Man for woman this time, not boy for girl.
He couldn't blame her for needing more time.
"Well, maybe a little," he said to Triad. "Not so much for needing more time, but for not trusting herself. How can a woman who has so much of it in her not trust love? I know, I know, Mommy Dearest, Absentee Father. A lot of scar tissue there."
So he'd wait. He'd love her, be with her. And wait.
He settled back into the book, letting the quiet and the journey of the story lull him. He lifted the whiskey, took a small sip. His hand jerked at the pounding on the door, so whiskey splashed on his shirt.
"Oh, crap."
Pulling off his glasses, he laid them on the table with the book. Triad protested when he pulled his feet free. "It's not my fault. It's whoever's crazy enough to be out on a night like this."
He got up reluctantly, then the thought struck that someone might've had an accident, and had come to the house for help. He quickened his pace, imagining skids and crashes on slippery roads. When he opened the door, his arms filled with Mac.
"Carter!"
"Mackensie." Alarm gushed into his belly. "What is it? What happened?"
"Everything." She turned her head, crushed her mouth to his. "Everything happened."
"The estate?" Fire leaped into his mind again. "Was there a fire? Or-"
"No." She clung. "You found me."
"You're cold. Come in where it's warm. You need to sit down. Whatever happened, we'll-"
"I forgot my gloves." She laughed and kissed him again. "I forgot to turn on the heater in the car. I forgot to make the bed. I don't know why I thought that was important."
"Did you hit your head?" He pried her back to look into her eyes. They didn't seem shocky to him, but they were a little wild. "Have you been drinking? And driving in these conditions? You can't-"
"I haven't been drinking. I was thinking about wine and phone sex in the bathtub, but that was before I realized I hadn't made the bed or put my socks in the hamper." She sniffed. "But someone's been drinking. Is that whiskey? You drink whiskey?"
"Sometimes. It's a cold night, and the snow, and . . . Wait a minute."
"You see? You always surprise me. Carter drinks whiskey on a snowy night." She spun away from him, then back. "And he can take a punch in the face. He buys diamond earrings and laughs with his father in the kitchen. Oh, I wish I'd had my camera, so I could've stolen that moment and showed you. I need another chance at that, when I'm not fighting off nerves and envy. But I have another for you."
She dragged the box out of the deep pocket of her coat. "Third part of the gift."
"For God's sake, you drove all the way over here in this mess to give me a picture? You could've been hurt, had an accident. You-"
"Yes. I could've. Things happen. But I didn't, and I'm here. Open it."
He dragged a hand through his hair. "Let me get your coat." "I can get my coat. Open it. Look." She dragged off the coat, threw it over the banister. "That's the kind of thing I do. Toss my coat somewhere. You don't even mind. You might some day. So what? Open it, Carter."
He untied the ribbon, opened the box. She smiled out at him, her cheek against his. It made him remember the kiss, her pleasure in his gift. The warmth afterward, and the feel of her face brushing his. "It's wonderful."
"It really is. I kept one of the kiss. You didn't know I took the shot. It's a great kiss, a great image. But this-this is us. Looking out, looking forward. Tonight, after the work, and the dealing with things that can't be controlled, can't be predicted-good or bad, happy or sad-and then the closet. I'd messed up my shirts, and your jacket was in there."
"Oh, I must've put it there when-"
"It doesn't matter. That's the point. It doesn't matter that my mother is my mother, or that things don't always work exactly the way you thought they should. Moments matter. I know that better than anyone, but I never let it apply to me. Not to me. People matter, how they feel, how they connect, who they are alone and together. All that matters, no matter how quickly the moment passes. Maybe because it passes. What matters is you're the blue butterfly."
"I'm . . . what?"
"Come on, Professor. Dr. Maguire. You know all about metaphors and analogies and symbolism. You flew into my life, just landed in it unexpectedly. Maybe miraculously. And the picture formed. It just took me a while to see it."