Envy(34)

“Whatever you call this room, I like it,” she told them. “It’s a wonderful place to read. And write.” She gave Parker a sly glance, which he chose not to see as he spread mustard onto his sandwich.

After serving them, Mike sat down across the table from her, confirming what she had guessed, that he was as much a friend and companion as he was a valet—the need for which was now sadly apparent. “You went to far too much trouble, Mike.”

“No trouble. We planned to have a late supper anyway, and I’m awfully glad to have a guest in the house. Parker isn’t always the best company. In fact, when he’s writing, he sometimes doesn’t speak for hours, and when he does, he can be a real grouch.”

Parker shot him a sour glance. “And you’re a perpetual pain in the ass.”

Maris laughed. Despite the swapped insults, the affection between them was obvious. “I’ve experienced Mr. Evans’s grouchiness firsthand, Mike, but I don’t take it personally. I’m used to it. I work with writers every day. A gloomy bunch, for the most part. I probably don’t catch the verbal abuse their agents do, but I get my share.”

Mike nodded sagely. “Artistic temperament.”

“Precisely. I’m not complaining. Based on my experience—and confirmed only yesterday by my father—bad temperament is often an indicator of good writing.”

She blotted her lips with her napkin and was shocked to realize that they were still tender. She’d checked her reflection in the framed mirror above the basin when Mike kindly directed her into the powder room shortly after she and Parker arrived. The only visible trace of the kiss was a slight abrasion above her upper lip. She’d applied powder to the whisker burn and then quickly switched off the light, afraid she would see in her eyes even more telling evidence of the kiss, which she had resolved to deny—a resolve jeopardized by whisker burns and such.

She and the author had spoken little on the drive to his home. She had kept her eyes trained on the twin beams the Gator’s headlights cast onto the road. The darkness within the forest made it easier to ignore, although at one point she couldn’t resist taking one furtive glance into the trees.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

“What?”

“Fireflies. There in the woods.”

“Lightning bugs,” he said. “Down here, we call them lightning bugs.”

“I haven’t seen any in years.”

“Insecticides.”

“Unfortunately. When I was little, I used to see them around our house in the country. I’d catch them and put them in a glass and keep it on my nightstand overnight.”

“I did that, too.”

She turned to him in surprise. “You did?”

“Yeah. The kids in my neighborhood used to hold contests to see who could catch the most.”

So he had been able to chase fireflies. He hadn’t always been confined to a wheelchair. Naturally she was curious about the nature of his disability, but she was too polite to ask.

He wasn’t the first person she had known who was similarly incapacitated. She had enormous respect for those individuals who had made the best of their misfortune. Some were the most optimistic, upbeat people she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. What they lacked in physical stamina and strength, they made up for with courage and spiritual fortitude.

Parker Evans seemed to have the raw power of physically challenged triathletes who competed in the Ironman competitions, men and women who achieved Herculean feats with the strength of their arms—and willpower—alone. Frequently they were athletes or otherwise active young people whose pursuits had been ended in one fateful second, victims of tragic accidents. She wondered what had happened to Parker to change his life so dramatically.

She glanced across the table at him now. He was picking at the bread crust on his plate but, as though feeling her eyes, raised his and caught her looking at him. He gave her a frank return stare.

He was undeniably attractive, although years of pain or unhappiness or disillusionment or a combination thereof had etched lines into his face, making him appear older than he probably was. His rare smiles were tainted by bitterness. His brown hair was thick and threaded with gray. Grooming it would probably be an afterthought. He was wearing two days’ worth of stubble.

His eyes weren’t a definitive color like blue or green or brown. They were best described as hazel and would have been unremarkable except for the occasional amber spots that flecked the irises. That unique feature, coupled with his amazing ability to remain focused on something for an incredible length of time, made his eyes compelling.

Staring at her now, he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. His eyes were issuing a challenge. Go ahead, they seemed to say. You’re dying to know why I’m in this chair, so why don’t you just ask?

She wasn’t going to take up that dare. Not now. Not until she knew him better, or not until she got at least a verbal commitment from him that he would finish his book.

“Have you written any more, Mr. Evans?”

“Want a refill of iced tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Another sandwich?”

“I’m full, thank you. Have you got more for me to read?”

He looked pointedly at Mike, who took the hint. “Excuse me. I need to put some things away.” The older man got up and left the room through a connecting door.