Read Online Have You Seen Her? by Karen Rose - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karen Rose
Ads: Link
baby brother’s lips.
Well, they could still smile, he thought.
That was something.
Friday, September 30, 5:00 P.M.
Jenna gripped the railing of the school’s front steps, the iron cold against her palm still warm from Steven Thatcher’s arm. She watched him walk across the parking lot, his stride long and strong. Even from here she could see the tight fit of his jacket across the breadth of his shoulders and remembered the way those shoulders had sagged as they’d talked about his son, as if the weight of his worry was simply too heavy to bear. Jenna chewed at her lower lip. She’d told him everything would be all right. She hoped she hadn’t told the man a lie.
How she wished she could have said, “Oh, no, Mr. Thatcher—there’s no way Brad could be involved in drugs!” in a perky little voice that would make the anguish in his eyes disappear. But that wouldn’t have been honest. She’d learned a long time ago it was far better to approach a problem with all the facts, even though the facts were often hard to accept when the fear and hurt were fresh. So she’d told him the truth. Good kids can get into trouble. He knew that already. But somehow the truth had seemed to help, making his shoulders relax just a bit.
“Jenna, you’re a fool,” she muttered. “An optimistic fool.” But she didn’t really think that was the case. She hadn’t been what anyone could call optimistic in a very long time. No, on some level, she really did believe Brad Thatcher would be all right. Maybe it was just knowing he had a dad that cared so much about him.
That had to be it.
That also had to be the reason for the urge, one she’d just barely managed to fight, to brush her fingertips across Steven Thatcher’s brow, to smooth away the deep lines of worry. Because he was a kind father who cared about his son.
Not because he had warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
Or because his shoulders were so broad. Or because his upper arm was solid and strong, yet his hands were gentle. Or because his smile over her stupid shoes had simply taken her breath away.
No, she’d had the urge to comfort him because of Brad. But the other urges were all hers and, quite frankly, surprised the hell out of her. She hadn’t felt any stirrings, not even modest ones, since . . . She sighed, the sound lonely in the quiet night. Not since Adam got sick. Certainly not since he died.
See, Casey,
she thought.
I can say it. Died. D-i-e-d, died. I’m not in denial, for God’s sake.
It had been two years since Adam’s death, and in that time she hadn’t touched a man—not unless you counted that last friend of Casey’s boyfriend Ned, the one whose hand she’d needed to firmly remove from her ass.
She tilted her head, considering her reaction should Steven Thatcher try the same thing—she would not be nearly as annoyed. In fact . . .
Just stop,
she mentally ordered herself.
Just stop that right now.
“Jenna Marshall,” she murmured aloud. “Shame on you.” She looked out across the parking lot to where Mr. Thatcher stood next to her car, his hands on what probably were very trim hips.
Casey would be amused, both at her noticing Steven Thatcher was indeed a man and at the way she was scolding herself for noticing. Therefore, Casey must never know. That was simple enough. What wasn’t as simple was the knowledge her body had emerged from a two-year deep sleep and her hormones were now active again.
Well, you are human,
she thought.
You had to start looking again sometime. Just look, but don’t touch.
A cool breeze fluttered and Jenna shivered first, then frowned. Minutes had ticked by as she’d stood here balanced on one foot, woolgathering. Mr. Thatcher should have been here with her car already. In fact, where was he? She lifted herself on her toes and stared off to the edge of the parking lot only to see a gray Volvo station wagon approach, Steven Thatcher at the wheel.
He pulled the car up to the curb
Well, they could still smile, he thought.
That was something.
Friday, September 30, 5:00 P.M.
Jenna gripped the railing of the school’s front steps, the iron cold against her palm still warm from Steven Thatcher’s arm. She watched him walk across the parking lot, his stride long and strong. Even from here she could see the tight fit of his jacket across the breadth of his shoulders and remembered the way those shoulders had sagged as they’d talked about his son, as if the weight of his worry was simply too heavy to bear. Jenna chewed at her lower lip. She’d told him everything would be all right. She hoped she hadn’t told the man a lie.
How she wished she could have said, “Oh, no, Mr. Thatcher—there’s no way Brad could be involved in drugs!” in a perky little voice that would make the anguish in his eyes disappear. But that wouldn’t have been honest. She’d learned a long time ago it was far better to approach a problem with all the facts, even though the facts were often hard to accept when the fear and hurt were fresh. So she’d told him the truth. Good kids can get into trouble. He knew that already. But somehow the truth had seemed to help, making his shoulders relax just a bit.
“Jenna, you’re a fool,” she muttered. “An optimistic fool.” But she didn’t really think that was the case. She hadn’t been what anyone could call optimistic in a very long time. No, on some level, she really did believe Brad Thatcher would be all right. Maybe it was just knowing he had a dad that cared so much about him.
That had to be it.
That also had to be the reason for the urge, one she’d just barely managed to fight, to brush her fingertips across Steven Thatcher’s brow, to smooth away the deep lines of worry. Because he was a kind father who cared about his son.
Not because he had warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
Or because his shoulders were so broad. Or because his upper arm was solid and strong, yet his hands were gentle. Or because his smile over her stupid shoes had simply taken her breath away.
No, she’d had the urge to comfort him because of Brad. But the other urges were all hers and, quite frankly, surprised the hell out of her. She hadn’t felt any stirrings, not even modest ones, since . . . She sighed, the sound lonely in the quiet night. Not since Adam got sick. Certainly not since he died.
See, Casey,
she thought.
I can say it. Died. D-i-e-d, died. I’m not in denial, for God’s sake.
It had been two years since Adam’s death, and in that time she hadn’t touched a man—not unless you counted that last friend of Casey’s boyfriend Ned, the one whose hand she’d needed to firmly remove from her ass.
She tilted her head, considering her reaction should Steven Thatcher try the same thing—she would not be nearly as annoyed. In fact . . .
Just stop,
she mentally ordered herself.
Just stop that right now.
“Jenna Marshall,” she murmured aloud. “Shame on you.” She looked out across the parking lot to where Mr. Thatcher stood next to her car, his hands on what probably were very trim hips.
Casey would be amused, both at her noticing Steven Thatcher was indeed a man and at the way she was scolding herself for noticing. Therefore, Casey must never know. That was simple enough. What wasn’t as simple was the knowledge her body had emerged from a two-year deep sleep and her hormones were now active again.
Well, you are human,
she thought.
You had to start looking again sometime. Just look, but don’t touch.
A cool breeze fluttered and Jenna shivered first, then frowned. Minutes had ticked by as she’d stood here balanced on one foot, woolgathering. Mr. Thatcher should have been here with her car already. In fact, where was he? She lifted herself on her toes and stared off to the edge of the parking lot only to see a gray Volvo station wagon approach, Steven Thatcher at the wheel.
He pulled the car up to the curb
Similar Books
