A Light in the Window by Julie Lessman

Marceline?”
    Racing down her flagstone walk, she quickly mounted the steps to her front porch, finally facing him at the door with what she hoped was a serene air. “Thank you for walking me home.” She extended a hand. “If you’ll give me my portfolio, I’ll bid you good night.”
    He hesitated, fingering the attaché as he studied her through cautious eyes. “Even Father Fitz forgives me of my sins, Marceline,” he said quietly, “and those are the ones I know about. With you … I’ve no earthly idea what I’ve done to make you dislike me so.”
    Marcy folded her arms, a hint of shame warming her collar. But not enough to let my guard down. She softened her tone, praying he would not take offense at her response. But she knew full well that she needed to be blunt to dissuade a man of his confidence and reputation.“I’m sorry, Patrick, and I don’t dislike you, truly, but I suspect you may be flirting with me, and if so, it’s best to let you know up front that I have no interest in flirting back.”
    Attaché in hand, his thumb slowly traced the side of it with sober eyes. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
    She released a weighty sigh, not wanting to be indelicate, but well aware she needed to tell him the truth. Cautious of his feelings, she chose her words carefully, cushioning her tone with a gentle smile. “Well, it’s certainly no secret you’re a very handsome man, and unfortunately …” She tugged the side of her lip with her teeth, peeking up with a tentative gaze. “I’ve had some awful experiences with handsome men, so I’m afraid the truth is I simply don’t trust them.” Her heart sank at the hurt in his eyes, and she quickly laid a hand to his arm, desperate to ease the sting with a laugh that felt forced. “Well goodness, as the infamous Southie Lothario, I’m sure you can understand why I’d rather not risk flirting with danger?”
    He nodded. “Fair enough,” he said quietly, “but all flirting aside, Marceline, I wish you’d give me a chance to get to know you better.”
    She drew in a fortifying breath, determined to nip this in the bud once and for all. “Most certainly, and we shall, Patrick—as friends during the play. But in a romantic sense?” She gave a faint shrug of her shoulders, sympathy edging her smile. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not add my name to your long lists of conquests.”
      He shifted, his jaw stiffening enough for her to notice. “I beg your pardon, Marcy, but you don’t even know me.”
    “I know your reputation,” she said softly, “and frankly, that’s more than enough to give me pause.” She held out a hand for her portfolio, her eyes gentle. “Thank you again for the escort, truly.”
    A nerve pulsed in his cheek as he stared her down, making no move to return her father’s attaché. “One outing,” he whispered, “and if I don’t behave, you can throw me out on my ear.” The intensity in his eyes matched the plea in his tone.
    She studied him in the moonlight, the dark ringlets tumbling his forehead making him look like a little boy. Penetrating gray eyes that usually teased and flirted were now stone somber with an air of humility she didn’t expect. She felt the tug, the pull of his petition, wondering if it were actually possible that a Casanova of Patrick O’Connor’s ilk could ever be trusted, ever be faithful, ever embrace the same intimate faith in God as she. Nora’s tear-stained face and swollen belly came to mind, and a shiver wisped across Marcy’s shoulders like the summer breeze that stirred the hair against her neck. Wooing her, winning her with its silky warmth … only to usher in the cold sting of winter. She shuddered and took a step back, arms to her waist. “Please forgive me, Patrick, but you and I—we’re nothing alike.”
    “It would be dull if we were, Marcy,” he said softly. “Surely you’ve heard the expression that opposites attract.”
    Her smile was kind. “Maybe so, but not