Read Online Sleeping Alone by Barbara Bretton - Free Book Online

between them, something unexpected and powerful, and now he knew that she’d felt it, too. Her smell, the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of the nightgown, the gentle silhouette of her legs—he felt as if he’d been branded. It hadn’t been that way with Libby. The buildup with his late wife had been slow and gentle; the gradual shift from friendship to love had seemed as natural as breathing.
    Bailey nudged his leg, and he scratched her head absently. He’d been without a woman too damn long, that’s what the problem was. He’d forgotten how it felt when the hormones kicked in and the brain shut down. For all he knew Alex Curry was a married woman with a husband and three kids asleep in the other room.
    Not even that thought was enough to cool his heat.
    His old man would have a field day with this. Eddie had been trying to push him in Dee’s direction, but some friendships weren’t meant to be anything else. Alex, however, was another story entirely. He turned, expecting to field some major razzing, but Eddie was asleep in the chair facing the television. His father’s breathing was slow and regular, and John tried not to notice how fragile Eddie looked in his blue pajamas and worn slippers.
    I’m not ready to lose you yet, Pop, he thought, then brushed the notion aside as too ridiculous to contemplate. There was nothing wrong with Eddie Gallagher that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.
    John paced the room, his gaze sliding over old-fashioned lamps with pull chains and frilly shades, frayed avocado green curtains, and enough weird knickknacks to fill Giants Stadium. A trio of pictures clipped from a magazine hung on the wall behind the couch. The frames were obviously garage sale rejects.
    He’d stake his life on the fact that everything in the room had belonged to Marge Winslow. He didn’t claim to be an expert on women or interior decorating, but he’d thought most women couldn’t wait to put their own touch on a place. China pitchers in the shape of Elsie the Cow didn’t exactly seem Alex’s style. No, he’d bet his last dime that she was Wedgwood and Steuben all the way.
    There were no family photos propped up on the end tables. No kids’ toys sticking out from under the couch. No men’s shoes or jockstraps draped over the back of a chair. Not even a magazine or book left open on the coffee table. If she had a personal life of any kind, you’d never know it by her home.
    Maybe he wasn’t being fair. She’d only been there a couple of days. Hell, when he and Libby moved into their first house, they’d lived out of boxes for weeks while they tried to figure out what went where. That would explain it. As soon as she unpacked, she’d replace Marge’s eclectic mix with her own things. He glanced around again. He even went so far as to peer into the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. So where were the boxes? Where were the floor-to-ceiling stacks of stuff waiting to be unpacked? All he saw were two very expensive leather suitcases propped up in front of one of the bedroom doors.
    The pieces didn’t fit. She carried herself like a woman who’d never wanted for anything in her life. The kind of woman who’d known only the best life had to offer. A woman who’d rather die than live in Marge Winslow’s old house or wait tables at the Starlight.
    He told himself it was none of his business, that people were entitled to their secrets, but he was lying. When it came to Alex Curry, he wanted to know everything.
    * * *
    If Alex hid out in the kitchen much longer, John Gallagher would think she’d gone to Seattle for the coffee.
    She placed the cups and sugar bowl and milk pitcher on a metal tray, then frowned. The array looked a little skimpy, so she opened a box of cookies and arranged them as best she could on a dinner plate. She used to love arranging tea for Griffin and their guests, taking time to make sure each aspect of the ritual was as perfect as she could possibly make it.