Page 26 of Come to Me

CHAPTER 8

Sleep was often elusive and fitful for Patrick. The night was filled with images of his failure to recognize Julia’s mental instability and the danger she posed. But this night was different. This time Michaela filled his dreams with her vitality and sensuality. In his dream, he’d done what he’s wanted to do the night before and invite her into his cabin to see where that kiss could take them. For Patrick the kiss took him to waking with a hardon that refused to go away on its own. Feeling a bit like a hormonal teenager, Patrick dealt with that bit of his anatomy in the shower, then dressed and made coffee, ready to start the day. Short of fishing with Tate, he had no clue what the day would bring.

He sat at the small table off the kitchenette. The large window looked over the lake, covered in a mist as the light of the sun barely hinted at its arrival. It had a view of the dock, bringing the night before back to the forefront of Patrick’s mind. He’d been wallowing last night. Hell, he’d been wallowing for years, if he was honest with himself. Everyday sinking deeper into the mire of guilt over Julia's actions and the gnawing uncertainty of his future. His family's expectations loomed over him. A smart man, a man who cared about family, would step in and fill the destiny started by his grandfather. But each time Patrick considered joining the family business, he couldn’t breathe.

Here, with Michaela, he felt he’d taken the first breath in a long time. The thought of her was intoxicating in a way that was exciting and yet unsettling as well. That hadn’t stopped him from wanting to bring her into his cabin and exploring where that kiss could lead. It wasn't just physical attraction stirring inside him; it was the way she’d called him out for his self-pity. She was a splash of color against the monochrome backdrop of his existence.

She challenged him. More than that, she made him feel entitled and selfish for his ingratitude. She had greater hardship than he did and yet she found joy and beauty in life and here he was whining.

Her ability to see him, not the façade or the degrees or the money or prestige, made him feel something he couldn’t remember ever feeling. She saw him. Patrick. She made him look at himself and what he needed to confront. Wasn’t that why he was here? To find himself and figure out his life. Yes, but it was no easy thing to delve into one’s own soul and confront the darkness there.

As much as he didn’t like being called out, he couldn’t stop thinking about how with each passing moment since their lips had parted, he became more aware of how much he desired to delve deeper into whatever this connection with Michaela might be. Patrick couldn't remember the last time someone had sparked such an array of emotions in him—confusion, admiration, desire.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Dr. Patrick?” Tate’s voice sounded through the door.

Patrick rose and answered the door.

Tate grinned up at him with a missing tooth holding two fishing rods that were askew and looked like they’d fall out of his arms. In this other hand he held a tackle box. “Are you still gonna fish with me?”

“I am.” Patrick knelt down to study the boy. “Are missing something?”

Tate pointed to his mouth. “I lost a tooth last night. The tooth fairy brought me five dollars.”

Patrick whistled. “Wow, you’re rich.”

“I’m saving it for a new game.”

“Smart. Let me get my shoes on and we’ll go.”

Sneakers on, Patrick exited his cabin following Tate around the lake. The path took him by the lodge, where Patrick glanced up hoping to catch a glance at Michaela. The newlyweds sat on the deck but no Michaela.

“The fish are bitin’ best by the old dock. But we have to be careful. Paw Paw hasn’t fixed the lose board yet.”

They ended up at the spot where Patrick helped Mr. Kincaid bring the wood down.

Patrick was impressed at how confident and competent Tate was when it came to fishing. The boy seemed to know the best spot by the edge of the lake as he set his fishing box and rods down in the soft dirt.

"First things first." Tate handed Patrick a fishing rod, "You gotta bait the hook."

Patrick watched as Tate dug into a container of soil, unearthing wriggling worms with an expertise that belied his age. He handed one to Patrick with a nod.

"Just pinch it and slide it onto the hook," Tate instructed.

“Can you show me?” Patrick wasn’t squeamish, but the slimy twisting worm gave him pause. He squatted down to Tate’s level to get a better view.

“Okay.” Tate’s brow furrowed in concentration as he bent the worm and slid the hook through it. “See? Easy.”

The worm squirmed in Patrick’s fingers and with a bit of fumbling and words of encouragement from Tate, he managed to secure the bait.

"You did it." Tate patted Patrick on the shoulder.

Patrick nearly laughed at the turn of events.

“Now, you have to throw your line in the water. First you have to make sure no one is behind you, so you don’t hit them with the hook.” Tate moved to the right of Patrick, who took a few more steps to the left to make sure he was in a safe zone.

“Then you hold your line while you unlock the reel. Then you fling it like this and let go of the line.” Tate led by example, and his wormed hook flew out until plopping down into the water several feet from the water’s edge.

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