Chapter 4

Patrick couldn't get out of the house fast enough. What had started as a surprisingly good morning had devolved into him alienating his hosts.

The night before, he'd fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow and he'd slept without haunting dreams of his sister hurting people or fears about the career that was falling through his fingers.

The sun creeping through the window woke him in the morning. He rose, made a cup of coffee from the little pot in the room, and took it out on the dock to watch as the rays of the sun lit up the lake where fish jumped to eat the bugs hovering over the water. He sighed and felt the tension slide away. So, this was what relaxing felt like.

When he drank the last drop of coffee, he went back to the little cabin, showered, dressed, and made his way up to the main lodge for breakfast. As he walked the path, watching for snakes, his mind drifted to Michaela. Patrick wasn't a monk, but it had been a long time since he'd found himself intrigued by a woman. He couldn't pinpoint what it was about her that had thoughts of her running in an endless loop. But like the calm sunrise over the water that morning, thoughts of her were pleasant.

He made his way up the steps, through the sliding door, and into the common area. A table was set for breakfast, but no one was there. He heard movement in the kitchen, but he didn't want to disturb Mrs. Kincaid, so he went out the front door, wondering if Michaela was on the roof again.

When he stepped out, he saw a child running up the dirt drive toward an SUV pulling out into the road.

The child whirled around and seethed. "I hate you."

Only then did Patrick realize that Michaela was on the porch. She wore shorts and a tank top that to him looked more like pajamas. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but lose curls framed her face. She wore no makeup. She was as radiant as the sunrise he'd watched that morning.

"Let's go make breakfast." She held out her hand toward the boy.

"No!" He picked up a rock and threw it.

"Tate! No throwing rocks."

The boy ignored her, picking up a sizable rock and throwing it through the window of Patrick's rental.

The boy's pain was palatable. It radiated off him, and clearly, he was unable to cope. Patrick understood that sort of pain. How many times had he wanted to throw or break something in the last few years?

"Anger is a scary thing when it gets away from us, isn't it?" Patrick took the steps down the porch to check on the boy and the damage to the vehicle.

For the first time since he'd arrived, Patrick felt more in his element. While he'd spent the last decade as a forensic psychiatrist, he'd gotten his start working with children and families. For a time, he thought he'd follow his mother's footsteps becoming a child psychiatrist. But his interest in what pushed people into deviant behavior led him down another path. That and recognizing that while his mother was a prominent child and family therapist, she was a cold and sometimes cruel mother.

As Tate had apologized to Patrick, it was clear he felt regret and understood the need for restitution. It told Patrick that Tate wasn't a child who normally caused problems. The way Michaela and his grandparents dealt with him suggested this behavior was new, and they weren't sure what to do about it.

Patrick had long ago learned to not bring out his professional hat into non-professional situations. For reasons he couldn't determine as he walked out on breakfast, he'd broken that rule. He regretted it because it wasn't his place to give his analysis of the child's behavior.

For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he'd been enjoying being in a family setting, and he'd ruined it. His mother had always been the one to ruin a meal with her criticism or professional assessment on his and Julia's behavior. This time he was that person and it embarrassed him.

Perhaps it was time to cut his losses and head back home. Before he could do that, he needed to deal with the rental car.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, checking to see if he had any bars. Three. That should be good enough to call the rental company. He pulled up the rental reservation on his phone and pressed the phone number on it to call. After a few rings, a voicemail came on indicating the company didn't open until eight. He checked his watch. Seven forty-five.

Not wanting to stand around for fifteen minutes, he took the path around the house to avoid his hosts and down to his cabin. Inside the cabin, he pulled his bag out from the small closet and tossed it on the bed. He hadn't unpacked so all he needed to get was his grooming gear.

"Giving up?"

He swung around toward the door. Michaela leaned against the door frame. She'd changed into khaki shorts and a red t-shirt. Her hair was down but restrained by the red bandana worn like a headband. Her makeup was light, except for the red lipstick.

"The door was open," she said, when he didn't respond. "It's usually a good idea to keep it closed because of the bugs. I want to put screen doors on the cabins but the roof needs work first."

Patrick had always considered himself a strong, decisive man who knew his mind. He understood people. That image faltered after realizing Julia was mentally disturbed. Now, his sense of self was completely lost. Something about this place, this woman, this situation was messing with him.

"I don't think this is what I need," he finally said, although he hated how weak it made him seem.

"Why? Because we don't want to be psychoanalyzed. Do they have a camp for that? Camp Freud?"

She wasn't going to pull any punches. For reasons he didn't understand, he liked that about her.

As if he remembered how badly he behaved he said, "I owe you and your parents an apology."

"You also owe Tate the chance to teach you how to skip rocks." She studied him. "Surely you know you can't make a plan with a kid then renege on it."

He smiled, which was weird because she was pointing out something he should have considered. "No."

"So, are you packing or unpacking?"

She put him on edge. Off kilter. But in a way that fascinated him.

"I'm unpacking."

She smiled and it was like seeing the sun for the second time that day.

"Good." She cocked her head to the side. "I don't know what to make of you, Dr. Andres."

"I feel the same about you, Ms. Kincaid."

Her eyes flashed with intrigue. "It will be fun to find out, don't you think?"

It sounded dangerous. "I do."

She turned to leave but stopped, turning back to him. "We shouldn't have been so gruff with you at breakfast."

He waved his hand. "I was out of line. You were right. It wasn't my place."

"Normally, I'd agree with that, but you know people. Tate is a good boy but he's having a hard time since losing his mama. It breaks my heart."

"Grief is difficult." He knew firsthand. He hadn't lost his sister to death, but he'd lost her because he hadn't gotten her help. That guilt hung heavy in his heart.

"He's taken to you. He's been sullen and angry, but this morning he took your hand and chatted with you like the little boy I used to know."

The tightness in his chest loosened slightly. It had been a long time since he'd felt he'd made a difference in someone's life.

"So, if you could stick around a let him teach you to skip rocks, I'd appreciate it. As far as your car goes, anything we can do to help, let me know."

"I will." If it involved money though, he'd take care of it himself. If they couldn't afford screen doors, because of a roof issue, they weren't going to be able to afford to fix the window of his rental.

She turned to walk out the door and an uncontrollable need to keep her there had him saying, "Ms. Kincaid?"

She turned, giving him that bright sassy smile. "I think we can go back to Micki."

"Michaela," he said, noting the same slight blush on her cheek that he'd seen the night before when he called her by her given name. It must have been what had him moving toward her. He was like a moth enraptured by the fire in her eyes. "Am I really an enigma?"

She narrowed her eyes, studying him. "A little. You're more like a wrapped box. I'm dying to know what's inside. What about me? Am I an enigma to you?"

He took a chance, gently tugging on a loose dark curl. "A little. Mostly I'm fascinated by you."

She gave him that bright smile again, and it felt like he'd given her gift. "Really? I'm just a country girl. Not much to be fascinated by."

"I disagree." His gaze drifted to her lips. Those red, ripe lips that his mouth salivated to taste. What would she do if he kissed her? But Patrick was nothing if not a gentleman, so he tore his gaze away back up to her blue eyes shining at him with intrigue.

"Do you want to kiss me, Dr. Andres?"

Her boldness surprised and thrilled him all at once. "It's Patrick. And yes, I want to kiss you, Michaela." Taking another chance, he moved closer to her and was relieved that she didn't move away. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

She shook her head and all the sensual sensations drained from his body. Had he really so badly read this situation?

Before he could step back, she gripped his shirt. "I want to kiss you, Patrick."

It took him a second to compute her words. When they registered, all the heat and titillation returned.

"Is it a competition?" He settled his hand on her waist.

"No."

"Perhaps we could kiss each other then?" He'd never been one for banter, so he wasn't sure where this was coming from. All he knew was that he was feeling things he hadn't felt in a long time. Excitement. Surprise. Attraction. Happiness.

"I like that idea. Should we start soon, or do we need to schedule a time?"

Ah the things that came out of her delectable mouth. He decided no words were needed. Instead, he dipped his head, closing the distance between them.

Like all other aspects of Michaela, her kiss brought him back to his younger years when meeting a woman and experiencing attraction was exciting and pure. There wasn't anything but the two of them in this moment. He lost himself in her; the softness of her lips, the sigh she elicited when his tongue risked taking more by running along the seam of her mouth. She opened for him, and he didn't waste time exploring her mouth with his tongue. She was sweet, like honey and vanilla.

"Dr. Patrick. Dr. Patrick." A child's voice interrupted his concentration.

Michaela pulled back. She stared up at him with the look she had before when she said she didn't know what to make of him. Had he confused her more?

She smiled. "Yes, I think I'm going to enjoy discovering more about you, Patrick."

He used his thumb to wipe a smudge of her lipstick off the side of her delicious mouth. "I am too, Michaela."

"Mr. Patrick." Tate rushed up to the door, panting from his run to the cabin. "Can you skip rocks now?"

"It's Pat?—"

"Mr. Patrick," Michaela interrupted. "It's one of those old-fashioned rules of the south. He can call you Dr. Andres or Dr. Patrick. Or Mr. Patrick."

He nodded knowing cultural traditions were important.

"Dr. Patrick is unpacking," she said to Tate. She glanced at Patrick, giving him another flirty smile before finishing her comment to Tate. "Why don't we get one of your sand buckets and put some skipping rocks in it and he can meet us at the beach when he's finished."

"Will you?" Tate looked up at Patrick in anticipation.

"I have to call about the car too, but then yes, I'd like to learn how to skip rocks."

Tate looked down. "I'm sorry about your car. I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't."

"Go get your bucket Tate and I'll be right there." Michaela gave Tate a gentle nudge sending him back up the trail to the main house. She turned to Patrick, and he found himself hoping she wanted another kiss. Lord knew he did.

"Be sure to let us know if you need anything to help with the car."

He nodded, hoping the disappointment that they weren't going to kiss again didn't show on his face.

She stepped out the door, and looking over her shoulder, she brought her fingers to her lips and gave him a coy smile. Where her lips still tingling like his were?

Then she was off.

Patrick shut the door and leaned against it. He still felt like he was in a netherworld, but now instead of feeling out of place or unsettled, he wanted to explore it.