with lights, the ocean a peaceful rumble to his left, he wondered if she hadn’t kicked him out because he’d asked about the picture. Which was really rich since he was the one who had the right to be insulted. It had been years since her husband’s death and his question had been innocent, yet she wouldn’t answer it. He’d automatically told her things about his family. He’d answered every damned question she’d asked him. But she didn’t want to talk about her husband.
He slapped his hand on the steering wheel. Damn it! What did it matter? He’d never pursue her. She was a serious woman and he was a flirt. A guy who liked to have fun. Were it not for Harry, they’d probably never even speak outside the office.
Maneuvering his car onto the driveway that led to his rambling two-story stucco house with windows that rose to the sky, Cullen told himself to relax. Really relax or his dad would figure out something was wrong and wouldn’t let Cullen rest until Cullen spilled the whole story. And then his dad would be angry. He’d think that Barrington, Pennsylvania, was sucking Cullen in the way it had his mom. The memories that would be dredged up would ruin Christmas. So, no. He absolutely, positively would not let on that anything was bothering him.
Because nothing was bothering him. He accepted that Wendy didn’t want to talk about herself. It was just another proof that he and his family didn’t fit into the town that bore their name. He didn’t know why he’d been so foolish as to think Wendy might be different, but he’d gotten the message. From here on out he wouldn’t ask her questions about her life and he’d keep his own life off-limits, too.
The house was dark and quiet when he entered the echoing foyer. Assuming his dad was asleep, and without turning on a light, he carried his duffel bag up the curving cherrywood stairway and walked down the hall to his suite of rooms. He was determined to forget all about Wendy Winston and Harry Martin and spend Saturday and Sunday enjoying himself on his boat, soaking up the sun before he had to fly back to frosty Barrington on Monday afternoon.
Wendy let Harry sleep in on Saturday morning. When eleven o’clock came and went with Harry still asleep, she cancelled her plans with Emma and her kids. He woke about noon, sullen and cranky, and Wendy gave him a lot of leeway, letting him work out his feelings in his own way. On Sunday when he was still moody, she ordered pizza and let him watch football on television. But Monday morning when he refused to go to school, she knew he had to snap out of this.
She took a firm hand and got him dressed and fed him. After she walked him to his class, she explained his situation to his teacher, then spent another few minutes in the principal’s office, telling the story again, making sure Harry would have sufficient support.
She arrived at work over an hour late, only to discover Cullen wasn’t there. Breathing a sigh of relief, she got busy with her typical Monday-morning duties and forgot all about her temporary boss.
When Cullen hadn’t arrived at noon, she took her lunch, expecting him to be in Mr. McCoy’s office when she returned, but he wasn’t. Worried now, she called his hotel and discovered he’d checked out. Assuming he’d gone to Miami for the weekend, she relaxed, until another hour went by. If he had no intention of returning until Tuesday, he should have let her know. She was, after all, his assistant. She scoured her desk for a note, then scoured his. Nothing.
At three, she began to fear that maybe something had happened. He could have been in an accident. By the time he strolled into her office after four, every nerve ending in her body was sitting on the edge of her skin like glitter.
“Where were you?”
His eyebrows rose at her tone. “Excuse me?”
She combed her fingers through her hair. “Sorry. I had a bad weekend and when you weren’t here and there wasn’t a note—” She fisted her hair in her hands this time. “I just panicked and thought you must have been in an accident. I’m sorry.”
He shucked his overcoat. “No. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have let you know I would be going home for weekends and not returning until late Monday.”
“It’s almost quitting time. You shouldn’t have bothered to come in at all.”
He laughed. “You are in a mood.”
She sighed. “Harry had a bad weekend.”
“I’m not surprised. He lost his mom and spent a month in foster care. When he was finally given to you—someone he knew and felt safe with—he was told his dad was dead.”
His instant understanding made her so damned glad to see him that she was sure it showed on her face. They might be different. They might even be unsuited. But he absolutely understood her and what she was going through with Harry.
She busied herself stacking the pages she’d just pulled from the printer, turning her face away so he couldn’t read anything into her expression. “It has been an awful month for Harry.”
“My offer of dinner is still open. Remember, I promised Randy that I’d look in on you.”
“And you can. But I—” She glanced over and totally lost her train of thought. He always looked positively yummy, but two days in the sun had given his skin a warm glow. He looked rested, relaxed and so damned sexy that her heart skipped a beat. Her own skin flushed with color but not from the sun, from being flustered and tongue-tied. God, she was an idiot. Not just attracted to a man who was out of her league, but also unable to hide it.
“I—”
His eyes narrowed. “You what?”
She pulled in a breath that caused her breasts to swell beneath her warm pink sweater and Cullen suddenly realized what was going on. She hadn’t kicked him out of her house on Friday because she was moody or tired or even unwilling to talk about her husband. She liked him. He’d worried all damned weekend for nothing.
He grinned. “You want to orchestrate my visits, don’t you?”
She wouldn’t look at him again. “I just want to make sure that you’re not around so much that Harry misses you when your work here is done.”
He stepped closer. “Ah.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
He slid his index finger under her chin and lifted her face so that she would look at him. “No, I’m just curious about why you’re afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Of course you are,” he said, holding her gaze, noting that her pretty green eyes had flecks of gold and that her skin was a smooth, perfect pink.
He gave her points for not yanking herself away from him and breaking eye contact, even as he wondered why he was forcing himself into a situation that was totally wrong. He knew as well as she did that two people who were this attracted couldn’t have a lot of contact or they’d spontaneously combust one day and do something they’d both regret. Yet here he was, pushing.
“Or I could simply be too busy with Harry to add another thing to my life.”
Her gaze flicked down for a mere second as she said that and he knew that if she wasn’t out-and-out lying, she was at least only telling him a half truth.
Before he could stop himself or once again remind himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t be insinuating himself into her life, he said, “We both know this isn’t completely about Harry, so why don’t you tell me what’s really going on? On Friday night you were fine and then suddenly you kicked me out. Let’s start there.”
She pulled away from him and rounded her desk so she could stand behind it, almost as if she wanted protection. “You’re a playboy. Anything between us would mean very little to you. But even if you weren’t, you’re too much like my husband.”
He’d been all ready to argue her concerns about him being a playboy until she mentioned her husband. “What?”
“You’re like my husband. Greg was a wonderful