Meeting Mr. Right. Deb Kastner

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      “Did you get everything straightened out with your mom?” Vee asked as Ben returned to the back patio. Not that she really had to ask to know how the conversation had gone. Even with only a sidelong glance, she could see that his face was the color of a ripe cherry.

      “If by ‘straightened out’ you mean my mother set me in my place and told me to keep my mouth shut and help you dig, then yes. I’ve definitely been straightened out.”

      “I didn’t mean to cause any problems for you, Ben.”

      He arched a brow as if he doubted her good intentions. “No, of course you didn’t. It’s my own blustering that got me into trouble. I may be a thirty-year-old man, but Mama won’t take any sass from me.”

      Vee’s throat burned and she quickly turned her gaze from his, blinking rapidly as memories of her own mother overwhelmed her again.

      The recollections made her want to laugh.

      And cry.

      Maybe both simultaneously.

      She pulled in a ragged breath, but the air seemed sharp, piercing her throat and lungs. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about her mother. She’d be all right for a while, and she even felt like she could function normally most days, but then grief would sneak up and reappear out of nowhere, jumping out from behind her back and wrenching her heart in two once again.

      This was one of those times, and she was mortified that Ben was here to witness it once more. Dealt with the sudden blow of emotions she was unable to handle, she would have turned away to hide them, but Ben gently stayed her with his large, callused hand as he grasped her elbow.

      “I did it again, didn’t I?” he murmured in an unexpectedly tender, soft tone. “I have a bad habit of sticking my boot in my mouth.” Ben was a rough-edged man, and in Vee’s opinion, not a very nice one, so the sympathy pouring from his gaze surprised her. “I’m truly sorry about your mother, Vee.”

      He didn’t say anything else. In her experience, people tended to chatter when they were uncomfortable with a situation, but not Ben. He just stood there, strong and silent, waiting for her to gather herself together. She wasn’t sure how he’d figured out where her thoughts had gone, but she was grateful to him for giving her the moment she needed to compose herself.

      But composure failed to come. Despite her best intentions, tears welled. She fought and nearly lost herself to the blaze that was burning in her throat and behind her eyes.

      She wasn’t a bawler. She’d learned long ago that crying didn’t get you anywhere—not with two big brothers around to tease her about it. If anything, breaking into tears only made things worse, so she’d learned not to do it. Her brothers had literally thrown her into the deep end of the pool and expected her to swim. They’d taught her to be tough. She was a Bishop, and Bishops were a strong lot.

      But in this case, reminding herself of her heritage didn’t seem to help. Nothing did. She wasn’t sure if she could keep her tears from falling despite her best efforts.

      Ben slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a close embrace. The comfort of his rock-solid chest and the steady sound of his heartbeat somehow reassured her.

      Depending on someone else, even for a moment, was unfamiliar to her. And she couldn’t believe that the person she was leaning on was Ben Atwood—possibly the least reliable person she knew. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to breathe slowly, fighting desperately against the urge to let loose the roaring broil of her emotions and bawl into Ben’s chest. She barely restrained herself from wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him back.

      She couldn’t break down. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Ben. Bishops were strong people, she reminded herself again. They didn’t let anything get the best of them, not even a grief that felt like it was ripping her apart.

      She sucked in another big gulp of air and backed away. The sudden sensation of warm fur crisscrossing her ankles in a figure eight caused her to jolt, but she was careful not to step on whatever it was that was twirling around at her feet. She looked down to find a large gray poof-ball rubbing against her and purring louder than the engine on her truck.

      “Is that a cat?” she asked with a chuckle that came out as half a sob. She hitched her breath.

      Ben leaned down and scooped the ball of fur into his arms, brushing the hair back from the feline’s face with the palm of his hand. Vee could barely make out eyes and a black button of a nose.

      “This,” Ben said, “is Tinker. And you should feel privileged. He’s given you quite an honor. He doesn’t usually take to people he doesn’t know very well.”

      As he said the words, the cat sprung from his arms to hers. She caught him with an exclamation of surprise.

      “Warn me, next time, will you, kitty?” She tucked Tinker under her chin, oddly comforted by the vibration of the cat’s purr and the warmth of his fur.

      “I never had a kitten,” she said, stroking Tinker’s soft, downy fur. “Or a dog. My mom was one of those people who thought all animals should stay outside in the barn.”

      Another hiccup.

      Ben jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, not speaking but urging her on with a smile.

      “I had a hamster once, though, when I was about nine. Alvin the hamster. He’d run on his little wheel all night long. That sound was like a lullaby to me. I slept so soundly when he was around.”

      “Tinker is a second-generation Atwood cat,” Ben explained, reaching out to tickle Tinker under his chin. “His mama was Belle. Tinkerbelle, actually, but most of the time I just called her Belle.”

      “Oh, my,” exclaimed Vee, putting two and two together. “Please don’t tell me that this poor boy...”

      “...is Tinkerbelle the Second. In my defense, I was a teenager at the time, and kittens weren’t a big deal to me. I was too busy worrying about my social life, which...well...” He cut himself off and gave her a charming smile. She noticed it looked a little strained around the edges, as if he disliked thinking back on those memories but was trying to hide it. “I gave him his moniker without actually bothering to see if it was a he or she, and my mother didn’t correct me. I think maybe she was trying to teach me a life lesson. Tinker here got the bad end of that deal.”

      “Poor Tinker,” Vee said on a long, counterfeit sigh, stroking the cat from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, causing his purr to rumble even louder. “It’s a wonder he still associates with you at all.”

      “Yeah,” Ben agreed with a self-deprecating СКАЧАТЬ