was a patriot, and he didn’t care if it was a fashionable word or not. Democracy fascinated him, both the straightforward principle of it and the endless labyrinth of the reality. The political world was his life almost to the exclusion of all else.
Wade couldn’t say he had ever been in love with anything other than his job. He was, as Murphy had pointed out, a man with a healthy libido, and women were attracted to him. The few women he dated when he had time were career women, as wrapped up in their jobs as he was in his. They provided each other with intelligent company and mutually satisfying sex. His were always very discreet, very practical arrangements.
Very discreet, very practical arrangements that he was suddenly dissatisfied with.
And it was all Bronwynn Pierson’s fault—somehow.
A plumber’s van roared past, headed in the direction of Bronwynn’s house. He laughed. He knew exactly what was going to happen. The house had taken her fancy for the moment. By Wednesday she was going to realize fixing it up was a dirty, messy job that couldn’t be done overnight no matter how much money she spent, no matter how many people she hired. Then she would quit and go home. Something else would catch her interest, or some
one
else.
As he went to the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee, he wondered about the fiancé—Ross. They hadn’t had a passionate relationship, Bronwynn had said. Lord, Wade shook his head, the guy must have had one foot in the grave. Just thinking about the way she had fit against him made his blood heat.
“So quit thinking about it, Grayson,” he ordered himself, frowning at his coffee cup.
One of the great mysteries of the world, he thought, was how a man with a college education and a law degree couldn’t manage to make a decent cup of coffee. The stuff he’d made could have stripped paint.
He looked at his dog, who was sitting on a chair at the kitchen table, obviously hoping to bum a Danish once Wade got them down from the top of the refrigerator. “If you could make coffee, you’d be worth something.”
Tucker grumbled.
“I know I’m not supposed to drink it,” Wade muttered, taking a seat across from the dog. “Who are you now, the surgeon general? I wonder if Bronwynn can make coffee. Oh, hell.”
It had been forty-eight hours since he’d walked out of her house. He could have cut a chunk out of the national debt if he had a dollar for every time he’d thought of her since. It was so absurd. She was the last woman he would be attracted to, yet he seemed to be developing some kind of weird obsession with her.
He was going stir-crazy. The whole problem stemmed from this relaxation business. His vacation was ruining his temper. He got up as the front doorbell rang, ignoring the forlorn look Tucker cast him as the dog dropped his head to the table and sighed.
“Delivery for Pierson,” the man said as Wade swung the door open. He was a small, bespectacled man with thinning brown hair and
Norm
embroidered in red above the pocket of his coveralls.
“Wrong house,” Wade said, his gaze straying to the white delivery truck parked in the driveway. The logo for Hank’s Hardware was emblazoned on the side. “I’m Grayson not Pierson, Norm.”
“I’m not Norm, Grayson.” The man smiled pleasantly, revealing a space between his two front teeth. “Name’s Wilson. Norm’s having his gallstones out. Where’s the Pierson place?”
“Up the road,” Wade said, tilting his head in the direction of Bronwynn’s house.
“Wanna ride along? I could use a hand unloading this stuff.” Wilson pressed a hand to his back. “Sciatica.”
Wade blinked at the man. Oh, what the hell? He was dying to know what was in the truck. He wouldn’t admit to himself that he was also dying to see Bronwynn again.
There probably wasn’t as much activity going on at a three-ring circus, Wade thought, although he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a three-ring
Wade couldn’t say he had ever been in love with anything other than his job. He was, as Murphy had pointed out, a man with a healthy libido, and women were attracted to him. The few women he dated when he had time were career women, as wrapped up in their jobs as he was in his. They provided each other with intelligent company and mutually satisfying sex. His were always very discreet, very practical arrangements.
Very discreet, very practical arrangements that he was suddenly dissatisfied with.
And it was all Bronwynn Pierson’s fault—somehow.
A plumber’s van roared past, headed in the direction of Bronwynn’s house. He laughed. He knew exactly what was going to happen. The house had taken her fancy for the moment. By Wednesday she was going to realize fixing it up was a dirty, messy job that couldn’t be done overnight no matter how much money she spent, no matter how many people she hired. Then she would quit and go home. Something else would catch her interest, or some
one
else.
As he went to the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee, he wondered about the fiancé—Ross. They hadn’t had a passionate relationship, Bronwynn had said. Lord, Wade shook his head, the guy must have had one foot in the grave. Just thinking about the way she had fit against him made his blood heat.
“So quit thinking about it, Grayson,” he ordered himself, frowning at his coffee cup.
One of the great mysteries of the world, he thought, was how a man with a college education and a law degree couldn’t manage to make a decent cup of coffee. The stuff he’d made could have stripped paint.
He looked at his dog, who was sitting on a chair at the kitchen table, obviously hoping to bum a Danish once Wade got them down from the top of the refrigerator. “If you could make coffee, you’d be worth something.”
Tucker grumbled.
“I know I’m not supposed to drink it,” Wade muttered, taking a seat across from the dog. “Who are you now, the surgeon general? I wonder if Bronwynn can make coffee. Oh, hell.”
It had been forty-eight hours since he’d walked out of her house. He could have cut a chunk out of the national debt if he had a dollar for every time he’d thought of her since. It was so absurd. She was the last woman he would be attracted to, yet he seemed to be developing some kind of weird obsession with her.
He was going stir-crazy. The whole problem stemmed from this relaxation business. His vacation was ruining his temper. He got up as the front doorbell rang, ignoring the forlorn look Tucker cast him as the dog dropped his head to the table and sighed.
“Delivery for Pierson,” the man said as Wade swung the door open. He was a small, bespectacled man with thinning brown hair and
Norm
embroidered in red above the pocket of his coveralls.
“Wrong house,” Wade said, his gaze straying to the white delivery truck parked in the driveway. The logo for Hank’s Hardware was emblazoned on the side. “I’m Grayson not Pierson, Norm.”
“I’m not Norm, Grayson.” The man smiled pleasantly, revealing a space between his two front teeth. “Name’s Wilson. Norm’s having his gallstones out. Where’s the Pierson place?”
“Up the road,” Wade said, tilting his head in the direction of Bronwynn’s house.
“Wanna ride along? I could use a hand unloading this stuff.” Wilson pressed a hand to his back. “Sciatica.”
Wade blinked at the man. Oh, what the hell? He was dying to know what was in the truck. He wouldn’t admit to himself that he was also dying to see Bronwynn again.
There probably wasn’t as much activity going on at a three-ring circus, Wade thought, although he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a three-ring
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