Page 73 of Serenity Harbor

She knew what sheshouldsay, what any rational, self-protective woman with common sense would:Thank you, but no. I’m going to go hide away in my room, where I’m completely safe from any temptation offered by a gorgeous man in the moonlight.

What sheshouldsay and what shewantedto say were two completely different things. When she compared his invitation with the alternative—lurking in her room, pretending to watch TV and doing her best to forget that said gorgeous man was outside in the moonlight on his own—she knew there was really no comparison.

She could go talk to him for a few moments. It was too early for bed, anyway.

“Sure,” she finally said. The moment the word was out, she wanted to call it back but couldn’t figure out how to do it without sounding even more stupid.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

The glass of wine she’d had at dinner was more than enough. She didn’t tend to make the best decisions when she drank—as evidenced by half the men she had ever dated. Since it was hard enough to resist Bowie Callahan when she was stone-cold sober, she should probably avoid anything else that might cloud her mind.

“Water?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks. I can grab it.”

She pulled out a glass from the cupboard and filled it with ice and filtered water from the refrigerator, took a long, healthy, rather desperate drink, then filled it again.

He pulled out a beer and led the way to the terrace, flipping the switch on the globe lights as he did. The night was unusually warm for this high elevation, which usually cooled down dramatically once the sun set.

Her natural instinct was to chatter about nothing in order to fill all the empty space between them, but somehow, for once in her life, she was able to hold her tongue.

He didn’t seem in a talkative mood either as he sank beside her into the other lounger that faced the water. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh.

He looked tired, poor man, working hard to make things happen at Caine Tech while dealing with new challenges in his personal life. She wanted to bring him a pillow and a blanket, to tuck it around him and hold him while he slept.

Oh, mercy. What waswrongwith her?

“You and McKenzie seemed to have a lot to talk about tonight.”

As soon as she said the words, she wanted to kick herself. It was none of her business whom he talked to and what they talked about.

He gave her a sideways look, somehow timing it just right so the moonlight slipped out from behind a cloud in time to bathe him in pale light. It still wasn’t enough light for her to read his expression. “We were talking about you, actually.”

“Me? And here I thought you were talking about something interesting—Haven Point politics or one of the charities McKenzie works for or something.”

Why wouldshebe a topic of conversation between them? McKenzie knew her better than just about anybody, except Sam and Wynona. She carried plenty of embarrassing secrets about Kat. Which of those had she opted to share with Bowie?

“She’s a good friend who cares about you,” he said, which put her mind at ease at least a little.

“I care about her, too. We’ve been friends forever. As long as I can remember. Grade school, anyway.”

“That’s what she told me.” He paused. “She’s worried about what you’ll do if the adoption of Gabriela doesn’t go through.”

She had a wholly immature desire to clamp her hands over her ears to block out what he was saying, as if just entertaining the possibility could risk making her worst fears come true.

If that was the case, the opposite had to work, too. “It’s going through,” she insisted firmly. “I won’t consider any other outcome.”

“You can’t always control the world. What will you do if the court doesn’t approve the paperwork or this country doesn’t allow her an entry visa?”

“I’ll move to Colombia and become an expat,” she said promptly. “If I can, I’ll continue teaching English down there. If not, I’ll scrub floors or work in the orphanage kitchen or sell flowers on a street corner. It doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever it takes to be with her.”

He shifted his gaze to meet hers. “You would do that? Walk away from your family and your home—everything familiar in your world—simply to be with a girl you didn’t even know existed a year ago?”

She wished she had better words to explain what to most people probably made no sense whatsoever. “She’s my daughter, Bowie. I love her. Mothers will make whatever sacrifice is necessary for the good of their children.”

“Not all mothers,” he said, his expression suddenly tight.

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