His lips twitched, wondering if she felt the tension as thick between them as he did, making her eager to put an end to their impromptu meal. She'd pay for it later with indigestion, considering how fast she was eating.
"So nice to meet a girl with an appetite." He watched her eyes go round and her mouth drop open then snap closed. A delicate rose tinged the honey of her cheeks.
"Sorry." She dropped her fork with a clang, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "Guess I was hungry."
"Hmmm." He added a smile to the monosyllable, popping open a Diet Coke. "You guess? I only ate one of those four drumsticks."
"Rude! You never point out something like that to a lady." She sat back with feigned indignation. "Just for that, I might burp."
He laughed out loud, locking eyes with her as he took a gulp of his soft drink.
"A girl who's not afraid to eat or burp. No wonder Cam's so whipped."
She became perfectly still under his consideration.
"Cam's not whipped." She gave a little smile that told him she kind of knew Cam definitely was whipped.
"Any girl who can captivate Cam, a true player, fascinates me."
"There's nothing … interesting about me." She leaned her chin into the palm of her hand. "I'm just a girl."
"Tell me about this girl."
"What do you want to know?" She lifted those crazy-long lashes to squarely face him.
Everything. Anything.
"I know you were in foster care. How many homes?"
"Five total." She barely moved her lips to let the words out, signaling that this was a topic she usually guarded closely. "The last one I was in from age ten to eighteen, though. The Murphys."
"They never considered adopting you?"
"No, they didn't want kids of their own." She origamied the napkin between her fingers.
"Why'd they keep you all those years then?"
"I guess I was extra cash." She fixed her eyes on the wall behind him.
"I'm sorry." He made sure he didn't leak any pity in his voice. "Were they good people? Did they treat you well?"
"They didn't abuse me, if that's what you mean. They just didn't love me." Her lips thinned and tightened around the admission. "I'm not even sure they loved each other. The only thing I can say with confidence is that they loved church."
"Religious fanatics?"
"Not fanatics. They just had definite rules I had to follow." Her laugh was too tight to leave any room for real humor.
"Like what?" He watched her features settle into the hardness of cement, so at odds with its usual soft lines.
"Like not dating, not listening to secular music, not wearing makeup, not drinking, not cursing. Going to church three times a week-"
"Whoa!" He sliced into her litany, holding up a hand to stem the flow of rules that had governed her life for eight years. "What could you do?"
She tilted her head to the side, seemingly giving it serious consideration.
"I made jewelry. Read a lot. I spent a lot of time alone."
"Lonely or alone?"
"Maybe both." He wanted the thoughts her eyes shrouded. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth before continuing. "It was okay. I've always enjoyed my own company."
He couldn't blame her. Her company intoxicated him, hitting his bloodstream like a four-hundred-dollar bottle of vodka. Every sip of her felt like a reckless indulgence. She was a decadence he could ill afford but-God help him-couldn't resist.
"What about you?"
Tables neatly turned.
"What about me?" He tipped his head back, prepared to confess like she was his high priestess if it would buy him another five minutes with her. "My story was written before I was even born. All laid out for me."
"I don't believe that." She sipped her own Diet Coke, eyes getting tangled up with his over the can.
"It's true. My mom knew what she wanted for me, and so did my dad. They've been pulling me in opposite directions, fighting over me since the divorce when I was thirteen years old."
"Boo hoo hoo." He tasted a little sarcasm sprinkled in with her teasing. "Poor little rich boy had parents who wanted him so badly they fought over him."
"It wasn't like that."
He knew his tone was defensive. She was teasing him, but everyone made assumptions about him because of the privileges he'd been born into. He didn't want her to do that.
"I would have given everything if my parents had been able to work it out. If we could have been a family. I don't really care about the stuff."
"I believe you." The look she gave him knew more than it should. "Your parents had to do something right, in their own way, for you to turn out like you have. I've heard your mother brag more than once that you're the best of them both. Can you see that?"
"Can you?" He wasn't sure what he meant by the question, but he felt certain she would know how to respond.
"Yes." She didn't look away. He could not.
He was the son of Martin and Kristeene Bennett in every way, constantly living in the dichotomy of that, dwelling between the warring factions of his heredity. And for the first time he really believed someone saw him in his entirety.
"Kerris," he began, but the buzz of her cell phone interrupted.
"'Scuse me." She glanced at her phone and back to him, her other hand wandering up to the knot of hair secured on her head. "It's Cam."
She answered, and he blew out the breath his chest had been holding hostage.
"Hey, baby. Yeah, Walsh dropped the food off. It was delicious. He stayed to eat with me."
Walsh stood to scrape the remnants of their meal into the garbage disposal, grinding the food and the intimacy they'd shared with the flick of the switch. He rinsed and dried the plates, packing everything up.
Her voice dipped lower. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but he sensed the ease that existed between her and Cam. Easy, not the fierce knot of urges and compulsions he wrestled to the ground every time he was around her.
"Sorry about that." She slid the phone in her back pocket. "Cam was just checking in."
"Everything good?" He distracted himself with one final sweep of the kitchen to make sure he hadn't left anything.
"Yeah." She tossed their soda cans into the recycling bin against the wall. "He was just finishing up. He'll swing through on his way out."
"Cool. I'll get going then."
"I'll see you tomorrow at the hospital." She looked at him with wide eyes. "I mean, I assume … you've been coming … "
So she had noticed.
"You're right. I always go on Tuesdays to see Iyani. I like to see her having fun with the other girls. It's become her favorite thing here in the States."
"She's precious." Kerris's smile played tug-of-war with her sad eyes. "Have they scheduled her surgery?"
"Yeah. She had an infection so they had to postpone it, but she's ready now. It's set for this Friday."
Walsh drew a roughened breath around the brambles crowding his chest. The procedure could save or end Iyani's life.
"Worrying won't do any good." Kerris grabbed his hand, squeezing comfort into his tensed fingers.
He glanced from their clasped hands back up to her face, watching the sweet tension that always sprang up between them draw her brows together and tighten her full mouth into a line. She pulled her hand free.
"I'd better get back to work."
She rushed back out to the front room and picked up her paint roller. Walsh recognized a tactical withdrawal when he saw one.
"You want me to stay and help?" He started rolling up the sleeves of his mint green Brooks Brothers shirt.
"No, you go on home. I've got maybe thirty more minutes. Cam's on his way."
She faced the wall for a few moments without moving, head bent. Walsh willed her to look at him one more time. As if the tensile string that always seemed to snap between them had pulled her inexorably into it, she glanced at him over one slim shoulder.
That steamy awareness wafted between them again, agitating his insides until his breaths slipped over his lips like puffs of smoke.
She looked like snared prey.
"You'd better go," she finally said. "It's getting late."
"Yeah, I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow."
She offered no response and he didn't wait for one. Just turned and left.
Chapter Seven
Brightly colored blankets dotted the riverbank, crowded with picnic baskets and sun lovers on the Fourth of July. Kerris and Cam approached an empty patch of grass, swinging their clasped hands. They spread the blanket, shared a smile, and unpacked their picnic basket. Cam stretched out on the blanket, recapturing her hand to leisurely stroke her slim fingers. He considered their hands together, a small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.