It was as if there was a heat there between them, drawing them together.
But for all those months since their kiss at Christmas, he hadn’t acted on it, and it wasn’t her place to initiate anything. She was a mess of emotions most days, unless she completely shut down, something she’d promised Dr. Taylor she would try not to do. Back before she came to live with the Wilder family, she existed day to day by creating rooms in her head where she could go, while the parts of her that could work on autopilot did. She hadn’t known that was what it was called, autopilot, but she thought auto-plod made more sense. It wasn’t like flying at all. Just a constant slog through a choking mud that stayed the same, that you hoped stayed the same, because it could become concrete really fast.
Things could always be worse.
Even if Rory had wanted to pursue anything with her, she knew why he hadn’t. She’d experienced a setback after that Christmas, her panic attacks taking over again when Dr. Taylor had her do test runs, visiting places that were outside her comfort zones. So many things piled on top of that lovely kiss, squashing the few little scenarios she’d created in her mind of where it could go from there.
She’d given up hope, figured it was a lost opportunity, and focused on getting the confidence she needed to start school. The ache of “could-have-beens” with Rory had been added to her vast chest of other could-have-beens. But that one had lingered outside the box, edged with a particularly sharp regret. Maybe because she saw him every day, while the other could-have-beens were already well out of reach.
She’d rallied, found the confidence she needed to finally start school. Rory had not only helped her make that final step, he’d shown her he’d never lost interest at all. Hope was not lost. Those possibilities were back in the front of her mind. When she looked at him, a full garden bloomed inside her, rivaling the lovely bouquet he’d thought to bring for her.
Since he used hand controls to drive, he couldn’t continuously hold her hand, but she was glad for how often he did anyway, like at stop lights. The looks he sent her, a mix of heat and intensity, made her hand quiver inside the grip of his.
Her mind cycled back to last night, when he’d touched her. And before that, when he’d…spanked her. She’d thought of little else, a constant mix of images and feelings while she was lying in bed, working at the store with him, studying through the afternoon. He’d stayed so calm and patient with her. Particularly last night. She could tell how much he’d wanted to hold her after she’d been so confused and upset. She wished she could have figured out how to accept that, but the panic took her. She hadn’t meant to move where he couldn’t reach her in her bedroom.
His calmness with her didn’t have that smooth detachment backed by well-meaning concern, like she’d experienced when her fate was being decided by a parade of officials in the child welfare system. She’d seen the flash of anger and impatience in his eyes. But not with her. Not in the least. She studied him closely, a lot, and knew the difference.
He was an active, restless type of person, who met challenges with a physical response. His frustration usually had to do with something he couldn’t change, but wished fiercely to do so. He was a man who fully appreciated the simplicity of picking up a hammer to drive in a nail. He was unfailingly gentle and patient with her, but last night he’d been less gentle…and she kept thinking about it.
He’d turned down his music when he pulled up to her place. She didn’t care much for TV, but she liked music, as long as it wasn’t too loud. Rory was what Les called an “old school” country fan. Hank Williams, the Carters, Gene Autry--the preferred playlist for terrorists torturing hostages, according to Marcus. She liked the old, tinny sounds of the music, though. There was a quiet around it, just a voice and a few instruments amid the low-level static from the original recording.
Hearing the faint tones of the music, even with the volume turned down, reassured her. He kept music as a background at the store. He never asked her if she’d like to listen to something else, because he knew those kinds of questions caused her problems. Even so, she’d noticed he’d tried different genres on different days and somehow figured out which ones she liked. The stations and playlists she hadn’t liked, he’d never chosen more than once.
He pulled up to The Purple Swan. She hadn’t cared where they were going, but knowing he’d specifically chosen it because he thought she liked the restaurant meant things.
Before he left his seat, he tugged her hand so she leaned toward him. When he cupped her cheek, his large hand threaded into her hair so his fingertips could curve against her neck, which gave her the dual sense of tumbling through clouds and resting safely in his grip at once.
He met her mouth with his own, and she melted into it with a little sigh of relief. He answered it with a deep sound of satisfaction, teasing her mouth with his lips, his tongue. That was new, and she welcomed it, with a shudder through her core. She curved her hand over his forearm to hold on as his mouth sent her world spinning.
When he drew back, he didn’t go far, those dark eyes so close. “Thank you for coming to dinner with me.”
“Thank you for kissing me.”
His brown eyes twinkled. “The gift giver doesn’t normally thank the person for accepting the gift.”
She had to think about that one, and when she figured it out, her cheeks warmed. His mouth curved in that firm near-smile. “I love the way you blush. Stay there.”
He transferred himself to his chair with the ease of long practice, though she knew it hadn’t been easy at all at first. When he came around to her side, opening her door, he offered her a hand to help her out. He kept her hand, but nodded toward the restaurant.
“Meet me at the door?” he asked.
The ramp started on the side of the building, coming around to the front.
“Can I stay with you?”
She saw that pleased him, and was glad for it. When they reached the ramp, he gestured ahead of him. “Not wide enough for side by side,” he said.
“Then I’ll follow right behind you.”
“View’s better for me if you walk ahead.” He shot her a grin and she wondered if she was going to blush all night.
He’d been teasing her, but he also meant it. She was aware of his eyes on her with every step. As they reached the door, another couple had arrived. The man opened it for his wife, and then gestured to Daralyn. She glanced at Rory, and he gave her a nod, then offered the guy a thanks as he followed her in.
He handled things like that fine, but she knew it still bugged him. The man was in his seventies, a person Rory would have held the door for, as a sign of respect for his elders. But the man held the door for him, compassion for someone with limited mobility.
If they did something like this again, she’d adjust so that when they came off the ramp into a wider space, she was beside or behind Rory, so he could hold the door for her.
He and his family had done many similar things for her, adjusting their habits and routines to help her develop those things for herself in the way she could best manage it. But that wasn’t why she wanted to do it. It was the thing inside her that told her she wanted to meet his every action like a dance partner, a give and take of motion that made them seem as if nature had brought them together for that. She’d never danced before, but that was what it looked like, when she’d seen it in glimpses on television.