As her gaze dwelled on the bouquet, a mix of emotions in her face, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, which drew her attention back to his face. When she would have shifted her gaze away, he told her by the touch on her chin, her cheek, that he wanted her eyes to stay locked with his. When she complied, he ran a thumb over her lips, the curve of her cheek.

  He’d been nervous too. He’d been out on his own to plenty of places, but this was the first time, since he’d ended up in the chair, that he’d taken a woman out to a nice dinner. With Amanda he’d stayed in his comfort zone. A pizza place where his friends hung out, or other familiar stomping grounds.

  He was in charge this evening, taking care of someone precious to him. But when he touched her, and he had her full attention like this, the nerves disappeared. It was as if he had a direct line to what was going on in her head, and why her hand had that coldness to it.

  “Daralyn, you don’t have to worry about anything tonight. I’ve got you. All right?”

  She pressed her lips together, which inadvertently moved them against his fingertips. When she realized that, she did a little start, but then, at his look, she did it deliberately, nuzzling against his touch, those eyes wide and full of so many things. It terrified and humbled him, even as he wanted to roar it out to the world.

  She said she belonged to me.

  He reined that back, because he couldn’t ignore the troublesome side to her declaration, something he would have to pursue at some point. But not now. “You haven’t answered me,” he said. “You’re not worrying about anything tonight. Got it?”

  “Okay. Yes.” She gave him that smile again, a little easier.

  He waited for her to put her seatbelt on, and pulled away from the curb. “We’re going to The Purple Swan. Les said you really liked the desserts. I think we should start with those and work backwards.”

  Her smile grew brighter as he winked at her. “But having dessert at the end makes it something to anticipate,” she pointed out.

  Yes, it surely did.

  She hesitated. “I think I’m nervous because…I’ve never been on a date.”

  He hadn’t even thought of that. Here he was, being antsy about it being a fancier deal, while for her, pretty much all of it was a first, wasn’t it? It gave him a full stop, realizing it.

  When he’d kissed her the other night, that had likely been her first real kiss.

  He wasn’t counting anything her father and uncle had done to her, and pushed the repulsive thought away before he could get trapped there.

  “We’re going to have a great time,” he told her.

  “I already am,” she responded.

  He’d told her she looked beautiful.

  Daralyn held that to herself like a promise, a desperate hope that things would go well tonight. She wouldn’t have a panic attack, or do something to embarrass him. Several times while getting dressed, she’d considered all the things that could go wrong, and it had almost overwhelmed her enough to do something she would never do; tell someone she couldn’t do something she’d been asked to do.

  Dr. Taylor told her to break things down into bite-sized pieces, rather than trying to take everything at once. Rory had said the same thing to her at the store, more than once.

  He looked really handsome. He always did, but tonight, he wore a suit, complete with a white dress shirt and a tie. His hair was neatly trimmed on his neck, layered on the sides, with that light feathering of brown strands across his sun-lined brow. His beard’s soft gleam made her want to touch, stroke.

  He had thick lashes and fierce brows, a lot like Thomas. His eyes…the first time she’d tried one of the Lindt dark chocolate squares that Elaine kept in a jar on her kitchen counter, she’d turned it over and over in her fingertips, and thought of Rory’s eyes. They could get even darker when he was angry, or stirred up. Aroused.

  She knew what that looked like now, for him. And she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  So much had happened between them in what seemed like such a short time, but it wasn’t short at all. She’d been thinking about him a long time, even before he’d kissed her under the mistletoe that past Christmas. She thought he had been thinking about her too, because when they worked in the store, she saw him looking at her certain ways. If they were behind the cash register counter together, he would look at her, their faces so close, because even with him seated, the difference in their heights didn’t require him to look up much at all to look her in the eye.

  It was as if there was a heat there between them, drawing them together.

  But for all those months since their kiss at Christmas, he hadn’t acted on it, and it wasn’t her place to initiate anything. She was a mess of emotions most days, unless she completely shut down, something she’d promised Dr. Taylor she would try not to do. Back before she came to live with the Wilder family, she existed day to day by creating rooms in her head where she could go, while the parts of her that could work on autopilot did. She hadn’t known that was what it was called, autopilot, but she thought auto-plod made more sense. It wasn’t like flying at all. Just a constant slog through a choking mud that stayed the same, that you hoped stayed the same, because it could become concrete really fast.

  Things could always be worse.

  Even if Rory had wanted to pursue anything with her, she knew why he hadn’t. She’d experienced a setback after that Christmas, her panic attacks taking over again when Dr. Taylor had her do test runs, visiting places that were outside her comfort zones. So many things piled on top of that lovely kiss, squashing the few little scenarios she’d created in her mind of where it could go from there.

  She’d given up hope, figured it was a lost opportunity, and focused on getting the confidence she needed to start school. The ache of “could-have-beens” with Rory had been added to her vast chest of other could-have-beens. But that one had lingered outside the box, edged with a particularly sharp regret. Maybe because she saw him every day, while the other could-have-beens were already well out of reach.

  She’d rallied, found the confidence she needed to finally start school. Rory had not only helped her make that final step, he’d shown her he’d never lost interest at all. Hope was not lost. Those possibilities were back in the front of her mind. When she looked at him, a full garden bloomed inside her, rivaling the lovely bouquet he’d thought to bring for her.

  Since he used hand controls to drive, he couldn’t continuously hold her hand, but she was glad for how often he did anyway, like at stop lights. The looks he sent her, a mix of heat and intensity, made her hand quiver inside the grip of his.

  Her mind cycled back to last night, when he’d touched her. And before that, when he’d…spanked her. She’d thought of little else, a constant mix of images and feelings while she was lying in bed, working at the store with him, studying through the afternoon. He’d stayed so calm and patient with her. Particularly last night. She could tell how much he’d wanted to hold her after she’d been so confused and upset. She wished she could have figured out how to accept that, but the panic took her. She hadn’t meant to move where he couldn’t reach her in her bedroom.

  His calmness with her didn’t have that smooth detachment backed by well-meaning concern, like she’d experienced when her fate was being decided by a parade of officials in the child welfare system. She’d seen the flash of anger and impatience in his eyes. But not with her. Not in the least. She studied him closely, a lot, and knew the difference.

  He was an active, restless type of person, who met challenges with a physical response. His frustration usually had to do with something he couldn’t change, but wished fiercely to do so. He was a man who fully appreciated the simplicity of picking up a hammer to drive in a nail. He was unfailingly gentle and patient with her, but last night he’d been less gentle…and she kept thinking about it.

  He’d turned down his music when he pulled up to her place. She didn’t care much for TV, but she liked music, as long as it wasn’t too loud. Rory was what Les called an “old school” country fan. Hank Williams, the Carters, Gene Autry--the preferred playlist for terrorists torturing hostages, according to Marcus. She liked the old, tinny sounds of the music, though. There was a quiet around it, just a voice and a few instruments amid the low-level static from the original recording.

  Hearing the faint tones of the music, even with the volume turned down, reassured her. He kept music as a background at the store. He never asked her if she’d like to listen to something else, because he knew those kinds of questions caused her problems. Even so, she’d noticed he’d tried different genres on different days and somehow figured out which ones she liked. The stations and playlists she hadn’t liked, he’d never chosen more than once.

  He pulled up to The Purple Swan. She hadn’t cared where they were going, but knowing he’d specifically chosen it because he thought she liked the restaurant meant things.

  Before he left his seat, he tugged her hand so she leaned toward him. When he cupped her cheek, his large hand threaded into her hair so his fingertips could curve against her neck, which gave her the dual sense of tumbling through clouds and resting safely in his grip at once.

  He met her mouth with his own, and she melted into it with a little sigh of relief. He answered it with a deep sound of satisfaction, teasing her mouth with his lips, his tongue. That was new, and she welcomed it, with a shudder through her core. She curved her hand over his forearm to hold on as his mouth sent her world spinning.

  When he drew back, he didn’t go far, those dark eyes so close. “Thank you for coming to dinner with me.”

  “Thank you for kissing me.”

  His brown eyes twinkled. “The gift giver doesn’t normally thank the person for accepting the gift.”

  She had to think about that one, and when she figured it out, her cheeks warmed. His mouth curved in that firm near-smile. “I love the way you blush. Stay there.”

  He transferred himself to his chair with the ease of long practice, though she knew it hadn’t been easy at all at first. When he came around to her side, opening her door, he offered her a hand to help her out. He kept her hand, but nodded toward the restaurant.

  “Meet me at the door?” he asked.

  The ramp started on the side of the building, coming around to the front.

  “Can I stay with you?”

  She saw that pleased him, and was glad for it. When they reached the ramp, he gestured ahead of him. “Not wide enough for side by side,” he said.

  “Then I’ll follow right behind you.”

  “View’s better for me if you walk ahead.” He shot her a grin and she wondered if she was going to blush all night.

  He’d been teasing her, but he also meant it. She was aware of his eyes on her with every step. As they reached the door, another couple had arrived. The man opened it for his wife, and then gestured to Daralyn. She glanced at Rory, and he gave her a nod, then offered the guy a thanks as he followed her in.

  He handled things like that fine, but she knew it still bugged him. The man was in his seventies, a person Rory would have held the door for, as a sign of respect for his elders. But the man held the door for him, compassion for someone with limited mobility.

  If they did something like this again, she’d adjust so that when they came off the ramp into a wider space, she was beside or behind Rory, so he could hold the door for her.

  He and his family had done many similar things for her, adjusting their habits and routines to help her develop those things for herself in the way she could best manage it. But that wasn’t why she wanted to do it. It was the thing inside her that told her she wanted to meet his every action like a dance partner, a give and take of motion that made them seem as if nature had brought them together for that. She’d never danced before, but that was what it looked like, when she’d seen it in glimpses on television.

  The hostess seated them. Just like the last time she was here, Daralyn was delighted by the mural on the back wall, swans floating in a lavender tinted lake, reflecting the hue of the clouds above. Their waitress introduced herself as Lobelia.

  “Do all the waitresses use purple flower names?” Daralyn asked. Lobelia was about Daralyn’s age, with abundant dark hair bound up with a lavender scarf. It matched the restaurant attire of black slacks and purple blouse.

  “Not everyone realizes it is a purple flower,” Lobelia said, with an easy smile. “And no ma’am. It’s my real name.”

  She took their drink orders, and then Daralyn was looking at the menu. “What looks good?” Rory asked.

  He did, but she didn’t say that. Most people’s way of interacting was so unconscious and natural, but from listening to them a lot, she knew the things she thought, the way she thought them, would be considered out of place if she said them aloud.

  “Daralyn.” He’d held her hand from the moment they’d sat down and now he squeezed it again, drawing her gaze. “What I’m looking at looks good to me, too.”

  She bit her lip. “Was I that obvious?”

  “I made a guess, and I’m glad I’m not wrong, because I would have sounded like a conceited ass.” His wry smile didn’t dilute what was in his gaze. “I’m not complaining. You don’t look me in the eye much, but when you do, I think you should take a good, long look. See what’s there.”

  He reached out with the other hand, touched her jaw, so she lifted her gaze. “It’s difficult,” she said low. “When I look, I can’t look away. I get lost there…in the right ways.”

  He stared at her, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’m sorry,” she said, dropping her gaze again. “Dr. Taylor says I need to talk, try to work on not being afraid to speak my mind. But when I do, I tend to say—”

  “The truth. Unembellished, straight from your heart. I get what Dr. Taylor wants you to do, and it’s smart. But Daralyn…” that insistent touch on her jaw again, reminding her to bring her eyes back up. She didn’t know why it was particularly hard to meet Rory’s gaze, but when he clearly wanted her to do so, it was easier. She drew in a breath because his dark brown gaze held powerful things. “When it comes to you and me,” he said, “You say it just like you think it. Understand me?”

  She swallowed. “When you talk like that, I get really lost.”

  His gaze sharpened, spearing her straight through the heart. “That’s not lost. That means you’ve come straight to me.”

  The drinks were brought, and the main task she’d dreaded was here. What to order. She couldn’t waste food, but everything except appetizers would have portions far too big for her. And then there was the worst part. Having to choose. Nothing could paralyze her more.

  Rory said he needed a few more minutes and sent the waitress away. He gestured to the menu. “Since I’ve never been here before, tell me what looks good.”

  She could handle that. It was like a customer asking her the best item for a job. She mentioned several entrees that had caught her attention the last time she’d been here, including the things Les and Elaine had ordered and discussed. She’d ordered what Les had, so if she had leftovers, Les could have them.

  She reached out impulsively, traced a healing scratch on the back of his hand, resting on the tablecloth. “How did you do that?”

  “Hell if I know. Probably digging in the nail bin. Oh, wait. Mrs. Schwartz,” he remembered. “She has that fancy manicure where she can’t touch anything.”

  “And Mr. Schwartz is always sending her out when he’s in the middle of a project, to pick up something for him,” she finished.

  “Or to get her out of his hair. She does like to backseat drive on the home improvement projects.”

  They were smiling at each other when the waitress returned. Lobelia looked at her expectantly, but Rory spoke.

  “She’ll have the fried chicken marsala,” he said. “Ask the chef to half the portion size and box it up, hold it in the kitchen until we get ready to leave. That okay?”

  Lobelia glanced between them and nodded. “You got it. And you, sir?”

  “Lean sirloin with the vegetable soup. What’s good on the dessert menu?”

  “Apple tart with a butter cake base. You could die happy eating it. Comes with hand churned vanilla ice cream.”

  “We’ll try to leave room for that,” Rory said.

  He’d chosen the thing on the menu for her that she would have ordered for herself, if she was capable of doing that. Suddenly, she was choked up, the tears stinging her gaze bringing a wave of terror. Her hands fell to her lap, clutching one another, and a shudder ran through her shoulders as she ducked her head. No. Not here. Not here.

  “We’re good,” Rory said quietly to Lobelia. “Thanks.”

  The waitress withdrew with a curious look. Darn it. Every time she thought she could handle something new, these totally random emotions hit her like a two-by-four. Like how her first day at school had gone. But Rory had helped her rally, go at it again. And he did it now, too.

  “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe. No matter what happens, you’re fine. We’re all good.”

  She sent him a desperate look, then directed it elsewhere, like a bird landing only briefly on a bush, but he was having none of that. Once more, as persistent as breathing itself, he brought her attention back to his face by cupping her cheek, making her look at him. Which meant she saw his expression was relaxed. He wasn’t concerned in that way that made her feel so self-conscious, like she needed to pull herself together to make everyone stop worrying.

  “You know,” he said conversationally, “In the beginning, I didn’t want to go out in the chair. I thought about people staring. Having to deal with obstacles. Or something embarrassing happening. Mom and Thomas made me do it. Very first place they ever took me was McDonald’s, just like when Les and me were little and Mom and Dad were teaching us how to behave at a public restaurant.” His lips twisted. “It was freaking terrifying.”

  He ran a thumb over her palm, even as he adjusted into a more relaxed position in his chair. “Then these kids headed for the play area outside. They squeezed past me, in that impatient way kids can do. One of them put his hand on my arm, on my push rim, as he wiggled past. Didn’t think a damn thing about it. I was just another adult to get past so he could go play.”