Chapter 2

As Patrick scanned the cabin, he thought of the line from the Wizard of Oz about not being in Kansas anymore. He'd clearly stepped into a netherworld. One he wasn't sure he'd be able to adapt to.

He'd been frustrated by the flat tire, more so when a 1950's bombshell stepped out of the bright red truck and offered to help him. The first thing he'd seen from where he was crouched behind the car were red Converse sneakers. His gaze drew up over coveralls rolled up to the calves, a white tank top, and a porcelain skinned woman with her dark hair piled in a messy knot, a red bandanna tied like a headband, and red sunglasses. The red lipstick completed the annoyingly alluring package.

There was no doubt she was amused at his ineptitude, which only heightened his frustration. It was male pride, he knew, although his pride wasn't the only part of his maleness that responded to her. The man in him didn't miss the smooth curves of her body, even under baggy overalls. That frustrated him too. He'd been pretty sure that part of him had died, or at least gone dormant.

He shook his head of the image of his host and took in the place call home for the next six weeks. As he stood in the middle of the rustic cabin with his shirt plastered to his skin with sweat, oil under his fingernails, and a certainty that his sister, Julia, was right; he wasn't cut out for the woods.

Sighing, he tossed his bag on the bed as his visit to Julia earlier that day came back to him. The worst part of his life these days was going to Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women. It wasn't simply because his sister, Julia, was convicted of shooting and attempting to murder their best friend, Sydney's boyfriend now husband. That was bad for sure. What added to the burden was that being a psychiatrist who was often called as an expert witness in criminal trials, Patrick had missed that his sister was mentally unstable.

Julia had always been shallow and flighty. She had a strong desire to keep the Three Musketeers, as she referred to her, Patrick, and Sydney, together. But to kill to make that happen? He hadn't seen it until it was too late, and Mitch McKenna was bleeding with a gunshot wound to the chest in the middle of Central Park.

Four years later, he continued to live with the shame and guilt of not being able to recognize his sister's psychopathy. The only saving grace was that Mitch had lived, and he and Sydney were happily married with a young son, and a second child on the way, or so Sydney had told him when she encouraged him, once again, to take a break from his life.

Julia wasn't Patrick's only burden in life. With his career in shambles, his parents were pressuring him to finally step into his legacy, running the family's multi-billion-dollar pharmaceutical business. Being CEO of a drug company wasn't what Patrick wanted in his life. He understood how medicine could help and was sometimes crucial for mental health, but he also believed far too many people relied on pills instead of doing the hard work to fix their lives.

Taking a leave from his job that he expected he'd shortly be forced to quit, and putting his decision on the business off, Patrick hoped his retreat to the mountains would give him the time and space he needed to figure out his life. Before left New York, he had to let Julia know of his trip, and as expected, she didn't take it well. His parents didn't understand why he put up with her, but they'd written her off long before she shot Sydney's boyfriend. Patrick knew why he put up with it. She was where she was because of him. He failed her in so many ways.

When the visit with Julia was over, the tightness in his chest loosened a bit. By the time he was on the plane flying toward Charlotte Tavern, Virginia, he felt he could suck in a full breath.

He left the crowded city of New York and landed in a thickly wooded area at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. For a moment, he thought the clean country air was what he needed. That was until the flat tire and trail of snakes.

Feeling that perhaps this wasn't the right place to find himself, Patrick decided he'd drive back to Charlotte Tavern and charter a plane home, that is after he cleaned up the unbearable sweat covering his body.

He stripped his clothes, wondering if the resort had bon fires. He'd donate his clothes for it if they did. The image of his host returned followed by the spark of attraction. His life was clearly out of sorts if a woman in overalls and red lipstick awakened his dormant libido.

He turned the shower nob to cold, telling himself it was to cool off from the heat of the day and not from the sassy smile of the sexy woman with a man's nickname. Seriously, Mickey? As in mouse? There was nothing mousy about her. His mind flashed back to her climbing down the ladder, her fine backside shifting side to side.

He chastised himself for not only appreciating her assets but for staring at them. He'd never been a man to ogle or leer. He didn't cat call or even think lewd thoughts about women. He fantasized on occasion, but never lewd thoughts. So why was this one on a continuous loop in his brain? It had to be the heat.

Patrick put his hands on the shower wall and dunked his head under the spray, rejoicing at the cool water. There was heat and humidity in New York, but he didn't spend much time in it as he was usually inside. He wondered how Michaela stayed so cool and fresh looking. Didn't heat and humidity get to her?

Good God, he was thinking of her again.

He finished cleaning the sweat and oil off his body, then dressed in khaki shorts and a red collared shirt. He slipped on his leather boat shoes and slicked his dark hair back.

"Even casual you don't fit in," he said to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. But he didn't come here to worry about his fashion sense or indulge his hormones, despite their interest in his host. He came here to clear his mind and figure out his next step. The problem was, he wasn't sure how to go about doing that. He considered leaving again, but Sydney would call him a quitter.

Deciding he'd give it a day, he stepped out of his cabin and into the heat again. With the sun slightly lower in the sky, the temperature wasn't as oppressive as earlier. He walked out onto the dock and looked over the water. His neighbors across the way were hand and hand, occasionally stopping to kiss, as they made their way to the main building.

On the main lodge's deck, Michaela and her mother were setting out refreshments. He supposed he should join them. He didn't have anything else to do. He made his way back to the path and toward the main building watchful for snakes. When he reached the top step of the deck, Michaela greeted him with a smile that made him catch his breath.

"Hey there. You look refreshed."

"I feel refreshed." And off kilter.

"Dr. Andres, this is Mark and Sheila Franks. They just got married." Michaela motioned to the couple entwined on the porch swing.

"Doctor? What sort of doctor?" Sheila asked.

"Psychiatrist. And please, call me Patrick."

"Ooh, you can read minds," Sheila said.

"Not quite." If only he could. Maybe he'd have figured out Julia's plans to hurt Sydney and Mitch before she acted on them.

"Do you do therapy?" Mark asked. "When I was a kid, I had to go to a counselor."

"You did?" Sheila stared at her new husband with wide eyes.

"Yeah, I didn't like going to school."

Sheila rolled her eyes. "No one likes school."

"Little kids do," Mark said.

"Social anxiety is common in school-age kids." Patrick took a seat in one of the empty chairs overlooking the water, but still in view of the other guests and his host.

"Lemonade or tea?" Mrs. Kincaid held up two pitchers indicating his choice.

"It's sweet," Michaela warned. "Yankees usually like unsweet."

"I can get unsweet. Don't we have some just brewed that's unsweet, Mick?" Mrs. Kincaid asked.

Michaela nodded. "Would you rather unsweet?"

"Lemonade would be fine." Patrick didn't want to be the high-need guest. He was well aware that New Yorkers were often viewed as brash and demanding.

Mrs. Kincaid poured the cup while Michaela put a cookie on a napkin. She brought his drink and snack to him. "It's snickerdoodle today."

"Thank you."

Michaela sat in the chair next to him. "You know, Mitch says you're stuffy, but you seem alright to me."

"I'm surprised. I think I'm stuffy." He took a bite of the cookie trying to remember the last time he'd ever had one. Maybe when he was a kid and he and Julia were over at Sydney's house. Her mom made cookies a lot.

Michaela laughed, and there was a musicality to it that entranced him. "I was thinking he was just jealous that you and Sydney once had a thing."

Starting to loosen up, Patrick smiled. "Yes, well, that was in high school. Those romances burn out."

"Ours didn't," Sheila said.

"Usually. There's no doubt Syd and Mitch are meant to be." Patrick wasn't prone to believe in destiny or fairy tales, but there was no denying that what Sydney and Mitch had was special.

Michaela's cherry red lips widened into a smile. "You're a romantic too. You're full of surprises."

He shook his head. "No, I'm not. I see it in others, such as Mr. and Mrs. Franks here, but that's the extent of it."

Michaela tilted her head. "No romance for you, Dr. Andres?"

"It's Patrick, and no."

"Why not?" Sheila looped her arms around Mark. "You're handsome. You look like you've got money."

Patrick sipped his lemonade. He didn't have an answer for Sheila beyond his life wasn't conducive to romance. Not for any long term. He'd had a few short affairs, and a friend with occasional benefits, but that was it.

"Maybe he's gay," Mark said.

Patrick wondered what world he'd landed in where people speculated so openly about other's love lives. He'd always had the impression that southerners, while friendly, weren't overly sharing with strangers.

"Even gay people need love and romance." Michaela studied him and he tried not to squirm. "I don't get you Yankees, though. You work so hard, are always going and going, and for what?"

"Sydney is a Yankee," Patrick pointed out.

"Who now lives here. Mitch's sister married a Yankee too. He does most of his business from here. They had to come to the slow movin' south to find love and happiness." Michaela smiled in triumph as if she won the debate.

"Maybe you'll find that too," Sheila said. "There's nothing like love and happiness."

"You two are good role models for that," Patrick nodded to the young couple. Then he turned his attention to Michaela. "I don't see a ring on your finger."

"You looked, did you?" She gave him a coy smile that made him feel like a silly schoolboy.

He hoped he wasn't blushing. "Only because you were talking the virtues of love in the south."

The sliding door opened, and Michaela stood. "Hi dad, come meet our new guest. Dr. Patrick Andres."

A middle-aged man with a cane slowly, but with a wide smile similar to his daughter's, inched his way out on to the deck.

Patrick stood. "Mr. Kincaid, nice to meet you."

"Dr. Andres, thank you for coming. And it's Joe. I hope your cabin is suitable." Joe shook Patrick's hand.

"It's very nice, thank you."

"We were talking about love and romance, dad."

Joe looked at his wife. "I wouldn't have a life without it."

The sweet way in which Joe and Lori looked at each other made Patrick wonder about the love that some people, like the Kincaid's, or Sydney and Mitch found. Perhaps that was something he could research. He could write a book. Surely there'd be money in a book that helped people find their true love.

"We stocked some items in your fridge, Dr. Andres, but is there anything you need? Or why don't you have dinner with us tonight? Mark and Sheila, you can join us as well," Lori said.

"Thank you but we've got plans." There was an amorous glint in their eyes that made Patrick think their plans had nothing to do with dinner.

"Ah, young love." Joe sat in a chair near his wife. He put his arm around her. "Remember when we were like that?"

"It was ten minutes ago, honey."

Michaela snorted. "Get a room." She shook her head and then turned her attention to Patrick. "How about it, Patrick? Do you want to have dinner with us? It's not fancy. No pate or caviar."

"Mick." Her mother chastised. "Don't be rude. You'd be in a state if he said something about vittles and roadkill."

"It's true," Michaela said. "We haven't had roadkill in?—"

"Mick!"

She laughed. "We're grilling chicken."

His stomach growled reminding him that he hadn't had lunch. "Actually, that sounds nice. I can pay if it's extra?—"

"Pah," Joe said. "It's on us."

After the snack,Patrick headed back to his cabin, to unpack, and rest before dinner. He texted Sydney to let her know he'd made it. She responded with a message to relax and enjoy. Patrick sat on the love-seat sized couch at a loss for what to do. He didn't know the first thing about relaxing.

At the appointed time, he returned to the lodge for dinner with his hosts. The dinner itself reminded him of when he ate with Mitch and Sydney. The Kincaids were a family that cared for each other. It was a stark contrast to his upbringing. His family ate together because his mother, a psychologist, read a study that said families that ate together had smarter, higher achieving kids. She missed the part about the meal being a time to connect with the kids. She read reports while his dad tapped away on his tablet. Julia was on her phone, and Patrick usually had a book. No wonder they're family was so disconnected.

After dinner, the moon lit the way on the path as Patrick returned to his cabin. He pulled his phone from his pocket to check his messages. Seeing the dock, he kicked off his shoes and sat with his feet in the water as he opened his email app.

"Aren't you supposed to be relaxing?" Michaela's voice came from behind him.

He turned. "Just checking in."

She shook her head. "I think that's against the rules." She set something by his door, and then walked out on the dock and sat next to him.

"What rules?"

"The ones that say you're supposed to be having peace and quiet." She grabbed his phone.

"Hey." He reached for it, but she held it away from him.

"What's so important that you can't take a moment to watch the fish jump and the lightnin' bugs light up the night?"

"It's not your business." He reached across her, annoyed at her immature behavior.

She leaned way from him, losing her balance, and falling back. He continued to reach for his phone, losing his balance as well, falling over her.

Her body was soft and warm under his. The snap crackle pop in the air wasn't from lightening bugs. It zapped between them, and Patrick sucked in a breath at the headiness of it. Her blue eyes glinted with mischief. Her scent, a mixture of honey and vanilla, filled his senses. He was mesmerized, until decorum had him realizing he was laying on top of her.

"Oh God." He jerked up, scooting away from her. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She sat up, her brow furrowed as if she was surprised by his reaction. "I did take your phone." She handed it back to him.

"It was inappropriate."

"I didn't feel like you were trying to take advantage. If anything, I was being the aggressor."

He put his phone in his pocket. "As long as I didn't offend you."

"Not at all. I appreciate that you're aware of such things. So many men aren't."

He stood and held out his hand to help her up. "I should go in."

She gavehim a weak smile as she took his hand and stood. "You're not going to work, are you?"

"I'm going to let my mother know I'm okay, but other than that I'm going to…well I don't know what I'm going to do." It wasn't that Patrick had never felt uncertain, but he'd never felt so out of his element.

"How about read? I brought down some books because I heard you like to read." She went to where she'd set her items down. "I think there's a little bit of everything in this stack. Mystery. Intrigue. Passion." She handed him the stack.

"Thank you."

"Have a good evening, Patrick."

"You too, Michaela."

She tilted her head, and then smiled. There was something alluring about her that had him nearly inviting her in. He was saved from his impulsive thoughts when she turned and headed back to the main building.