of windows. “As you can see, we’re situated near the mountains, so—”
“Excuse me.” Angie had come up behind them. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the patron Mary let have a card without any ID, correct?”
Mary winced. “You knew that?”
“Of course I knew. You wrote to Mr. O’Connor using our library e-mail account.” Angie’s shoulders lifted. “Keeping track of our correspondence is part of my job.”
“It’s all my fault,” Miles interjected, his brows drawn together. “She wouldn’t have broken the rules if I hadn’t begged her.”
Angie grinned. “Don’t worry, Lancelot. You don’t need to ride to her defense. I agreed completely with her decision, which is why I never talked to her about it. The reason I’m bringing it up