teetering on the edge. The bed quivered with her silent weeping.
Patrick hung his head. “Marcy, listen to me, please. We’re two editors down right now, what with Logan in the hospital and Schyer out of town, and we can barely keep up. Even Mitch has been pulling extra hours.”
She spun around, her face wet with fury. “Not like you! Three and four times a week you’re late for dinner, working on Saturdays and always bringing work home. For pity’s sake, Patrick, you’re the editor, the one in charge. You can do what you want.”
He reached for her hand. She jerked it away. “I don’t want to work all these hours, darlin’,” he whispered, “but somebody has to.”
“No, they don’t! Ben never worked these hours when he was editor, and as his assistant, neither did you. Sometimes I think you’re married to the Herald instead of to me.”
“Marcy, darlin’—”
“Don’t you ‘darlin’’ me. Something’s got to change, Patrick, or the sleep you’re so ‘partial’ to will be taking place in a very cold bed, indeed.”
His chin hardened. “Don’t threaten me, Marcy. I don’t like it.”
“No? Well, I don’t like having a husband who’s never home, nor one who only uses a bed for one thing—his precious sleep!”
Heat stung his neck. He lowered his head, ashamed at the truth of her statement. He couldn’t remember the last time he had really held her in his arms, kissed her like he meant it, wanted her like he used to . . .
With grief in his heart, he reached out and gently pulled her to him, and this time she didn’t fight. “Marcy, forgive me. I, well . . . work has been so demanding, I lose track . . . of everything.” He cupped her face with his hands and kissed her gently, slowly, taking his time to enjoy her. “I love you, Marcy, more than I can express, and I’ll work on it, I promise. You’re my world, darlin’, I don’t want it to grow cold.”
He felt her arms succumb and twine around his back. With a low groan, he kissed her again, deepening it until her passion matched his own.
She kissed him back with a vengeance and then pulled away. “Patrick, I’m not over this yet,” she whispered, “not completely. But I do love you . . . so much it hurts.”
He sighed and held her close, tucking his head into the curve of her neck. “I know, darlin’. God knows I don’t always deserve it. But I do know.”
5
Brady shifted on the sofa and then flipped to stare at the ceiling for the umpteenth time. He glanced at his watch in the moonlight and groaned—4:40 a.m. He tried closing his eyes once again. The scene with Beth on the swing reeled in his brain like a silent movie. His eyes blinked open, dazed and staring, just like they’d been all night, always accompanied by a throb of heat, and always with a siege of guilt.
He sat up on the couch and shifted his bare feet to the floor, dropping his head in his hands. His heart was racing and his hands were sweating, and his body buzzed with a desire he thought he’d long since conquered. God knows he hadn’t asked for this. Had, in fact, done everything in his power to avoid it. But the beast had been unleashed the moment Beth’s mouth had singed his. He licked his dry lips, and the taste of fear pasted his throat. God help me , he prayed, all the while craving the touch of her body against his. Shame burned along with the heat of desire, and he shivered involuntarily, fingers trembling as they sifted through his hair. God forgive me .
He jumped up and began pacing the room. He was desperate to block the thoughts from his mind: the touch of her skin, the taste of her mouth.
All at once, he sagged to his knees with a painful groan and buried his head in his hands. “Strengthen me, Lord, I beg you. Infuse me with your grace to do your will and not my own. You said the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Oh, God, you know me so well—I need your strength, please , for I am so weak.”
God is faithful, who
Patrick hung his head. “Marcy, listen to me, please. We’re two editors down right now, what with Logan in the hospital and Schyer out of town, and we can barely keep up. Even Mitch has been pulling extra hours.”
She spun around, her face wet with fury. “Not like you! Three and four times a week you’re late for dinner, working on Saturdays and always bringing work home. For pity’s sake, Patrick, you’re the editor, the one in charge. You can do what you want.”
He reached for her hand. She jerked it away. “I don’t want to work all these hours, darlin’,” he whispered, “but somebody has to.”
“No, they don’t! Ben never worked these hours when he was editor, and as his assistant, neither did you. Sometimes I think you’re married to the Herald instead of to me.”
“Marcy, darlin’—”
“Don’t you ‘darlin’’ me. Something’s got to change, Patrick, or the sleep you’re so ‘partial’ to will be taking place in a very cold bed, indeed.”
His chin hardened. “Don’t threaten me, Marcy. I don’t like it.”
“No? Well, I don’t like having a husband who’s never home, nor one who only uses a bed for one thing—his precious sleep!”
Heat stung his neck. He lowered his head, ashamed at the truth of her statement. He couldn’t remember the last time he had really held her in his arms, kissed her like he meant it, wanted her like he used to . . .
With grief in his heart, he reached out and gently pulled her to him, and this time she didn’t fight. “Marcy, forgive me. I, well . . . work has been so demanding, I lose track . . . of everything.” He cupped her face with his hands and kissed her gently, slowly, taking his time to enjoy her. “I love you, Marcy, more than I can express, and I’ll work on it, I promise. You’re my world, darlin’, I don’t want it to grow cold.”
He felt her arms succumb and twine around his back. With a low groan, he kissed her again, deepening it until her passion matched his own.
She kissed him back with a vengeance and then pulled away. “Patrick, I’m not over this yet,” she whispered, “not completely. But I do love you . . . so much it hurts.”
He sighed and held her close, tucking his head into the curve of her neck. “I know, darlin’. God knows I don’t always deserve it. But I do know.”
5
Brady shifted on the sofa and then flipped to stare at the ceiling for the umpteenth time. He glanced at his watch in the moonlight and groaned—4:40 a.m. He tried closing his eyes once again. The scene with Beth on the swing reeled in his brain like a silent movie. His eyes blinked open, dazed and staring, just like they’d been all night, always accompanied by a throb of heat, and always with a siege of guilt.
He sat up on the couch and shifted his bare feet to the floor, dropping his head in his hands. His heart was racing and his hands were sweating, and his body buzzed with a desire he thought he’d long since conquered. God knows he hadn’t asked for this. Had, in fact, done everything in his power to avoid it. But the beast had been unleashed the moment Beth’s mouth had singed his. He licked his dry lips, and the taste of fear pasted his throat. God help me , he prayed, all the while craving the touch of her body against his. Shame burned along with the heat of desire, and he shivered involuntarily, fingers trembling as they sifted through his hair. God forgive me .
He jumped up and began pacing the room. He was desperate to block the thoughts from his mind: the touch of her skin, the taste of her mouth.
All at once, he sagged to his knees with a painful groan and buried his head in his hands. “Strengthen me, Lord, I beg you. Infuse me with your grace to do your will and not my own. You said the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Oh, God, you know me so well—I need your strength, please , for I am so weak.”
God is faithful, who
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