My Kind of Christmas (Virgin River #20)(27)

She laughed. “Between the two of us, we could starve to death. Come on, follow me. I think I could use the company.”

“And I’d like to hear more about Meg’s situation.”

At the side of her SUV she stood on her toes and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “Prepare to feel sad about that,” she said. “I’ll wait for you to find your Jeep.”

As she was driving to the cabin with his headlights in her rearview mirror, she wondered if he had planned something like this all along—another evening together. She wasn’t likely to be demure or shy away. She’d never known anyone like Patrick before. She’d known guys like Alex—the self-absorbed and spoiled science freak who was used to having his way with little effort. Alex was so strong academically that it never occurred to him he wasn’t perfect. When they studied together, Alex treated her like an equal; when they made out or made love, he definitely acted as though it were all about him. He was greedy. Impatient. Since she wasn’t experienced, the whole thing was usually a little clumsy. Completely dull for her.

But Patrick was bold. He was sure of himself; he acted like he knew what he wanted, what he was doing. She had no trouble picturing him on the deck of an aircraft carrier, coolly preflighting his F-18. Strong and confident, that’s how he seemed. Yet there was nothing Neanderthal about him—no club in sight. He was considerate and thoughtful—his waiting for her tonight was touching. He seemed so powerful, yet at the same time was gentle and enticing. She wondered if she was giving him more credit than he was due and didn’t expect the answer to that anytime soon. But she sure wouldn’t mind learning a few things from the hands of a master.

And then, Angie knew, she would undoubtedly sob with longing all the way to her first peace corps assignment. Because even though she’d been in another relationship—even a sexual relationship—she’d never before met anyone who instantly set in motion all the fantasies of living with true love forever.

She pulled into the clearing and he was right behind her. This afternoon she had left a light on so she wouldn’t be coming home to a pitch-black house again. It looked welcoming. Sweet.

Patrick got out of the Jeep. “So this is your hideaway.”

“Isn’t it cute?”

“Small.”

“I know. But I’m only one person. Come on, it won’t take me long to show you around.”

They stood right inside the door while Patrick looked around—kitchen and living room right inside the entrance, with her quilt and pillows still on the couch. “I guess I didn’t really tidy up,” she said, only half-apologetically. “Three nights and I haven’t made it to the bed yet.”

“I’ll build a fire. What am I going to find in the kitchen?”

“Well, that’s the beauty of having an uncle who owns a bar and grill—I raided the bar’s kitchen so I’m stocked with the essentials. Should we look through the fridge and cupboards together?”

“Nah, I can manage. Is there anything you don’t like?”

“I’ll eat anything. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Take your time. I think I’ll be busy for a while.”

“Then I might hop in the shower.”

“Go for it. I’ll get busy,” he said, going first for the stack of logs beside the hearth.

Fifteen minutes later when Angie came out of the bedroom in a comfy sweatsuit, freshly showered, she found Patrick had made a few changes. He had pushed the trunk that served as a coffee table away from the sofa. The quilt and pillows were folded and sat in the room’s only chair and the fire blazed in the hearth. His boots sat by the door and his jacket hung over a kitchen chair. He stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up and in stocking feet.

He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “Tomato soup and grilled cheese.”

“My favorite. You’re very handy.”

“I found a couple of trays. We can eat in front of the fire.” He had the dishes sitting out and began to serve the bowls and plates. “What would you like to drink? I helped myself to a beer.”

“I think I have some wine left. I’ll get it.”

“Tell me about the emergency,” he said. “Did it make you want medical school more or less? Did it change your ideas about the peace corps?”

“Oh, Patrick, I still have so much to learn. Megan’s injury tonight, though probably traumatic for her and her parents, was relatively minor—a laceration on her forehead close to her hairline. It needed a few stitches. But almost a year ago she had an accident and her face was cut. Dr. Michaels took her to the emergency room for stitches and, because of insurance issues, they just stitched her up without a plastic surgeon. Now she’s disfigured. If it isn’t fixed somehow, by the time she’s a young woman and her head and face have grown and matured, the scar won’t have grown with her. It could be monstrous. I’m not exaggerating.”

He handed her a tray and picked up his own. “I take it they can’t afford to get her the proper surgery?”

“Exactly. My uncle Jack has been here quite a while now—I think about eight years. There are things I’ve known about this place for a long time, but until I saw Megan’s face, I didn’t put them into perspective. There is some bounty here—people with money, with successful ranches or vineyards or businesses. But there’s also a lot of poverty, a lot of residents living from hand to mouth. Mel and Doc Michaels get a lot done and the town helps when it can—there’s a powerful sense of community here. But some things are just out of reach—like plastic surgery for an eight-year-old girl whose family has very little money. As Mel puts it, just keeping the house warm all winter is a struggle for them.”